In his landmark book, Los Angeles: the Architecture of Four Ecologies, Reyner Banham wrote: “I learned to drive in order to read Los Angeles in the original” — implying that in order to understand this city, one must do so from the friendly confines of an air-conditioned automobile.
I pondered this quote while sitting in traffic on my way to the Memorial Coliseum to witness the Rams’ return to LA. What the hell do I understand staring at the bumper of a Nissan Ultima? After a 22-year wait for football to come back to the city, I was going to miss the superfluous Red Hot Chili Peppers concert, the fireworks display, the national anthem, and most importantly, the opening kick-off. What I understood about LA while parked on Vermont Avenue was the depth of our patience. We’ll wait, even for a shitty football team. If you doubt the interest LA has in this Rams team, just remember that we all tolerated this horror show for a team quarterbacked by Case Keenum.
A Rams team that was so brutally punished last week against the San Francisco 49ers squeaked out a win against the mighty Seattle Seahawks on Sunday, triumphing 9-3. Their defense was mighty, led by Pro Bowler Aaron Donald. Opposing quarterback Russell Wilson was sacked twice and hit another eight times while playing on a bum ankle. Never mind that after two games the Rams have failed to score a touchdown. Keenum, the placeholder QB while rookie Jared Goff marinates on the sidelines, quietly managed the game, dragging the team into field goal range three times. It was a ponderous, artless performance, but who cares? Through two weeks, they have the same record as the defending NFC champion Carolina Panthers.
The public address announcer told us that over 91,046 tickets were “distributed” for yesterday’s game. Not seats filled. Not tickets sold. Tickets distributed. That choice of words makes one think that maybe they just dumped a bunch of tickets from an airplane or hid them at the bottom of cereal boxes. Regardless of how they achieved this lofty number, it’s clear that interest in the Rams in LA is high. What isn’t so clear is whether or not we’ll embrace these Rams, and not the ones from our increasingly hazy memories.
Large men with protruding bellies flipped burgers, flaunted open containers, and chain-smoked out of sight of disapproving security guards in Vince Ferragamo and Jackie Slater jerseys. In lieu of the uniforms most associated with the St Louis years, the Rams played in their throwback blue-and-yellow. At half-time, they trotted out every living Rams Hall of Famer for something that was less a ceremony and more a reminder – “Hey, we were good once,” they implied. The performance on the field made me wonder if they’d ever be again.
The fans cheered in all the right places, tailgated like old pros, and became so loud in the decisive Seahawks drive in the fourth quarter that we had a hard time hearing in the press box. In a way, it’s like they never left – this wasn’t the crowd one would expect from a city that didn’t have the NFL for two decades. It was, for better or worse, live pro football – the edgy crowds of opposing fanbases, the interminable lines, the smell of sausages. If you’re expecting Hollywood glamour from a team that’s now worth $2.9bn, you’re looking in the wrong place. Despite the exorbitant ticket prices, the Coliseum felt blue-collar, befitting the sport in question. Or perhaps I just couldn’t see the rich people. After all, LeBron James and Magic Johnson aren’t waiting for a beer or, like, wandering the exterior of the stadium incapable of finding an entrance.
When I finally escaped the traffic jam, I was forced to park on the USC campus, adding another 20 minutes of walking to my journey. Just about every pedestrian thoroughfare around the outside of the stadium was closed. The guards at gate six said I had to go to gate fourteen. The guards at gate fourteen said I had to go around gate 11 to get to gate 14. I can’t go through without my pass, but to get my pass, I have to go through. The word Kafkaesque is thrown around so casually that it feels like a cliche, but this situation warrants it.
“Take out your keys, cellphone, wallet … and your damn jacket, man. It’s hot,” the security guard at gate 14 – my gate, at last – told me. He said this as though I wasn’t aware that it was hot. It’s LA. It’s almost always hot. At the elevator, another stadium employee explained how I don’t want to come back down from the press box at half-time. “They’re all drunk and hungry,” he said. I told him about a woman I’d seen sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, yelling at a male companion. “I don’t understand wanting to be drunk at 8am. Then sitting out in this heat?” I finally made it up to my seat. A free hot dog was waiting for me.
To read Los Angeles in the original, you need to learn how to drive. To read Los Angeles football fandom in the original, you need to learn to wait – 22 years for the team to come back, hours to make it to the game, minutes for the concession stand, and who knows how long for them to win a Super Bowl. When you have a No1 draft pick who’s not ready to play and a head coach who doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to win games, you have to be patient. It’s just that, at some point, that patience has to pay off. For my trouble yesterday, I was rewarded with a 9-3 football game and a concert I didn’t even see.
