One Man, One Jersey, One Diner

If someone were to ask me which football team was my favorite, hands down it would be the San Francisco 49ers. The thing is, that would be a weird question to ask me. I’ve been to a few games as a teen (even one in the Red Zone thanks to my stepdad’s company), but I couldn’t tell you what the hell happened during those games. Football makes absolutely no sense to me, yet I have an allegiance to a team playing a sport I don’t understand. I’m not the only person who is like this; millions of fans fall under this category of sports fans in a pie chart. You got your die-hard football fans who root for the best team according to the stats on ESPN, the fans that have transplanted to new towns but still stick to their home teams, fans who root for a team because their family has always been a fan of said team. Then there is a category where I am: fans that root for a team solely for hometown pride. So why do people choose teams close to home? I can’t say for sure, but I know my personal story and all starts with one guy from my hometown that made it to the big leagues. A guy I’ve never met, but I’ve known him for most of my adult life. His face was plastered at my first community college and presence felt at one of my formative workplaces. I basically saw this guy’s face every day for almost three years but never bothered to figure out who he was until he was an adult; that guy is Jeff Garcia.

I was 20 back in the late summer of 2012, working as a server at the Black Bear Diner in Gilroy off HWY 101. I was initially hired as a host, thanks to a work connection between my mom and the daughter of the owner, but was quickly promoted to a server with the promise of busy days and lots of tips. My section that night was the large table section at the back of the restaurant. It didn’t get filled much on hot and humid Tuesday nights, even with the gaudy sign outside screaming in bold print “Kids Eat Free on Tuesday” promo, and I was bored out of my mind. I decided to clean off some of the knick-knacks and memorabilia on the wall; if I didn’t make any tips, might as well stall a little to get a couple extra hours on my paycheck. I started with the shadow box with an old red jersey and gold accents with the last name “Garcia” in large print. It had so many different fingerprints on it, and the one handprint made up of countless hands over the jersey number, all of them various sizes. It took me a solid two minutes to clean with industrial grade Windex and five paper towels to get the glass to show my reflection. I wasn’t (and to be honest, I’m still not) a huge sports person, so out of sheer curiosity I had to ask my coworker Adrian what was up with the jersey. He said with some shocked surprise, “You don’t know Jeff Garcia?? He grew up here in Gilroy and got drafted by the 49ers. That jersey was his original, and his parents gave it to George (the owner of the restaurant) since this was their favorite place to eat. People ask all the time if they can buy it but most people are okay with just touching it.” He left in a hurry to help his only table that was screaming for another soda.

I looked at it for a moment, noticing the large embroidered “7,” the stretched-out tiny jersey holes, the armpit stains that couldn’t be dry cleaned to save anyone’s life, and even the worn-out lines from what looked like where shoulder pads would rub against the now delicate looking fabric. To me, the frame just held some worn out jersey put into a shadow box with a quick bio on the bottom of the frame to make it look like it was part of a museum. I just didn’t get why this jersey was such a big deal and what was up with the hand prints. I figured that sure, his jersey has the lucky number seven, big whoop. Why were the hand prints always in the same place? If it was that important, why would you smudge it? For me, it was just one more thing for me to clean and nothing irks me more than fingerprints on the glass.

Two weeks later in September, fall was making itself known: The leaves in the trees along the highway were turning brown and scattering on every road, the summer temperatures were finally cooling off, and of course football season was in full swing. I rarely worked Sunday mornings, but I got called in at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m. to cover someone who was in the hospital. So there I was, scrambling to get that veggie scramble to Table 10 on the busiest day of the week. I was ducking around my coworkers, yelling out calls of “behind” and “corner” like they were football maneuvers, and moving faster than I thought my body was capable of doing in a few hours. Once again, I was in the back corner of the restaurant. Big tables with lots of people equaled big tips, so I was doing my best to keep up.

It was about 11 a.m. I’d been on shift for about three hours and finally got a good rhythm down for the morning rush. The Jeff Garcia table was finally open after a table of six up and left to sleep off their substantial breakfast. One particular 49er’s fan on the waitlist had his eye on it for the last 45 minutes. He insisted on sitting at that table for the first game of the season, “For good luck, mija” he told me under hushed tones. When I asked why were we whispering, he nodded his to the blonde guy with bags under his eyes, holding a little human behind him. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the 49ers were playing the Packers, and the alleged Green Bay Packers Fan was right behind him. For what it’s worth, the sleepy fan in question was only wearing Packer's fuzzy jammie bottoms. Hardly a reason to a be suspicious of malicious action. But nonetheless, the Niners Fan couldn’t let that GBP guy know about what he was doing, god forbid a Packers fan tried to poach his carefully selected table. I smiled, told him I’d do what I could and went to go get an OJ refill for my other table.

