Long Time Fan

It was inevitable that I’d be a fan of the hometown team. How could I not be? My parents were fans and so, of course, were my older siblings, uncles, aunts and cousins. One of the first pieces of clothing I ever wore, as attested to by old photos, was a onesie with the team logo. From the start it was in the cards I’d be a fan—and as a kid my collection of cards contained every past and present team member. That’s the way it was with all the kids I grew up with. There was no chance that any of us would root for a different team. It would have been unthinkable, an act of treason worthy of excommunication. Even my classmate, Henry, a couch potato who shunned all sports and refused to take part in or be a spectator of athletic competitions of any kind, wore a cap with the team logo. It was a badge of belonging that had to be publicly displayed, especially towards the end of the season with playoffs on the horizon and emotions running high.

I didn’t get a chance to go to the stadium and watch a live game more than a few times a year, but when I did I yelled so long and loud that I’d be hoarse for days. It was an emotional, almost spiritual experience being part of that surging, electric crowd fused into one giant organism cheering on the team. Most of the time I watched the games on TV and when that wasn’t possible listened on radio. I rarely missed a game. How could they win without me following each play? The team members were my heroes and every rival team my sworn enemies. It’s hard to describe how big a part of my life those games were. It would have been dead and meaningless without them. When the team won I rejoiced as if it was the most wonderful thing in the world, and when they lost, it was a tragedy and my mind was wracked with if-onlys that might have changed the outcome. Had I prayed as fervently in church as I did while immersed in a game, I would surely have ended up in the clergy.

As passionate a fan as I was then, these days I’m more likely to opt for a re-run of a sitcom than watch a game, even if my team was playing. Well, it’s not my team anymore. I’ve lived in other places and had other teams to cheer on, although I admit I felt like a traitor the first time I rooted against my old team. Well, it wasn’t really my team anymore. The old players were long gone and even before they retired from the sport, some were playing on rival teams that used to be the enemy. The team itself had moved to another city and another franchise came in and took its place, so it’s hard to call today’s team my team. Then there were the scandals. Players I looked up to when I was young turned out to be jerks or worse. When stories first started coming out, I was in denial and refused to believe them, but as the evidence mounted, I had to acknowledge that some of my erstwhile heroes were anything but heroic. I’d thought they were the good guys, but I was just being duped.

My interest in sports hasn’t completely evaporated. Every now and then I can’t avoid sitting down and watching a game and when I do, I get sucked in almost like the old days. It’s hard not to. Athletes are more athletic than ever and I’m blown away by their feats on the field or court. I sit biting my nails like I used to when I watch a close game, even if I know nothing about the players or the teams. Here’s a funny thing—I can’t help picking a favorite, the side I want to win. I don’t know why. I have no stake in the outcome, the way I used to. But still, I find myself rooting for one side. It doesn’t matter whether it’s football, basketball, baseball or hockey, a boxing or tennis match. I always pick a side, and if the other side wins, I feel a pang of disappointment. My involvement lasts only as long as the game, though, and when it’s over, it’s erased from my mind, although outstanding plays by both sides may linger in my mind. One thing I avoid watching is something I used to enjoy—the big celebration after the championship game. The winners exalt while the other side sulks in utter dejection. It’s crazy. They should be sharing the glory after a great game and a great season.

What got me thinking about all this was a visit from an old friend. Ruben is the only friend from my pre-college days I’m still in touch with. Like me he moved away from our hometown, but unlike me, he visits once in a while, probably because his job entails lots of travel. Come to think of it, that may be the only reason we’re still in touch. Once or twice a year he stops by when he’s in the area. Inevitably, in the course of his visit, we get to reminiscing about the old days, usually over a couple of beers, and he supplies updates about what our old pals have been up to. From what he says, not much. With the exception of the two of us, the rest of them remained in the old neighborhood or in the vicinity.

Ruben’s not the judgmental kind, and he talks about the old gang in a matter-of-fact way. For all I know, he sees nothing amiss in the lives they live, but I always find his stories depressing. It’s almost as if time has stood still there and nothing has changed since we were kids. Sure, the guys have jobs, are married with kids, but otherwise it sounds like they haven’t changed a bit. I thank my lucky stars I got out when I did and got to see a little of the world and widen my horizons, although I wouldn’t be surprised if they pity me when Ruben tells them what I’ve been up to. I’m sure that’s the case because he reports that they say things like, “You mean poor Theo isn’t married yet?” when he tells them about me. All I know is that I wouldn’t trade places with them for anything.

What gets to me most about the old gang is that the team still seems to have a central role in their lives. They’re as passionate as ever about the damn games, have season tickets, and attend every home game along with some away ones. Apparently they’ve taken to painting their faces and wearing outlandish costumes, and they don’t just cheer when their team scores but when a player on the rival team gets injured. If their team gets away with an infraction or benefits from a bad call, they treat it as a cause for celebration. Winning is everything and it doesn’t matter how it’s accomplished. I don’t understand how they can feel good about an undeserved win. It pains me to hear about my old friends behaving that way.

Bert, Ruben said, is tight with a player who’s as known as much for his atrocious behavior off the field as his prowess on it. Although there are several rape and assault allegations against him, Bert keeps signed posters of him hanging up all around his car dealership and boasts of their friendship. Another one, Carey, missed the birth of his first child because he decided to go out of town to attend a ballgame. Pretty much all of them were vocal boosters for a new stadium that taxpayers would bear the brunt of while railing against a bond issue that would have helped the community’s struggling schools and libraries. What’s wrong with those guys? It’s like they never grew up and still worship the team even at the cost of their own decency. I know what it’s like to be an ardent fan. I’ve been there. But they’ve turned their loyalty to the team into a cult. I just don’t get it and all I can do is shake my head as Ruben’s tales about our old friends unwind.