Being a girl born & raised in the great state of Wisconsin, it’s super easy to be a football fan. We have America’s team. The team owned by the people. The people who buy season tickets just so their grandkids grandkids can go to a game.

We wear cheese on our head and look amazing while doing it. We rock. Our team rocks. And if things go as planned, we will win the Super Bowl again this year. We may even go undefeated (ohhh the pressure!)

However, since meeting my husband (the fan of another mostly winning gold and black team except last year during the Super Bowl, aka Ott vs. Ott, when the good guys won!) we have chosen to live in cities with less than stellar football teams. Alright, their teams are just downright crap.

But the fans, our friends, are hilariously fantastic! They don’t give up hope. They carry on the hope of their grandparents grandparents that someday, maybe someday, they will win a championship. Sadly, these days it’s just hoping to win a game. It’s hard to sit next to these fans and have soooooo much joy for your own team knowing the pain and agony felt by these drunkards each and every week.

But without so many losing seasons, these great fans could not create something as wonderful as this:

So cheers to the Dawg Pound. Cheers to my old friends that continue to cheer on the Brownies, exclaim after each and every game that they will never, ever watch them again, but come back each and every Sunday with a glimmer of hope. A glimmer usually destroyed, wrecked, mangled in the first 10 minutes, but a glimmer that burns on and on and on….