It was apparent from what he was wearing that he was a part of the die-hard fan category: his snapback hat, worn out black t-shirt, the lanyard hanging from his loose-fitting jean shorts and even his shoelaces had something to do with 49ers. He was in his mid-40s husky Latino man, but he looked like a kid going to his first football game when he got the table he wanted. His family of four followed him, and his wife held back the tiny kids, making sure to let her husband choose his spot first. Of course, he wanted the seat on the right side of the jersey. He put his hand straight over the “7” on the jersey and said, “Thanks for holding the table mija, I need my guys to win today. Hey, can you do me one more favor? Can you put the game on the TV?” I smiled and obliged his request. He gave me a thumbs up, and I went about getting another order. He touched his large hand onto the shadow box and went on enjoying his meal, watching the game with giddy excitement as his good luck ritual won the 49ers the first win of the season.

Garcia had long since left the 49ers by 2012. Actually, he retired from playing the sport by the time I started working at The Bear. He only stayed with the Niners from his debut in 1999 until 2004 where he jumped from the Cleveland Browns, Philadelphia Eagles, Tampa Buccaneers (my brother became a fan of Tampa because of this move) and back to the Eagles before retiring from playing in a different football league in 2011 with the Houston Texans. I couldn’t tell you if Garcia was considered a great player statistically but from what I can tell, he didn’t seem very loyal to the Niners during his 12 years in pro football and his relationship with professional football skips around after 2011. According to Jeff Garcia's Wikipedia page, there is a two-year gap from 2012-2014 in his career after the United Football League, a small, alternative football league that was only active from 2009 to 2011, was cut short. He came back to football as a coach for 2014 and 2015 but now seems to be completely done with football as a whole as of 2018.

But for some reason, that guy needed to sit next to it. I didn’t fully understand why they were doing this, yet other local fans followed in-suit during my two years as a server. Looking back, there was a trend in the fans I interacted with when I dealt with anyone asking for the Jeff Garcia table. These fans, mostly apart of the Latinx demographic, always had to sit to the right and put their hand over the “7” for good luck. I didn’t keep up with sports to figure out if the ritual worked but who knows if the tradition is still going. I think what I can get from it is people want to show their investment in their team in any way they can. From wearing all team merchandise to doing some ritual in a diner, what matters is that these fans need to be a part of that win, even in an indirect way. No wonder the handprints were in the same spot; they were touching a lucky number for their San Francisco 49ers fans. Gilroy may be a small town, but I’ve always known it to be a passionate one for sure. I never participated in the ritual, but I didn’t need to. Even when I was becoming slightly more invested in the game because my coworkers were avid fans, I never felt the need to participate in that ritual. It just didn’t make sense to me. But I found my own reason to root for them. All because I met the Garcia family during one shift close to my birthday.

Post-Thanksgiving, I was getting pumped for my 21st birthday coming up for obvious reasons. I was doing well at my now two jobs and getting close to the end of my semester at Gavilan. I was grabbing extra shifts when I could so I could enjoy my birthday weekend without worrying about money, so I worked another Sunday morning shift. Figures that I got that big table section with the Garcia table. Time was flying. Close to the end of my shift, one final table was sitting at the Garcia table, and the host gave me the big tell by tapping her temple: these people were important. I gave all my remaining tables their checks and came over to greet my new table. It was an older couple, but it didn’t take long for me to figure out who they were: it was Jeff Garcia’s parents.

From the pictures, I’d seen of Garcia, looked like a perfect mixture of the two of them: His mom’s bright eyes and fair, Irish complexion and his dad’s big dimpled smile and nose. I gave my standard welcoming spiel, and they actually asked me how I was doing. It was unusual for someone to ask about my day during my work shifts. It caught me off guard, but I instantly liked them from that point on. Mr. Garcia had this warm, infectious laugh to pair with a dad joke sense of humor that I enjoyed. Mrs. Garcia was so lovely and polite to me. They asked me what I was doing with my life, what I liked to do, and why I was working as a server in a diner. I’d never had customers interested in my life up to that point, let alone been treated with any kind of respect in my line of work. And this was all from a local celebrity family. Marlene, my manager, noticed our chemistry and asked me to focus on them for the rest of my shift.

