“What the San Diego Chargers Were to Me”
This is going to sound stupid, and irrational, and borderline incoherent at times, because it regards a lifelong passion that was stupid, and irrational, and borderline incoherent at times, right up until 8:00 am PST, on Thursday, January 12, 2017. I’ve been trained up and advised, as a teacher, not to share too much of myself on social media––to curate and consider a sanitized online presence devoid of political hot takes, curse words, raised beer mugs, and the like. It’s led to me sharing less, in general, for better and worse, but I’m compelled now to try to explain what the San Diego Chargers were to me.
I was born in 1986 to two native diehards, and swaddled in a powder blue blanket that I dragged around the house longer than I’d like to admit. My first football memories featured Billy Joe Tolliver reliably overthrowing receivers downfield while Mom and Dad retold the glory days of Lance Alworth and the AFL, of Dan Fouts piloting Air Coryell, of the Charger Power that electrified our city, the emotional rollercoaster of the Epic in Miami, and the heartbreak of the Freezer Bowl that followed.
My dad, or “Sticks,” as they called him, played drums for the team’s “Hi-Five” pet project soul band, with Kellen Winslow, Leroy Jones, Charles DeJurnett, John Jefferson, and Fred Dean on vocals. My parents had season tickets behind the Chargers bench at Jack Murphy Stadium while I was on the way, and the players would pat Mom’s belly for good luck that never came.
But let me (begin) getting to the point…
When I thought of the San Diego Chargers, I thought about my childhood memories with my family, back when my family was relatively happy and relatively whole.
I thought of trips to the swap meet to buy trading cards that I’d pour over until I’d memorized bios and stat lines. I thought of winning thirty-one dollars in my dad’s work pick’em pool, and telling my uncles who to bet on as they humored me, at least.
I thought of hours upon hours of catch and simulated games with my dad and my brother, dropping back as Dan Fouts and Stan Humphries, breaking two-hand touch “tackles” as Marion Butts and Natrone Means, juking as Ronnie Harmon, and going long, as Anthony Miller and Tony Martin. I thought of the glow-in-the-dark Nerf footballs we purchased so that we could stay out and pretend just a bit longer.
When I thought of the San Diego Chargers, I thought of hot summer days at training camp, and waiting in line for hours to meet and shake the gigantic hand of our hero, Junior Seau, whose number, 55, was the sacred one we’d use to let Dad know it was us when we paged him. I thought of racing my brother up and down the massive, circular ramps of the stadium pre-game while Dad played in steel drum, and rock, and funk bands in the concourse. I thought of the way my dad would never fail to hit us with his “Fumble, Muncie!” announcer call every time we dropped something.
I thought of the time I raised the most money for my elementary school’s Jog-a-thon in kindergarten, and my Uncle Donnie convinced Gary Plummer to show up and present my brand new bike on the blacktop, at the assembly, in front of the whole school.
I thought of the Charger parties we hosted that crowded old friends around our living room TV to watch playoff runs, and the hysterical, screaming, horn-honking joy that overtook the neighborhood and city the moment Dennis Gibson batted down that pass in the endzone to send US to the Super Bowl, at long last.
I thought of sitting in class, thinking of the Chargers and what it would mean to my family and my city to win the next time so much, so obsessively, that I’d accidentally spell my name “Chargers McMillan” at the top of worksheets and journal entries. I thought of all the grinning, ridiculous daydreams I had, as a victorious fan, or victorious quarterback, or victorious fan who had to stand in for his injured, hero quarterback after all the back-ups got hurt too.
I stomached their embarrassing, hapless fades without looking away, and relished every second of the rebirth brought by Brees, Tomlinson, Gates, Merriman, Sproles, Weddle, and the man that would become the last heart and soul of a San Diego football team for the foreseeable future, Phil Rivers. Those teams provided collective hope and excitement for a splintered, grieving family, and reinforced or founded connections with so many of the friends I know and love, some of whom passed before this long-chambered threat finally fired.
When I thought of the San Diego Chargers, I thought of tailgate tosses, and carne asada, and packed trolley rides full of shared anticipation, and celebration, and disgust. I thought of cheering my lungs out at the Q with 60,000 brothers and sisters in blue and gold.
The possibility of missing a Super Bowl run surrounded by my fellow San Diegans in 2009 kept me on this side of the Pacific and so shortened the post-graduation adventure to Asia I’d spent years saving and planning to execute. I recovered from the disappointment of our ever-parallel squandered opportunities in time to find the only internet cafe in Kratie, Cambodia open early enough for me to track the NFL Draft in real-time, and think of the way we’d all be back together, and have another crack at it “next year.”
I’m not always a complete idiot. It had occurred to me well before the final bomb dropped this week that there were a hundred accusable absurdities involved in emotionally attaching oneself to any team of gifted millionaires playing a violent, brain-scrambling game for glory, and fortune, and ultimately, the ego and further enrichment of billionaires. It had occurred to me that those billionaires have the legal right to run their business assets as they see fit, and that two-way brand or franchise “loyalty” is a hard to come by when the bottom line is in question. It had occurred to me that subsidizing modern sports palaces with tax dollars when owners hold patrons hostage isn’t the most responsible or ethically justifiable endeavor.
Still, I’ve looked forward to next year, and the opportunity to share my love for our San Diego Chargers and the game of football with my own children my entire life. Our shared enthusiasm and love for the sport played a massive role in forming my bond with my wife, and a marriage that produced our two beautiful kids. We’re up in Portland, Oregon now, a phenomenal place in its own right, and a happy compromise between two partners who came to the realization that they’d each need to sacrifice their geographical ideal to give their family the best chance to thrive.
I’m looking out my window now at 3 day-old snow, a striking and novel sight to a boy who grew up climbing through canyons and sifting through sand in seventy-two degree weather all year. As yet, the wonder and appreciation can’t shake this piercing sense of dread––this feeling that I’ve lost a way for my boy and girl to know who I am, and who I was.
I’ll compensate, and overcompensate, in plenty of other ways, beyond a re-intensified love for our Padres, and Aztecs, and Gulls, and whoever settles there next. I’ll find more productive and healthier uses of our time and attention, and we’ll probably be better for it.
As my Fouts, and Tomlinson, and Rivers jerseys are tucked away into a box in the back of the closet though, spared the trash bin that swallowed up the rest of the gear, memorabilia, and certifiable junk I once wore and displayed with unwavering dedication and pride, my last shreds of hope lie in two future miracles––a change of ownership and triumphant return, or a billionaire coward’s conscience commanding him to do the right thing, and leave the Chargers name, and colors, and legacy, and tradition in San Diego, where it belongs.
Until then, the Chargers are dead to me, and I’m sorry to say that a major piece of me died with them.