Football! Football! Rah, rah, rah. That’s what America is all about. We even have to call our “football” soccer because how dare we interrupt the sacred flow of American football.
With excitement and anticipation, I headed to my very first football game: Dartmouth versus Stonehill.
The only three words I need to describe it are these:
An. Absolute. Bore.
Sure, at first it looked like Friday Night Lights or Varsity Blues; there was some jannois sais quois to it. I smiled with glee at how “American” and movie-like this felt. But after one quarter, that novelty had faded and I exhaled and stood up, brushing my hands along my knees. “Sorry, but I’ll be off guys, gotta go get some work done.”
And it wasn’t only that I had other work to get done—I genuinely preferred it to sitting here watching seventy buffoons with oversized GDX-frat egos bumping chests, guzzling Gatorade, and tossing balls aimlessly like dogs playing fetch with themselves, while only eleven were actually on the field breaking a sweat.
I headed out of the stadium as my two friends stayed behind.
American students told me Dartmouth is not a sports school, so its games aren't a good representation of American football culture. Dartmouth’s home stadium, Memorial Field, holds 11,000 people, while famous football schools like Ohio State hold more than 100,000.
But still, we’re meant to enjoy this? Maybe it’s just me, but this game is not built for the Gen Z attention span—you’re telling me I have to watch one play then wait a whole minute for the next? Feels like an eternity.
Perhaps I just don’t understand the rules of football — how can you appreciate the game if you don’t know the rules — but wait, no, I went into ice hockey with zero knowledge and that game was a blast! It was like watching Quidditch on ice! And then people started beating each other up! So if it’s a sin to not enjoy football without properly understanding it, I'll gladly go to hell.
The second football game I attended was the Homecoming game between Harvard and Dartmouth. This one was better, I’ll admit. Sitting in the student section, I was thoroughly entertained by the spectacle nearby—a few men roaring like lions, yelling profanities, and clinking flasks. One climbed the rails, threatening to jump onto the field over a bad call, while his friend grabbed his legs, pretending to vigorously pull him back. Their wild energy was both ridiculous and contagious.
Us group of exchange students swiped green paint onto our cheeks and decked ourselves out in Dartmouth merch. Varying cheers and boos surrounded us throughout the game, making everything feel loud and alive.
But the sheer silence when Dartmouth lost 31-27 was deafening. The light cheers from the few Harvard visitors on the far side pierced through the stillness as everyone stood up to leave the stadium, shoulders sagging. I frowned, thinking about GDX’s (the football frat’s) upcoming party that night, which would surely be defined by this game.
Apparently, the loss didn’t matter—with the built-up homecoming weekend excitement, getting into the frat that night was still like pulling teeth. The entire campus clambered outside its doors. Inside, it was sweaty and rowdy as usual, though missing the charm of celebration.
To my American football friends: sorry, but I’m still not sold.
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