American Football: King of the Bay Area

”Bambi! Bambi! Bambi!”

Jeff Locke threw his hands in the air, fists clenched, and shouted as he waved them around. He slammed the bar door open with his back, his excited voice echoing through the space. The sounds overlapped and amplified, instantly making him the center of attention.

The bar was far quieter than Jeff had expected, as if he’d shattered the cozy atmosphere. He trailed off, hesitant and confused. After a baffled glance around the room, he looked at Chris Wilson, who had just walked in behind him. He lowered his voice and whispered cautiously, ”I thought you said this was a sports bar?”

A ”sports bar,” so to speak, wasn’t a bar that exclusively served fans. It was just what the fans themselves called it.

On game days, fans with season passes or tickets flocked to the stadium. Those without tickets gathered at their local bars, searching for fellow fans to watch the game and celebrate with.

Competitive sports were a perfect example of ”the more, the merrier.” Compared to watching from the couch at home, the atmosphere in a bar always made the game more exciting.

The bar before them was situated on the border of San Francisco’s Little Italy and Little Tokyo. Its Western-style decor featured dark brown oak and coarse leather—understated and simple, rugged and untamed, with a well-worn patina of age. Overall, however, it was a bit plain, lacking any particularly distinctive or stylized furnishings. It was just another ordinary neighborhood bar.

”Joe’s Bar”—a name so simple it was generic, with nothing distinctive about it. But to the locals, it was a family-owned place steeped in neighborhood memories and history. It had been around for over half a century, passed down from one generation to the next. The current owner was the third generation, and the ”Joe” in the name was his great-grandfather.

The Wilsons were regulars at the bar. The very first game Chris ever watched was at Joe’s Bar. As a boy, he had snuck out with his father, behind his mother’s back, to experience for the first time the rowdy atmosphere of fans watching a game.

They used to live just a couple of blocks away, but later they moved to the Church District, over a dozen blocks from here. Even so, Chris was still accustomed to watching games at Joe’s, and most of his memories of the San Francisco 49ers were tied to this very bar.

”What’s going on, guys? Shouldn’t we be celebrating?” Chris scanned the bar, his face alight with excitement, trying to stoke some energy into the room with his cheerful words.

Fifty or sixty people were gathered in the bar today, packing the small space to the gills. But right now, there were none of the wild celebrations, crazy parties, or boisterous songs one would expect. The crowd seemed far too composed, creating a jarring sense of discord.

Chris’s eyes widened. He pumped his fists in the air, trying to convey his excitement with his whole body. ”We just won the game! And it was a last-second game-winner! That catch, did you guys see it? That catch!”

Following on Chris’s heels, Nate Chandler and Danny Rice also entered the bar, stopping beside Jeff. They quickly realized they had become the center of attention.

As far as the eye could see, the bar’s patrons were a sea of red San Francisco 49ers home jerseys. The vast expanse of red was a spectacular sight, like a fire that lit up the air. Fans young and old turned to look, sizing up Jeff and his two friends. In the silence, a palpable sense of exclusion grew, creating an invisible wall between them.

Looking down, Jeff finally realized they were wearing the solid blue jerseys of the UCLA Bruins, which stuck out like a sore thumb in the sea of red. In the Bay Area, home to San Francisco, Stanford and UC Berkeley reigned supreme. It was obvious they didn’t belong here.

”Chris, we know. Of course we know,” a bearded, middle-aged man behind the counter said with a broad grin, leaning on the bar with his arms crossed. ”In fact, we’ve already had three rounds of celebrations. You missed it.”

Anthony Tinozzo, the current owner of Joe’s Bar, also served as its bartender. He spent most of his days at the bar, mingling with the regulars.

Chris kept his hands raised high, a look of mock disbelief on his face. ”You’re done celebrating already? Shouldn’t this be an all-night party? We just beat the Dallas Cowboys! And it was a huge comeback! God, that was easily the most exciting game of the season so far. How could you be done celebrating already? You guys are a bunch of buzzkills!”

”For the 49ers!” Chris yelled. The next second, everyone in the bar raised their beer mugs and cheered in unison, ”For the 49ers!”

