BEHIND ENEMY LINES by Swissvale72 

Having moved to New England in 1979 in pursuit of the present-day "Mrs. Swiss," this region offered proximity to the seacoast, which was important for a seafood glutton like me, though I still say the best fish sandwiches going are at the Oyster House on Pittsburgh’s Market Square. Settling in New Hampshire to work in 1985, and to live in 1991, the majestic White Mountains were easily accessible, and the Live Free or Die State offered neither a sales tax, nor a state income tax. Of course, for that privilege, I pay high as hell property taxes whilst hauling my trash to the town dump every Saturday, and sinking money into a new pump for my well, and, a homeowner’s worst fear, replacing my septic system at the reasonable cost of $10K about 3 years ago.

On matters football, living in New England was a breeze when I first took up residency in 1979. Pittsburgh was in the midst of the City of Champions era. The Patriots were laughing stocks of the league. In fact, I didn’t even feel like I was "behind enemy lines," as the Patriots were irrelevant, no threat at all to the Pittsburgh Steelers dynasty. I was much more cognizant of the CleveBrownies spies. I was living in Haverhill (pronounced Hey-vrull), Massachusetts in the mid-80s when a nice couple, with a dog, moved in across the street. I greeted them, one of those fairly rare times when I’m appropriately social, then after a few minutes of aimless chatter, I was aghast, and retreated to the sanctuary of my own home. "I can’t believe it," I told Mrs. Swiss, "I come all the way up here to Massachusetts, and the Enemy moves in across the street. How did they find me here?" They were from Ohio, Browns fans, and the Browns, behind Bernie Kosar, were finally winning at TRS, winning the AFC Central Division, losing heartbreakers in the AFCCG to the Denver Broncos. I proceeded to water their plants while they were on vacation (plants…sissy browns fans). I can’t recall their names, having immediately and forever after that initial conversation referred to him as simply "The Enemy." I still enjoy my chance meetings with Browns fans. I was at my son’s school concert last spring, and ran into a Browns fan that I’d not seen in some time. "Hey Jim," I said happily, "not seen ya in awhile. We gonna own you again this year?" And I laughed like hell, as Jim, stone-faced, did not smile. And, guess what, we DID own the CleveBrownies again last year. I know, I know. It might not happen this year. Ya know what?? It will happen. And as recently as this April, at my kids’ swim banquet, I met a very friendly Browns fan. I was cordial. I was magnanimous. I only once reminded him that we’ve taken his team for 9 in a row. He told me that he makes a yearly trip to Cleveland for a Browns game, and that last season he had been seated nearby a former Brown. Did I remember a player by the name of….Joe Jones? My eyes glazed over, I frothed at the mouth, tremors took over my body. He invited me to his home for his Annual Browns/Steelers Party. One of the attributes of aging is knowing oneself, knowing one’s strengths, but also one’s foibles. I can guarantee that if I attend this event, there will be no follow-up invitation. Speaking of invites, the mild-mannered guy that does investments for my place of employ is from Cleveland, a Browns fan, though I tell him what’s going on with his team. Every year he suggests we watch a Steelers-Browns game, "get the wives together." "Uh, Bill," I say, "I’m not sure that’s such a good idea."   

Anyway, back to the dastardly New England Patriots. Starting in those same mid-80s, every August when the pre-season started, I would say to my Patriots friend, Stupid Charlie, "Chaw-lee…Hall of Fame Game today. Let’s see, we’ve got Terry Bradshaw and Mel Blount going in. How many Patriots are being inducted? What’s that? None, you say. Oh, too bad. How many Patriots are in the Hall of Fame. NONE?? Get out!!"   

And so it went every year. The Patriots were the harmless hosts. The Steelers were the legendary guests. The Patriots were always blacked out, rumored to move to St. Louis, or Hartford. The Sox were always first in the hearts of New Englanders, followed by the B’s, the legendary Big Bad Bruins of Bobby Orr, Phil Esposito, Pie McKenzie, et al, still the heroes on the frozen ponds of New England. Include the Celtics, winners of 11 championships in 13 seasons, and resurgent with Bird, McHale, Parrish, and the Patriots were relegated to 4^th and last in the hearts and minds of the New England professional sports fan. Then there are those haughty New Englanders that will attend sporting events if their ivory tower connections result in “complimentary” admission. This crowd though, is inclined to exit prior to conclusion, lest they miss the opening of the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow reading in the Back Bay.  

Want to make a New Englander go nuts? In the same sentence, say “Bill Buckner, Ben Dreith, and Too Many Men on the Ice.”    

I paid the Patsies little mind until the Fog Bowl of ’96, one of my most miserable days as a football fan witnessing a massacre of my beloved in Foxboro, at which time I came to despise the New England Patriots, and their undeserving fan base. Then, came the ’01 and ’04 AFCCGs, and my heartless sentence of needing to fly from Pittsburgh, back to New Hampshire with legions of Patriot fans, and my disdain grew.    

I’m now living in occupied territory, the only region of the country where we as Steelers fans can’t talk s@!t with impunity. It doesn’t stop me though. I still do. It’s just that I must engage in Guerilla warfare; I’m a terrorist in New England. I persist with my mantra of 5>3. I pick my spots. I also am atypically outgoing when it comes to my people, fellow Steelers fans. It’s not often that I strike up a conversation with perfect strangers. Have on some Steelers gear though, my hand’s extended; my ugly mug is beaming. I’m traversing New Hampshire, taking my kids to one of their countless swim meets and pass a vehicle with a Steelers sticker; I’m laying on the horn, flashing the thumbs up sign, much to the embarrassment of my offspring.   

Sometimes, my hatred for the Patriots is so intense, that I must also root against the Red Sox, with whom I have no beef. The Sox continue to rule New England. Super Bowl angst? No problem; pitchers and catchers reported within days following. It’s just “Manny being Manny.” My reasoning for turning on the Sox at times is thus. Both teams have the same fans, and I want those Patriot fans, some to whom I’m related by marriage, to know no joy.    

The last two years, priceless!! The Patriots’ seasons ending with respective losses in the final minute of the AFCCG and Super Bowl. Last year, the Pats blew a 21-3 lead; this year the previously undefeated Pats picked a helluva time to bring the heat, going man up on Plaxico!! I fling open my back door, I scream with delight in the direction of Neighbor Chuck. I come into work beaming. I drive through Dick’s Sunoco down the street, horn blaring, waving my Terrible Towel. I listen to the buffoon Fred Smerlas, and the fathead Pete (The Meat ) Shepherd on Boston’s WEEI, cry and moan and make excuses. Nirvana!!   

The light shone on expatriates in New England late in the night of this year’s February 3^rd. Living Behind Enemy Lines, in New England, sucks. But sometimes, we get to have a shit-eating grin of which there’s no quit. 5>3. 

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This is another excerpt from My Life as a Pittsburgh Steelers Fan written by Swissvale72.  The link below will take you to the full document (70 pages) to read at your pleasure.  A great deal of effort and memory went into this piece and we thank Swiss for sharing and taking the time to put his experiences on paper to share with other fans.  Enjoy! 

http://members.cox.net/steelerfury/Wer efromthetown.pdf