By Jordan Kalm
“Did he just run out of the back of the endzone?”
Come join me in Ramadi, Iraq in 2008. It is 123 degrees outside, and about 150 in the Port-a-John I am sitting in. Exiting this plastic sauna will be one of the highlights of my day, the drastic temperature change will allow for a brief respite from the heat. I have a small portable DVD player sitting in my lap and I am watching the winless Lions play the Vikings in a meaningless game.
I had my dad record all the games and mail them to me, so I was like the guy who yelled at you in the coffee shop yesterday because they heard you discussing the ending to Breaking Bad. I watched every game during that season during bathroom breaks, or before I went to bed, or in the morning while I worked up the courage to leave the slightly-less-hellishly-hot sleeping area and walk to the shower. I didn’t do it because I love the Lions. I hate them. They manage to ruin nearly every major holiday in the cold months every year. I do it because the Lions are a part of me. A part of where I live. I watch them for the same reason a person passing you on the street in Detroit with a ‘need help’ sign would tell you they were on the up and up.
“Ahh, that refreshing Midwestern hope!” You say.
That isn’t it.
It’s because people from Detroit are fucking insane.
