Watching the National Championship at a Georgia bar is what heartbreak looks like

MANHATTAN — Joel Williams has waited 24 years, his whole life, for tonight. It’s 7:30, half an hour before Georgia plays Alabama in the National College Football Championship. He stands in front of one of the millions of TVs on the second floor of American Whiskey, the midtown bar that serves as the home away from home for University of Georgia fans. Decked out in UGA gear, he reaches up to give a wooden ceiling beam violent and unreciprocated high fives.

“This is either gonna be the best or worst day of my life,” Williams says. “This is the only thing I care about. If they lose, I will squirrel dive off this balcony.”

Williams is from Tennessee and went to the University of Tennessee. But his father and grandfather went to Georgia, and the young man has never wavered in his fandom. He’s here with his roommate, a guy he keeps calling Moose, who played football at Holy Cross in Worcester, Mass.

Moose is all in on the Dawgs now — he’s wearing a Georgia jersey that matches Williams’, and a Georgia visor, too. Living with or loving a Georgia diehard seems to result in fandom by osmosis: Most of the faithful in here have brought along roommates, significant others, or business partners who they have enveloped in their passion like hungry amoebas.

“We’ve been through decades of bullshit,” says Amanda Mull, a writer in New York City who grew up in Atlanta and went to UGA. She’s on the alumni board and watches every game here.

“It’s been 40 years,” she continues. “It’s so long that we’re just happy to have you along for the ride.”

Among the consumed (most of whom are from the Northeast) is Kevin Hooshangi, who owns American Whiskey. He’s currently manning the DJ booth behind one of the bars on the first floor, which is starting to feel like a sardine can, but it doesn’t yet smell as bad and it’s much more exciting. Hoosanghi grew up playing football on Long Island. He went to NYU — which is not exactly known for its athletic prowess — so when one of his buddies from home ended up at Georgia, he and his high school friends hopped on the bandwagon.

“I fell in love with the history,” Hooshangi says, adjusting his red blazer with a bulldog printed on the inner lining. “I related to it on a football level; all the running backs and the pro-style offense. I love the SEC, some of the traditions. I just thought they were an easy group to cheer for.”

Hooshangi owned a bar called the Village Pourhouse, and, in 2006, started dreaming of opening an establishment devoted to Georgia with the Pourhouse’s Georgia-born-and-bred bar manager Robbie York. It just so happened that the UGA alumni board was looking for a new place to host game days in 2012, when Hooshangi and York were planning to open American Whiskey. They made a deal and have been so successful that they’re thinking of opening bars in Georgia, too — one in Athens and one in Atlanta. York is at the game in Atlanta tonight.

Jonas Vargas walks by. He’s wearing a small Georgia jersey and throwing himself at people’s legs. The 7-month-old bulldog is the shortest, youngest, and most expensive fan in here — he hails from the breeder that supplies Yale with its mascots. Jonas cost Joey Vargas, his owner and the beverage director for American Whiskey, an arm and a leg. He’s been worth it.

Hooshangi puts on Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.” The place erupts in indeterminable screaming as the TVs show Jake Fromm, Georgia’s 19-year-old freshman quarterback, striding through the tunnel. (“Our sweet baby boy!” someone yells.)

Everyone in here knows that their 13-1 Georgia Bulldogs can beat Nick Saban’s football Death Star, the team that has won four championships in the last eight years. It’s hard to tell whether there are more boos and “fuck you!”s for Saban or President Donald Trump, the latter of whom is on the field for the national anthem and doing a terrible job of appearing to know the words.

At kickoff, this bar sounds as loud as an aircraft carrier in full swing. It’s hot and humid and smells like college: spilled beer, sweat, and hope. The mix of screams, the sound of the broadcast and the thumping bass is intoxicating (as is the beer and whiskey, which people are doing a really good job of drinking). The hugs and high fives are endless — physical manifestations of what it looks like to care so much about something that doesn’t matter at all and is also the most important thing in the world.

Georgia is playing a hell of a game. The Bulldogs are up, 20-10, going into the fourth quarter. Hooshangi is in his element behind the bar, sweating profusely through his jacket as he juggles three phones and an iPad to work the sound system. He’s surrounded by his regulars, who are all confident that UGA’s got this, despite Georgia’s history of blowing big leads in football games. They have faith.

I check on Williams, who’s cheering, staring at the TV, and seems to have forgotten how to blink. I ask how he’s doing, and he says he’s good, he believes. But then Fromm gets sacked and he turns to me.

“Get out of here,” Williams says. “You can’t stand here. You’re bad luck.”

I oblige, and move across the room. Alabama ties the game up. Silence settles over the bar save for the announcer’s voices booming through the speakers. Then Georgia gets what appears to be a huge interception and everyone goes nuts again.

But it’s overturned. A “fuck that shit” chant gets going. People are so drunk that they’re swaying back and forth even when they try to stand still. Makeup is running down cheeks; sweat is pouring through shirts. Fans are screaming at the TV through Bama’s final drive, but then the Tide get within field goal range, and the place gets quiet again.

Alabama’s kicker misses. Georgia’s still in it. Hope springs. Heads hit the ceiling. Bodies fly. Geysers of beer shoot into the air. Everyone is jumping up and down, crushing each other, as the beer drips from the ceiling and Georgia marches down the field in overtime. The glasses-wearing kicker, Rodrigo Blankenship, once again makes a kick, and he is the King of Georgia now. All UGA has to do is stop Alabama, and the Dawgs will have won the national title for the first time since 1980.

But they don’t. They don’t stop them. Alabama’s freshman backup quarterback Tua Tagovailoa makes a perfect throw to DeVonta Smith, who scores a touchdown, and just like that, the game is over.

Georgia loses.

The bar goes silent again. No one is talking, but everyone is looking at each other, shaking their heads. Some embrace. A man faces the wall and leans against it. One woman puts her head in her hands and starts crying. I look around and realize that many others are, too, some softly, some with huge, heaving sobs that shake their shoulders.

Williams has stopped pounding the ceiling beam. As soon as the game ends, he leaves Moose and his other friends and walks straight to the bar to close out. He stands there, hands over his mouth, as he waits for the bill. He signs it, then makes eye contact as he walks by me. I start to open my mouth, but he just shakes his head and walks down the stairs and out of the bar. His eyes look red.

The place empties out fast. It’s 12:30 in the morning, and the few fans who stick around look dazed, as though they’re not sure how to get themselves out of here — both this bar and the pit of despair they’ve fallen into. One woman starts trash talking Alabama. Her friends just shush her.

“I’m OK with it,” Mull says. “Honestly. We had that incredible win at the Rose Bowl. We weren’t going to get two games like that in a row.”

Hooshangi is still behind the bar, alone now. He seems tired but not angry. He puts on “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” to drown out the sounds of Alabama’s celebration, but cuts the song off right before Charlie Daniels can sing, “If you lose, the Devil gets your soul.”

He looks at the TV, where confetti is getting caught up in Saban’s hair. The coach hoists the trophy with his fifth championship team in nine years.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wanted to give you the Cinderella ending.”