I get their order, put into the computer for the kitchen staff to make and their order came out in ten minutes. Pretty standard procedure but our conversation after dropping off their food has stayed with me long after I left Gilroy for other endeavors. When I asked if they needed anything else once I dropped off their food, Mrs. Garcia paused, as if she had lost her nerve to ask me something then looked at me:

“Darling, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Why are there so many hand prints on my son’s jersey?” She pointed to shadow box with her fork. A lump formed in my throat.

“Uhm, honestly, it looks like that a lot because a lot of people touch the 7 during the season. I think it’s a good luck thing fans do for some reason.”

“Why do you think that is?” She wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at her son’s jersey. I felt put on the spot at that moment. The lump in my throat was only getting bigger from nervousness. I was caught off guard that she didn’t know about the ritual. After all, it revolved around her son. I had to pause; it’s not like I had an answer in my mind, waiting to come out for this one moment.

“Ummm. I think it makes people feel close to the team? Maybe they feel like they are helping their team in some small way. I don’t know, maybe they feel like one guy got to make it big from our small town, so it makes them feel proud too. I know you must feel proud of your son every day for doing something like getting to play for the 49ers. I guess when you think about it, a lot of other people did what your son did too. He went to Gav and SJSU; so have many of us, but he’s the only one that went the distance. From a waitress’ point of view, that sounds pretty great to me to move on from this place and do something like that. Obviously not football, just something bigger than this.” I looked at the jersey a second too long and looked back at Mrs. Garcia. Her bright eyes were wide looking back at me. I don’t think she expected a fucking monologue from a girl wearing suspenders with bear paws on them. She looked down at her food for a second then looked back at me.

“I’d never thought of it that way. We gave the jersey to this place because our son loved coming here. He’d come here and eat that big burger you guys have after practice. It was the only thing that would make him feel full. All those kids he played with during his high school years would come here and try to stuff themselves with food. It’s just strange to think of some jersey meaning so much to people. He’s just my son.” She touched the jersey shadow box but didn’t put her hand over the seven; she put it her hand on the description under the jersey that had her son’s name and a small blurb of his life.

In an attempt to cover up the unknown emotions I was feeling at that moment, I grabbed both their half-empty drinks and went to go get them refills. Even in the hustle of the Sunday rush, time felt slow thinking about that exchange. The noise of restaurant life felt non-existent,

I remember a heavy silence as I dropped off their fresh drinks and went to finish my side work. They finished their meals, and they hugged me before they left, something I rarely let customers do at the time. I grabbed my tips, got into my car and took the long way home, just thinking about the entire thing

Jeff Garcia wasn’t just some picture or the ghost that once filled an old, beat-up jersey in a shadow box anymore. I’ll tell you now that I never got a chance to meet him, but I never needed to understand why so many people connected with him and that jersey. He was a person with a mother that loved him and was proud of him. She probably went to every single game. Maybe a lot of people who came into the restaurant in Gilroy knew him and his family in some capacity while he was growing up. They probably got to see him go from a small town kid who just liked playing football for hometown glory to playing for their favorite NFL team. Thinking about that was what made him less of a glorified image and more of a relatable person in my mind. If I’m honest with myself, that’s why I’ve stayed a casual fan.

I think what makes people so emotional about sports because it really, at its core, a way of expressing hometown pride. You get to be proud of someone from your hometown playing the game or choosing the team closest to your hometown (in my case the SF 49ers, SF Giants, and SJ Sharks) to root for when watching a game. You want them to succeed because, in a strange way, it validates where you are from and by extension, who you are as a person from that place. In the end, any sports game is like watching a good movie or reading a good book; we just want to see our protagonist win and one day have a physical reminder of their achievements and glory. Some people get their physical reminder in books and movies, and some get a jersey put up in a diner with a blurb about their life. The 49ers took a chance on one of our own, and that’s enough for me. So when someone asks “Who's your team?” you can bet it’s the San Francisco 49ers.