One thunderous celebration in Detroit marked the end of 32 years of frustration for Lions supporters.
This was more than simply an NFL wild-card game, though, so the noise from the crowd wasn’t only intended to be distracting or celebratory. It was the shout that, while many had doubted it would ever come, some had waited 32 seasons to give.
It was born out of the depths of countless wasted seasons and opportunities—missed opportunities at what they were finally getting to experience. It didn’t even feel like Detroit had an NFL team for the most part over the years, at least not in anything other than a supporting capacity.
They hadn’t hosted a playoff game since 1993 and hadn’t won one since the 1991 campaign. No postseason wins since 1957 before that. Rather, they had unsuccessful campaigns, Man Marches, and absurd incidents such as when a player was cut and took his replacement’s luggage or when an assistant coach was detained for being intoxicated and nude at Wendy’s drive-through.
That was the Lions, an endless, unpunctual punch line that served as a continual reminder of defeat in a city that so desperately wanted to be recognized for who it was becoming rather than who it had been.
While this was going on, Lions followers were forced to watch fans from other communities—including fans of expansion teams and bandwagon supporters—enjoy the excitement of playing professional football.
These playoff runs, these beautiful January nights, have a way of igniting towns. They go beyond town and suburb, employer and worker. They cross racial, religious, and political divides.