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"mmm...what was that url....catholicgirlzinuniform.com...."

I know my departed Catholic grandfather is watching out for me. How do I know? FOOTBALL!

Football? I never got it. Men with cages on their heads crashing into each other. Downs. First and ten. How can something be first and also tenth?

The game’s repetition irritated me. After just a few seconds of play, these guys always fell on each other in a big heap. Then the clock would stop. Just stop. The same thing happened over and over again: run a few yards, crash into each other, fall, stop. Kids’ playground stuff. Where was the skill?

Still, there was something comforting about heading to Grandma & Grandpa’s on Sundays during Niners Holy Season. The announcer’s roar welcomed me into the livingroom where Grandpa and Uncle Joe sat gripping the edges of the couch and shouting at the refs. “What the hell kind of a call was that! Stupid! It was plain as day, you idiot!”

During a commercial, I would sneak up on Grandma in the kitchen and then head back with a heaping tray of game fuel: leftover pasta, rootbeer, cookies, a handful of stale candy from last Halloween. Curling on my end of the couch, I stared at the TV and tried to make sense of it all.

The Niners were considered the classy team from the classier side of the Bay. They wore a kind of maroon like my Catholic school sweaters and gold like gilt. No wonder they struggled. My grandfather’s loyalty to them was as steadfast as his loyalty to his parish. We were born Niner fans as surely as we were born Catholic.

Except that I had been shamefully born an Oakland Raider. From the time I was a toddler and first saw that pirate face staring down at me from my uncle’s wall, I knew I was a Raider. Raiders were cool. They wore an eye patch like I sometimes had to and ruled my side of the Bay, the real side.

Raiders swag was instant cred. A girl didn’t need to get the game to wear it. On the other hand, if a girl wore Niners gear, her sincerity was tested. “What do you think about the new quarterback after yesterday’s game?”

Huh? “Oh, he’s gonna be great!”

“There is no new quarterback, stupid! Why are you even wearing that?”

Oops. Stick with the A’s cap. I’d actually met Angel Guerrero.

Grandpa and Uncle Joe roared in fury and I jumped. Then I roared too. What had just happened? The same guys in spandex were sprawled all over each other just like three minutes ago. How sexual and confusing. How could anyone tell which team had the points?

Flash forward an undisclosed number of years and something is bugging me like a bad mosquito bite as I run Sunday errands. I can’t put my finger on it but it feels important and a little freaky. The sun breaks apart the clouds and I grab my sunglasses, cursing the glare. A voice on NPR radio drones about Syria. “The protesters are playing the Ravens at 1pm Eastern,” the announcer says grimly.

Rolling my eyes, I pull over in the blinding sun to find a CD. Who are the Ravens and why are they butting in on my NPR penance?

“In 2010 the Ravens defeated the Steelers 17-14 in the final minute, but no one expects a replay this afternoon.”

The Steelers?

Raiders. Steelers. Old outlaws. New outlaws. The Steelers!

A sudden gust of wind rattles the car and the air around me fills with gold and silver light. A voice says, “What the hell kind of a call was that!”

I gasp. The announcer seems to be talking directly to me, describing my entire recreational life before this moment. The song “Killing Me Softly” runs through my mind. Suddenly I know what I must do, where I must go.

The Bean & Barrel serves the diverse needs of my neighborhood with wine, espresso, and draft beer. During football season it becomes a sports bar, five games on five huge HD screens. Sundays have discounts on mimosas to use up the brunch champagne and Mondays have $5 kick-your-butt margaritas. Did I mention the 49 kinds of microbrew on tap?

Normally I wouldn’t walk out of a brilliant sunny afternoon into a depressingly dim bar. Wait until dinner time at least! But the game was pulling me. I wanted nothing else. Five screens.

I watched the Steelers play the Ravens. It was a glorious rollercoaster and I hollered with the others and even got some of the timing right all on my own, and at the end roared like Uncle Joe at the final score.

My grandfather’s presence felt strong as I wandered back into the bright afternoon. It felt even stronger when I ended up at another sports bar later that evening, watching four screens. This was heaven! Where had this sweet addiction been all my life?

Grandpa the Niners patriarch had finally gotten through to the girl who only cared about the swag. It was a Sunday afternoon replay, only this time I got it. He had forgiven me for being born a Raider. He was even learning to love the Steelers just as I had on the road to…

Dumb ass cuss, the NFL! Where else would a recovering Catholic girl with the soul of a Raider fumble?