Baby’s First Humiliating Defeat

I woke up extra early last Sunday to surprise Luca with Bears tickets. One of Diana’s customers hooked us up with two seats and we all know Luca’s stance on sports. I found Luca on the blue couch that serves as his Youtube nest and showed him the digital surprise.

Luca tried his best to feign shock, but he totally knew. On their best day, the CIA can’t come close to our sons’ ability to surveil every pixel that enters our house. “Wow! I totally did not know you had purchased two 200 level tickets in the north end zone approximately three and a half weeks ago, father.”

Whatever, he was still excited. Because we are Hamanns, we left the house at 9:45am for the noon kick off. The day was simply glorious. Sunny, crisp, portending no last second coaching gaffs. We enjoyed a couple ice cold hot dogs before the fans started streaming in.

I’d forgotten the, uh, special disposition of most Bears fans. Luca and I had been to a few Cubs games, where the atmosphere is decidedly more country club-esc. Bears fans seem to communicate exclusively through primal screams. We were also seated among hard core season ticket holders who had been using the section as their personal VFW hall for decades.

After explaining to me he had missed only two games over the last 25 years, one man shouted across Luca to some fellow season ticket holders, “Remember when I stuck that hot dog down your coat? Watch out, ‘cause I am hot dogging you again today. You sonofabitch! You watch!”

The hot dog victim was an unironic cast member of the Saturday Night Live “Da’ Bears” skit. He was double fisting vodka tonics, surrounded by three generations of family. He looked wistfully at Luca, who was wearing a brand-new Bears ski hat.

“I think it’s great that you brought your daughter to the game. We need more daughters here. I’ve been bringing my girl to the games for thirty years. And now she’s getting married to this sonofabitch here. Maybe you will find your husband at the game, little lady.”

Luca immediately began to cry.

I tried to explain that these people were harmless and were going to make the game super fun.

Luca said, “I’m scared.”

I said, “Me too. But the good kind of scared.”

The game started and Luca settled down. And even returned a few fist bumps from the “Da’ Bears” man.

Oh, I forgot to tell you about my absolute favorite person in attendance, who sat directly to my right. He was the spitting image of my second SNL reference of the post, Chris Farley. Red haired and jolly, this man reacted to every positive play by either lifting me into his arms like an infant or sending me sprawling across three or four rows of seats. At one point, he removed a sack of hot meat from one pocket and several tortillas from the other. “Do you mind if I eat some pocket tacos, Richard?” No, I did not. Because I loved him.

If you recall the game from two weeks ago, the whole thing ended with a smattering of coaching snafus mixed with a game losing field goal miss. The whole disaster unfolded at our end of the field, which was exciting. The apoplectic reaction of our new friends was terrifying. Sixty year old women around us were hurling buckets of obscenities onto the field. Luca and I spent the last two minutes of the game exchanging exaggerated, “Oooo, did you hear that swear?” looks.

In the end, Luca loved the game. Almost as much as he loves the stupidly expensive jersey he conned me into buying on the way out.