Just like that, the true spirit of the sports bar emerged, with joy and excitement written on every face. A victory was always enough to banish fatigue and worries and brighten anyone’s day, and today was certainly no exception.

Amid the celebration, a small, elderly man sitting at the bar didn’t join in. He picked up his glass and walked toward them with slow steps.

The man was scrawny and slightly stooped, with a messy, scraggly beard. He wore a tattered old jersey, clearly not new but worn with age. He was either a die-hard, long-time fan or a homeless man who’d fished the jersey out of a dumpster or donation bin and thrown it on.

He stopped in front of Chris, shook his head with a knowing air, and scoffed. ”Don’t get too excited. Everyone’s treating this Chinese-American quarterback like a savior, but I’m here to burst your bubble. He’s not.”

”Jonathan, don’t be a buzzkill!” Chris threw his hands up, complaining in exasperation. ”Besides, he’s just a rookie quarterback who’s playing outstandingly. What more could we ask for? He’s given us two straight wins. Why can’t you just enjoy it for a bit? Show a little support, make the rookie feel welcome.”

The old man’s name was Jonathan Baldwin. He too was a die-hard San Francisco 49ers fan who had supported the team his entire life, seeing them through both the glory days and the slumps.

Since the turn of a new millennium, he, like all the other fans, had been waiting for the team to find a top-tier quarterback and lead them to a resurgence. But clearly, they had been disappointed for eight years straight.

”He doesn’t need ’welcome,’ he needs a reality check,” Jonathan retorted without mercy. ”These past two weeks—did he win? Yes. Did he play great? Yes. But that’s all it is. It’s just a start. I have to remind you, Alex’s rookie season gave us a glimmer of hope, too, and that was snuffed out completely.”

”Are you kidding me?” Chris threw his hands up in disbelief. ”Alex Smith’s rookie season was a disaster! He played in nine games and threw for only one touchdown against eleven interceptions! It was a nightmare!”

”But in his first three games as a starter, he threw for three touchdowns, no interceptions, and 814 yards!” Jonathan shot back.

As the first overall pick in the 2005 draft, Alex wasn’t the starting quarterback in his rookie season; he was the backup.

That year, Alex struggled with injuries, and the starter at the time, Cody Pickett, was inconsistent. As a result, the two of them rotated throughout the season. Overall, Alex’s playing time was less than a quarter of Cody’s.

In 2006, Alex officially became the starting quarterback. And that was the source of Chris and Jonathan’s dispute.

Jonathan continued, ”That’s my point. Alex was the first overall pick. We passed on Aaron Rodgers for him and had sky-high hopes. But rookies are rookies. They lack polish, they lack experience, and we shouldn’t get our hopes up too high.”

Chris glanced around the bar in disbelief. ”I can’t believe this,” he said, astonished. ”Lu Ke just led us to our second straight win, and you’re all standing here questioning his ability? Good lord, what more do you want? A blowout victory in both games? This is the NFL, not the NBA!”

”Chris, Jonathan has a point,” someone in the crowd chimed in. ”Two wins is a fact, but rookies are inexperienced by nature. And this quarterback looks too slight—his explosive power and endurance are nowhere near where they need to be. We’re just tempering our expectations.”

Chris’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide with astonishment. ”Two wins, and he still can’t get your support? What do you want to see, then? A Super Bowl in his rookie season? That’s ridiculous!”

”Chris, you’re getting it wrong. We’re just tempering our expectations, that’s all. The quarterback did a damn good job these past two weeks, and that catch at the end today was incredible,” a voice called out from another corner, followed by a smattering of whistles and cheers.

But Chris was still fuming. ”So what you’re saying is, Alex should be starting this week’s game?”

Jonathan nodded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. ”A rookie is a rookie. He won today on a lucky play. For the next game, we still need Alex’s leadership. His experience and his veteran presence are crucial.”

”Bullshit!” Chris shot back. ”Since when did you start liking Alex? During the draft this year, you were chomping at the bit to replace Alex Smith with Colin Kaepernick. So what, now you’re an Alex supporter? Especially after our rookie quarterback just put on such a spectacular performance? That’s absurd! Utterly absurd!”