Subtitled "Agree with me or kiss Jeremy Roenick's ass."
Author's preface: It seems the choice to be made here is that between brevity, as seen at the
Ultimate Dodger Fan Site (which assumes that you are simply looking for a three- or four-chuckle intermission between whatever you were and will be doing, and which requires me to put together a more tightly laced product); and verbosity, that blessed freedom to ramble that must needs be enjoyed by the consumer at leisure, where he has only common sense (rather than monetarily compensated duties) to keep him from reading through to completion, the lack of which I depend on. The existence of this paragraph perhaps belies the result of my decision.
I am a fan of the Texas Rangers. A fanatic being "a person marked or motivated by an extreme, unreasoning enthusiasm, as for a cause," most who wear hats with particular logos ("particular logos," ha!) are instead I would gather "people denoted or moved by an average, necessarily accepted association, as with a bandwagon." I work with an individual who cheers for the Angels losedamnit, yet today he explained that he doesn't want them to sweep the Rangers in this series because he would feel bad for me. Sir, in addition to spurning your pity, I scorn your possession of irreconcilable sympathies. Do his words make a 13-3 loss in which we allowed 20 hits in our own back yard less agonizing? And do they alter my disposition towards him generally? No and hell no, respectively. In fact, this sort of desire by those dutifully engaging their blessed reason in an effort to maintain friendships, "sobriety," and yet some semblance of fan-dom (which are mutually exclusive how again?), as a juggler might keep flaming torches all aloft and in harmonious orbit, only makes me unable to engage them with relation to our respective desires. "I get uncomfortable when John is really pissed off over his team's performance," "It's only sports, not something worth getting upset over," and "Yea! The Angles losedamnit won," contain less reason than the true fanatic's big toe.
If we allow ourselves to pull away for a moment and view sports from as objective a position as can justifiably be considered possible, we see
men at work. They've been hired, have a job description, punch in, punch out (annoying camera men), and for the most part engage in their career without much consideration for the consumer of their product. Come to think of it, exactly whose product it is that the fan consumes could be debated and parsed extensively. I will not do so here. The point and associated irony I'm trying to bring to light was addressed well in a recent television commercial in which professional athletes sat watching white-collar workers go about their jobs making photocopies and giving powerpoint presentations in board conference rooms. It's a job, but it's different.
Recently, Jeremy Roenick explained what he thought of those individuals who feel hockey players simply play a game and are over payed: "Everybody out there who calls us spoiled because we play a game, they can kiss my ass. They can all kiss my ass." He has since been lambasted for his little rant (that included more inflamatory remarks). The lambasters can kiss my ass. But I digress.
To sum up all the questions that could be asked--why sports? (Minors please skip this paragraph.) Regarding basketball, this question leaves one in a quagmire, the only escape from which involves testosterone and the binding and gagging of the one who asked the question. So let's take baseball, which answers the question with its own simple monicker. The National Passtime. (Off hand, how many songs can you think of about baseball? And about other sports?.......) To follow sports is to pass time in a relatively unproductive way, taking a vested interest in the lives and doings of those who do not know or care that you exist (unless you are Steve Bartman). We allow ourselves to form emotional attachments to these teams, allowing our hopes and dreams to be tossed about with a piece of leather-covered twine. Yet we do this not simply hoping to feel good when all is said and done. Frankly, If my only aim were to feel good, I have the tools to accomplish such ends well within reach. But following your favorite team is more than a mere masturbatory excursion. The true fanatic won't get off that easily. Call it something more akin to tantric sex (without the jacked up eastern philosophy). It is the journey there in which we revel, longing for the day when our team will be crowned world champions, but not needing that to happen. More than winning, it is the insatiable desire itself for that victory that fans actually want. Millions of Red Sox fans discovered this harsh reality last year, after their team blew a wad that was eighty-six years in the making. That wave should carry most of them about as far as their navel before they realize that something is gone, something none of them will ever have again.
A PG-13 analogy might run something like this. Just as we attach our emotions to a sports team, we do the same thing when we go to a movie, feeling the weight of Frodo's burden on our own breast. Yet in the theatre, we must constantly refuse to recall the last words we saw before the title appeared: "directed by." If we have not already read the book and know that Sauron is doomed, we at least know that there is a sentient being behind the screen slowly drawing the scenes to an intentioned close. Not so baseball.
Baseball requires no willing suspension of disbelief. That 13-3 loss could very well have been a 14-13 victory. In Hollywood, the fat lady has sung her lines into a microphone long before the premier or the red carpet make their apperance. It is for this reason that the 1919 White (Black) Sox and Pete Rose are damned. Individuals in positions of influence doing away with or calling into question the real presence of chance within the game. Excommunication from the sacrament of sport can be their only reward.
So do not console me when my team is in the middle of an eight-game slide. I need this. The highs would not be so lofty were the valleys but sparse lowlands. For Dodger fans, hope will spring eternal with the reporting of pitchers and catchers each February. And for we few Ranger fans, we happy few, when October shines, it will shine out the clearer for having been through Anaheim and back. The Angels losedamnit will sit in their over priced homes in Orange County of Los Angeles. And I will be somewhere wearing a red T on a blue background. Having suffered with my team, I shall finally glory with them.
since 1987 and is somehow not a DH. The other, Ryan, looks funny. Not to mention the problems associated with having your closer named "B. J." I mean really, think about that.
