Big Fan

Living near Philly now, I am privy to a lot of the misplaced intensities, vicarious hero worship and emotional transference that envelopes fans of professional football. In the South, the college game is still king and brings with it its own set of psychological disorders. But up here in the bitter cold of the Northeast, the ghosts of Y.A. Tittle, Frank Gifford, Norm Van Brocklin and Chuck Bednarik still stomp the cold, icy turf in a war without end now called “The NFC East”.

Before I indulge further into the type of storied sportswriting hyperbole that made Grantland Rice famous, I must confess I am a New York Jets enthusiast. And it don’t get any colder, bitterer or more unspeakably frustrating than that. When the horrific visage of Fireman Ed screams “J-E-T-S – Jets, Jets, Jets” - to me it simply stands for “Just Eat The Shit”.

Which is why these diehard fans are always so puzzling to me - those who live, breathe, work and die by the performance of their ball club year after disappointing year.

This gentleman was single-handedly responsible for much of my misery and anxiety over the yearsIf I based my moods and general outlook toward life on the successes and failures of the New York Jets, I would have been summarily executed years ago for being a murderous, raging psychopath. As it is, just being a casual enthusiast of “Gang Green” turns me into a foul mouthed, cynical, misanthropic beast for five months out of the year. Just ask Simone. Better yet, don’t. She’ll never shut up about it.

So it was with great pleasure that I watched Robert Siegel’s Big Fan the other night during the mid-week lull of playoff time. It is a small, dark, spot-on character study of fandom and the avid freaks who fall victim to it. In this case, mid-thirtyish loser Paul Aufiero (brilliantly played by Patton Oswalt), a really pathetic Giants fan.

And by “pathetic”, I simply mean he’s from Staten Island.

And as most anyone knows, no good ever came from there.

Funnin’ aside, Paul is a lost little soul. He eats, drinks, sleeps and chronically masturbates to the Giants. He has a particularly unhealthy man-crush on fictional linebacker Quantrell Bishop (“QB”) with jerseys, posters and vaguely homoerotic dreams to prove it.

He is a parking lot attendant with no desire for upward mobility (a trait of his I adored), quite celibate, emotionally stunted, pudgy, childish, still lives with his mother, hangs around exclusively with another Giants aficionado played by Kevin Corrigan (who has made a career of playing the dimwitted loser sidekick), meticulously scripts his talking points he uses on “The Zone” call-in sports show where he is known simply as “Paul from Staten Island”, has a bete noire named “Philadelphia Phil” who continually riles him with Eagles smack talk, snuggles with (and jerks off under) his multicolored NFL blanket he’s obviously had since childhood and tailgates at Giants’ games but cannot afford tickets so he hangs out in the parking lot and rigs a 13” TV to his car battery to watch the game with his dullard friend in the freezing fucking cold.

Yeah, pretty bad.

But I forgot something. In a bizarre turn of events (and a slight misunderstanding) he is actually beaten to a pulp at a strip club by none other than his hero, Quantrell Bishop. Leading “Philadelphia Phil” to later quip on that bit of irony as the equivalent of himself getting pummeled by Dr. J.

I thought that was funny. I love Dr. J. I had a man-crush on him in junior high. Major Sixers fan of the era. Dawkins, Mix, Toney, Cheeks, Jones, Malone. I digress.

This unfortunate beating at the hands of his idol leads to an epidural haematoma and an ethical quandary for Paul on whether to press charges or sue his hero. If he does, Bishop would obviously be suspended and thus possibly cost the Giants a division title. What would seem like an obvious choice to some (certainly Paul’s relatives can’t understand his hesitancy) becomes almost a non-issue to Paul. He is all consumed by the Giants and Bishop, their success is paramount to any small sufferings he may have incurred. After all, does he not always suffer for them?

Siegel’s script (he also penned 2008’s The Wrestler) is tight and his direction is appropriately minimalist. We slog through Paul’s simple, determined life with the knowledge that he is bright enough to know the limitations he puts on himself with his choices, but also realize that they are in fact his to make. And he seems quite content with his decisions (when the G-Men aren’t losing). Sure, he’s a bit lost. Aren’t we all, at least a little? Most of us try to grasp onto something larger than us to find a place and sense of purpose in this life - whether it be a football team, a political figure, a cause or Jeebus Christ Almighty.

Which is why I only hang out with gamblers. There’s nothing more depressing than blind fealty.

I guess what it comes down to (and what this film succeeds in showing) is that in this current culture of fame obsession and the vulgar pursuit of wealth at any cost, the fractured personalities of the uncelebrated and poor take on weird forms and strange directions. Many people have done worse with their lives than root for the New York Football Giants.

Just ask an Eagles fan.