I’m a huge fan of reasonable amounts of chaos—a little disarray really brightens up the day. And one of my favorite chaotic parts of living so far away from my hometown is that when I go see a game here in Minnesota, I’m never rooting for the home team.
My family wasn’t the most well off. We got by, but we weren’t in any position to spring for tickets to see any of our local teams play. I imagined the inside of stadiums as filled with all kinds of wonderful spectacles, and I wondered what it was like to be a kid witnessing close-up how my heroes performed acts that defied human capabilities.
Now that I’m an adult with (some) disposable income and very much in my “parent the younger version of yourself” era, I spend far too much on sneakers and sporting events. I tell myself it’s an investment to prevent a midlife crisis—a lot cheaper than buying a sports car, getting a divorce, and subsequently spending an irrational amount of money on billboards. So, when my beloved San Francisco 49ers came to town this past weekend, I had to be there.
Sunday morning I wake up giddy with “first day of school” excitement. The night before, I created a playlist of all my favorite hyphy-era songs and allowed the wistful voice of Earl Stevens—E-40 for the uninitiated—to score this epic afternoon of Coastal Elites stomping all over the meager Vikings.
The light-rail car headed to U.S Bank Stadium is a sea of red jerseys, and I take this as a good omen. We pull into the station, and I see Niners fans in every direction. “Bang bang, Niner Gang,” I whisper to myself as I enter the stadium.
That's when the vibe became decidedly less whimsical.
When I realize that I’m the only person around me in a 49ers jersey, I don't think too much of it. I try to embrace the challenge, to be the villain the people will need, prepared to laugh when we inevitably blow the Vikings out. I mean, the Niners are just coming off a Super Bowl loss, their second of the wildly successful-yet-heartbreaking Kyle Shanahan era, while most preseason prognosticators didn't see the Vikes making the playoffs. There's no chance this game will be close, right? Right?
We’re less than two minutes into the game when new Vikings quarterback Sam Darnold scrambles for nearly 20 yards. He’s not supposed to even know how to do that! The guy's a confirmed bust... right? But then Fred Warner makes a beautiful diving pass-deflection to force a punt and all's right with the world.
More or less—our first drive sputters with a few nice plays but ultimately ends in a punt as well. “Not ideal, but it’s fine,” I think, moments before the Vikings shove that damn horn into my chest, gouge my heart out, and spray-paint “SKOL” upon disheveled remains. In other words, they block our punt attempt.
I do not like this. Still, I keep a positive attitude. The Vikings only get a field goal out of it, after all. The next series, we convert on fourth down with an absolutely magical catch by backup wideout Jauan Jennings. Momentum seems to be on our side. We’re inside the five yard line on fourth down; these are the moments where movies are made. Quarterback Brock Purdy has Jennings in his sights again for another big play and it’s... incomplete.
The Vikings start their next drive on their own three-yard line. First play, Vikings get stuffed at the line and only pick up one yard. Smug, I glance over a guy I’ve been playfully chirping back and forth with all game. I turn back around just as Darnold—who, holy shit, might be actually good—finds superstar wide receiver Justin Jefferson for a 97-YARD TOUCHDOWN.
The griddy dance? I hate it now. It’s like every time Jefferson made those little finger glasses he was saying “I see you, Farah.”
I dissociate for the next few minutes of gameplay as I try to regain my composure and settle my breathing. Just as I start to feel like we’ve lost any chance at building momentum before the half, a dreadlocked hero with a red 54 on his chest leaps into the air and snags an interception. The Niners march up the field and punctuate the drive with a George Kittle spiked ball after the tight end scampers in for a touchdown off a screen pass by Brock Purdy.
And that should have been the last scoring drive before halftime. But because this stadium is clearly cursed by the spirits of all the birds who have slammed into its reflective windows, the Vikings manage another field goal.
I get a slice of pizza during the break in hopes of getting some type of joy out of this afternoon. The crust is cardboard and the sauce burns my tongue. Maybe this stadium just doesn’t want me here.
The third quarter goes back and forth. The Niners are putting together a strong drive. Brock Purdy throws a pass to the middle of the field. The ball gets bobbled around and somehow ends up in the hands of the Vikings. They score. I hate it.
The fourth quarter opens with a glimmer of hope. Sure, we’re down 13 points but the Niners are putting together their best drive of the game, surgically slicing up the Vikings defense and capping it off with a 10-yard touchdown by rookie running back Jordan Mason. It’s a one-score game with a whole lot of time left on the clock. Hungry edge rushers Nick Bosa and Chase Young look absolutely locked in. There’s no convincing me that we’re not going to win this game.
The Vikings score another field goal making it a two-score game with only a little over three minutes remaining, and while things do certainly look bleak, never underestimate the power of delusional fandom. Something unexpected and wonderful will happen and the Niners will score a touchdown and convert an onside kick and then march up the field again for the winning drive as time expires. Because good things always happen to me. I'll never feel pain again.
The drive ends in a field goal, but that’s fine. My plan is still alive. The Niners can convert the onside kick and still have a little over a minute to score a touchdown.
The onside kick attempt fails. The Vikings take a knee. Game over.
I gather my things and begin to head out, having spent way too much money to see my favorite team get absolutely curb-stomped by their former backup QB. But in true Minnesotan fashion, nobody rubbed the loss in my face. Any other fanbase in the country would, at minimum, point and laugh, but everyone I spoke to could only find nice things to say about how the Niners played.
Which, to be frank, kind of hurt even more—it felt like one of those patronizing pats on the back. I swear I could hear someone yell “You’ll get 'em next time, fella,” as a defeated Brock Purdy jogged into the tunnel. These are grown adults with families. We don’t deserve a steaming hotdish of quality Minnesotan- Grown passive-aggression. Yet here we are.
I say all this to let my fellow Niners faithful in exile, hoping for a win to keep us warm through winters we were not made for: I see you. They may have stolen a win, but they can’t steal our hearts. If just one person reads this and feels a little less alone—well, hey, a win is a win, amirite?
