Hi. My name is Chitownhawkeye…and I’m a fan.
I guess I started early. I saw it in my house, my parents were recreational users. I tried it a couple of times. Then I went to Iowa City. It was intoxicating. Each fall I’d get together with a bunch of “friends” and we’d get a hit. The high was glorious, but the weeklong withdrawal was brutal.
I managed to get out of sin city in 4 years, but I just can’t shake it. The lows always leave me wondering why I go back, but I guess it’s just in my blood. I keep saying that I’m done, but I’m not. I know I’ll be back. I just can’t help myself.

As a Hawk fan and a Cub fan, heroin sounds pretty good about now.

Thanks Chitown.

That took a lot of courage. You’re an inspiration to Herky Burnouts everywhere.

HoyaGoon. And I am a fan.

It started early for me, I became a fan when I was just a kid. I am genetically predisposed to being a fan. Both my parents, my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins are fans. But they are not to blame, it was choice I made.

I remember when it started, one Christmas season while everyone else was distracted, I stole a quick hit at my grandparents house. After that little taste, I was hooked. I’d want it all the time. And the quality in the mid-80s was so good, so pure. Every time was the better than the last, I wanted that feeling to last forever. Even when the quality of the stuff declined, it didn’t do anything to lessen my addiction. Instead of doing less, I did even more, going directly to the source every weekend to get my fix. It was a vicious cycle.

Finally, I moved away. I thought I had broken my habit, that I was free. A few years later, I tried just a little bit because I was convinced I was in control. But we all know, you’re never in control, your fandom controls you. And it was the same for me. I justified it by saying it was “just one time” “just this time to get me through the holidays” but soon I was right back to being hooked. I want it all the time. It doesn’t matter how bad a hit is, the next day I wake up craving more. I call my friends just to see if they have any, and we feed off one another. I spend the week in a sweaty, feverish state of anticipation for the weekend so I can take another hit.

I want to break free, but I know that I am powerless against it. I am a fan.

I’m the Ill Jukes, and I am a hawk fan.

I was raised on Houghtlin’s Kick, Nick Bell, Aviators + white pants, and beating the ever-loving shit out of Wisconsin.

I never had a chance.
My friends and family worry about me, I have to wake up at 9am on the west coast just to get my fix. The attempted detox in the PacNW has done little to no good, as I dream of the big-ass turkey leg nightly.

Every new year, I think I can take a little break and maybe next fall, I will actually be able to relax and enjoy a Saturday. But as soon as the Mariners really start to self-destruct, I get the itch again. The scary thing is, I have come around to enjoying the addiction. As an Iowa fan, you get to like the pain you’re left with. It’s easy to be a Buckeye, Wolverine…it takes a true fucking addict to stick to a team like this.

My name is Rocky and I’m… I’m a… sob

(It’s okay Rocky, let it out. We are here to help you heal.)

I’m a Hawkeye fan. sniffle

I guess I started when I was a kid, though I was only a recreational user. My first memory of the stuff was the tremendous high that was Dr. Tom’s first year, and the horrible pain after that elite 8 game. To this day, I can’t see a bald man chewing on a towel without getting painful flashbacks.

It wasn’t really until college that I got into more than recreational basketball fandom. It went from something to do on a cold Iowa winter night to something that was year-round and important. I guess being surrounded by other users was enabling for me, and I became completely hooked on all things black and gold, despite the highs not being that great while I was there. I probably could have quit the stuff after I graduated, but as soon as I had considered this I found a new dealer who had a potent new strain, Kirk Ferentz’s 2002-2004 drug.

It’s almost scary how much my life has come to revolve around fandom. All week I’m thinking about what should I bring to the tailgate, what I’m going to wear, how great this weekend is going to be. I catch myself reading sites about fandom and posting on fan message boards, even at work, and I’m always afraid someone will catch me.

I’m beginning to think that I’ll never kick this habit, despite the pain being stronger than the high these days. I tell myself I can stop going to the games anytime, but I know it’s not true. I’m afraid there’s nothing for me except to cheer until I hear the final gun.

Hello,
Ahhhh, my name is three and out. And I am a fan.
It started for me a child on the mean streets of West Des Moines. I was a child, maybe 6, maybe 7, and I was lost. A child without a team. What did I have? The Iowa Cubs at Sec Taylor. All they were good for was collecting a 100 plastic Cub cups that my dad would not let bring home. The lights of Friday night? The Chiefs, the Packers, the Vikings? No, these were things that enlisted no real passion. But these men who played on Saturday. These men you represented my State to the rest of the country. They seemed to have something, not so touchable or real as the kids on Friday, yet not so distant as the giants on Sunday. So, I was lost, but there was a hope. Maybe it was just a twinkle or gleam, I don’t know, but it was there. And my father, the great, glorious enabler of my fandom, must have seen it before I knew what it was. Because that is when "it" happened, when the sweet taste of true fandom coursed through my then young veins.
It was an early crisp fall Saturday morning when I was awaken by the eager enabler. After a brief stop at the Pickle Barrel, a place I knew not of, but with sandwiches, I will not forget, off we headed to then mysterious place I had never been, but imagined. After so many years, my memories have been shattered into snapshots and snippets of that day. I remember walking up circular ramps as we crossed the river. I remember the roar of the crowd. It was only 70,000, but it might as well have been millions. But above all I remember these figures battle. How fantastic they looked in their black and gold. Lorded over by a man in white and black. It was at that moment I was hooked, for them on come good times and bad I would always be one.
And so it has been. My fandom has never left. It stings me over and over again. At times left me brittle and broke man. More often than not it has left memories of horror burned in mind. But every so often, the rush comes flooding back. The rush of my first fix returns. Hinkle’s catch at Penn State. Roth’s alligator chop. Tate to Halloway. The Yanda block against ISU. The Stand at Syracuse. Jake across his body to Moeaki. DJK tip toeing down the line.
Oh yes, the sweet rush returns and it does, it reminds of why. Of why, despite all the pain, agony, turmoil and despair, I am, and always will be Hawkeye Fan.

“Hook ‘em when they’re young”