In the Bay Area of California you either worshipped the 49ers or they bled silver and black for the Raiders. Being from the East Bay, my crowd had hearts which pulsed with the later colors.

Oh we tracked the guys across the bay, we even went to some of their games at Kezar Stadium, but the Raiders were the team in my circle of friends. There were several reasons for this starting with the fact we lived on the Oakland side of the bay. Couple it with the fact we actually knew some of the coaches or players, because they were our neighbors, and you had a devoutly loyal fan base. We followed every loss or victory during the course of a season as Curt Gowdy announced the games for NBC. The guys across the bay could be viewed on CBS, but they were watched by the peninsula people who loved being in the fog.

As I grew to immaturity, Sundays became the sacred day of worship of the oblong ball. When the leagues merged there was some heartfelt disappointment, but I saw it for what it was; more opportunity to worship the god football. Others may have been in church or taking a day of rest, I was in front of the tube sucking in all of the action.

Fantasy football only intensified the experience. It not only meant I could root for the Raiders, but I could expand my religious experience by anointing other team players as potential gods on which my destiny was linked. There had been many women in my life, but few seemed to understand, or even respect, this special day of worship and introspection. I finally married one of them as I felt she understood and perhaps even cared about the deep feelings surrounding Sunday as a day of expanded worship.

Alas I was wrong. I suspected it soon after we were married as she mumbled things like, “Fantasy football is silly,” or “Do you really have to scream at the TV and disrupt my yoga?” The final straw in the relationship was the day she insisted on going out to lunch one Sunday. She claimed she needed to see real people, not images on a screen. I checked the schedule, saw I had no players in the early games then relented with the caveat we be home by the end of the first quarter of the afternoon games. After lunch we started home then she said, “Wouldn’t it be romantic to just take a drive in the country; just the two of us.” Apparently my negative reply along with the reminder of the caveat triggered some kind of negative reaction within her. She became silent, a rarity, pouting all the way to the divorce which came shortly after the Super Bowl. She never grasped the soul cleansing experience derived from fantasy worship.

Happily I spent the next football season worshipping alone on Sundays. I was successful in my leagues and thinking this is not a bad way to live, then I met the “Farm Girl” from Alberta.

Although I thought she had some wonderful qualities, I quickly discovered she had never really watched an entire football game in her life; not even the CFL. The first test was Super Bowl Sunday. I don’t attend parties preferring to watch the game at home where I can absorb the final real game of the season. It is kind of like getting those last rays of sun during vacation because you know you won’t see it for a long time. I invited her over, prepared the usual consumables, then hoped I could enjoy the game.

Although it was quickly evident she had no real knowledge of the game, or the players, she displayed a willingness to learn about the faith. As the relationship grew she actually watched the draft displaying every appearance of trying to attain the elements of football which would make her into a believer. As summer drew to a close I wondered if she really had the stuff to be a “true believer.” I decided the only way to find out was to invite her into the secret society of being a Raider fan and fantasy supporter, I began to invite her over for Sunday football.

To my surprise she took to it like a shark takes to blood. I first tested her with the Raiders. Through the season I explained the nuances of frustration which came from chanting the mantra, “Just win baby.” She actually listened seeming to understand the complexity of rooting for the most penalized team in football while they boasted of “pride and poise.” After a while she began to understand why I could not watch the “immaculate reception,” she even began to chant the mantra. I began to think I may have found a winner, so I proceeded to the induction ceremony to the inner sanctum of the faith, fantasy football.

It took a full season, but she began to understand the heartbreak of player selection, fantasy strategy and even began to learn who the players were. Still, there were some things I began to notice which I found disturbing.

During one late season Raider game she left the room. Being absorbed in the game I hardly took notice, but I began to miss her after she had not returned for a full quarter. Upon traveling to the back bedroom I discovered her sitting alone with no television on and her head buried in her hands. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“I am saving the team. I know if I sit back here and don’t listen to or watch the game the Raiders will win.” Of course I felt this was ridiculous. I coaxed her out of the room back to the living room where the Raiders quickly threw an interception which was returned for a game winning touchdown. “You see? If I don’t watch, they win.”

I did my best to convince her there was not a flashing light on the sideline which said, “She’s gone, you can play now boys,” still she persisted. Despite this silliness I married her, then things got worse.

She brought the digital age into my life. Being a tech support person she introduced me to some of the nuances of being online. I think we both understood the dangers of mixing real football, with fantasy football and cyber space, but we had no idea how far this new life would go.

It has taken a few years, but the Farm Girl has become a deep worshiper of the holy game. It started with following the fantasy games online during the watching of real games. It soon expanded to her saying, “Don’t you think NFL Ticket would be a good thing?” Now it has reached levels which make every Sunday an insane piece of Americana fraught with rituals and extreme forms of worship.

We now have three computers in the house. Sundays begin early in the morning with the “switch on” after the first cup of coffee. There is a final check of injury reports, local newspapers from across the country to confirm individual coaching decisions, then the Farm Girl awakens from slumber for her java.

She quickly goes “switch on” with her computer to confirm what information I have already gathered while to exploring angles I may have missed. We both watch ESPN, NFL Countdown hanging on every word from Mort, Boomer and the crew. As it gets closer to game time the “pick em” slips are laid out and online leagues are qued on systems in the living room and the study. The day’s schedule is locked onto at NFL.com so we can transfer all of the Direct TV games onto a one page, easy to read document. Next Game Track is located then locked onto the game of choice for the morning. All school work and running around ceases at 9:55 PST as the games begin.

The Farm Girl runs the living room computer where she has developed certain rituals. Once a game has been locked in, she will not take her eyes off of the moving lines until a team has scored. To avert the eyes to the bigger screen where the live action is happening is to risk injury to a player or a poor performance by a protagonist. As scores appear on the live screen, questions are asked like, “Who scored?” Or, “How many yards have been garnered by the Raiders?” As this is happening, I am running to the study to check the online scores. Amidst all of this activity are phone calls to league commissioners or perhaps even a change of clothes. Proper attire is critical to player and team performance. This inanely insane pursuit does not end until the final game on ESPN. Twelve hours of worship is enough cleansing to make it through another week of work.

Sadly, the Farm Girl is not in Canada anymore. She speaks a language her parents and brother hardly recognize. Although she may know who won the Grey Cup, she realizes the CFL is merely a breeding ground for the NFL or a place where players go who can’t make it in the “real” league. She has been heard uttering phrases like, “They play a cover two, right?” or “You picked him to start? No wonder you’re losing this season!” She has yet to make the big leap and actually join league, but she is not far away from the final conversion. My only worry is she will make the leap, join a league, then beat the heck out of me next season. There is only one thing worse than a newly committed non-smoker; a new convert to a religion. I am not sure I could stand the competition. I already miss the flashing light on the sideline days.

The Pilgrims lost out in their efforts to keep Sundays free of sport, but they would be happy to see it has turned into a day of worship. We can all thank the framers of the Constitution we can all enjoy our first amendment rights of freedom of religion. I thank the Farm Girl for adding to the experience by converting to the true faith.