By RICK RANTAMAKI http://rantamaki.blogspot.com
So you want your team to win a championship, eh? But what does that mean to you? Really. . . give it some thought. Unless you’re on the team, or somehow related to a team member, or part of team management and/or ownership, or ticket sales, or have a hand in merchandising, a championship only serves to provide you with a few days of bragging rights, maybe even a week or two, at best – especially given the ever-shrinking off-season(s).
(Of course, this argument does not address gambling, which is illegal in most states, even though it accounts for 98 percent of all gambling. . . but, since that’s illegal, I’m going to avoid that illegal-ness in this post. . . but, that doesn’t mean I won’t address it later.)
Perhaps a championship would justify that shirt, jersey, or hat, you’ve been proudly sporting around town, professing your undying love for your favorite team. (Which is merely a marketing tool for that franchise – and yes, that includes colleges. You actually pay THEM to advertise FOR them.)
But, what does that merchandise say about you? That your hometown team is the best (be it recently or in the past)? That you’re proud to live in, or once lived in, the team’s hometown? That you root for a winner, therefore, you are a winner? Or, does it signify the opposite, say, that you fear no ridicule for wearing the logo of a team that hasn’t even come anywhere near a championship. . . in ages, if ever. (This used to be the moniker of Red Sox fans, but now their logo has come to mean, “This bandwagon has a better view,” or “I root for a team that is willing to do most anything to outspend those damn Yankees.”)
And how about those player specific team jerseys? C’mon, think about it. Given the modern free-agency market, not many players start and finish their careers with the same team. So, that hundred-plus dollar jersey you’ve been wearing to most everything (including weddings. . . and funerals), may become obsolete by the time the trading deadline rolls around. . . then you’re left feeling like yesterday’s fool (i.e. me on the doorstep of another failed date).
But, let’s go beyond trying to justify fan wardrobe. Let’s examine the impact these championship games really have on the average fan (I'll use myself as an example. . . so you can put your hand down). I once thought they’d mean more [to me]; that somehow a championship would make my life better. Say, for instance, my co-workers (who would, undoubtedly, be impressed and inspired by my amazing ability to become a fan of a championship caliber team) would carry me around on their shoulders, while other co-workers lead the procession, shimmying their shoulders like they were in a Pat Benatar video, as we glide through the corridors in the churning fog singing “What a Feeling”. But then again, my expectations may exceed reality.
Look, I’ve been an avid (not rabid) sports fan for most of my life. I look forward to watching major sporting events. I used to even get swept up in the whole Olympics thing, but that was back when the Cold War pitted us against those evil commies. “USA! USA! USA! Do you believe in fabricated miracles?! YES!”
Today, I essentially root for teams based on two simple factors: my childhood favorites (these are my primary teams), AND I’ll root for the team of whatever town I’m residing in – an obligation as a vested tax-paying citizen.
As an Atlanta area resident, my perception of championships and what they mean to me has certainly been altered.
I’d experienced nothing quite like the Braves’ worst-to-first run in ’91. It was pure ecstasy during the closing weeks of that magically, improbable season. Atlanta was a town filled with tomahawks and war chants, messages of encouragement written in soap on car windows, and everywhere you turned folks were honking their horns in support as they rode by (or maybe they were just correcting my driving technique). Every pitch during those playoffs and the ensuing World Series had us torn somewhere between agony and euphoria. If they had actually won the World Series that year, I think the entire town would’ve exploded in delirium, and there would've been “. . . cats and dogs living together. . . mass hysteria.”
The downside of such a tremendous rush is just that, the downside. The Braves essentially owned their division for 14 consecutive seasons, and not even when they won the World Series in ’95 (ironically enough, by defeating my favorite childhood team, the Cleveland Indians) did it even come close to the magic of that worst-to-first season. Mainly because many of the players on the ’91 team were already gone and the fans had grown accustomed to the business-side of the game.
The thrill was gone. We were, in effect, simply rooting for the uniforms – the names were interchangeable and the sense of personal investment was lost.
Today’s Braves are a shadow of their former selves. The franchise is under corporate ownership and the personnel changes reflect it. The framework of success which led them through the 90’s has been dismantled and nowadays the team struggles to vie for even a Wildcard spot. On top of that, the whole ballpark experience has become a struggle to defend your life savings – with the surcharges imposed by both the stadium and the league on: tickets, parking, food, drinks, and merchandise. We feel less the fan and more the victim [of yesterday's success]. A championship today seems hardly worth the investment.
Yet another example of a championship realized occurred in 2002 when the Buckeyes (another of my favorite childhood teams) won the National Football Championship.
If you’d asked me in the mid-90’s if I thought my beloved Buckeyes would win a National Football Championship in my lifetime, I would’ve honestly said, “never.” Yes, they won it in ’68, but I was still in diapers. . . so I don’t consider that a championship in my ‘sports-aware’ lifetime. (Note: I'm not counting that controversial '70 title.)
My pessimism regarding the Buckeye's ability to compete with the premier teams was predicated on them being outmatched by schools with suspect recruiting practices and questionable student policies. My team couldn’t lure the talent, they couldn’t draw the upper echelon coaches, and they either couldn’t or wouldn’t adapt to a modern game plan. I was resigned to accepting the Big Ten Championship as their highest ‘achievable’ honor. That is, until they broke through in ‘02 (fortunately, by the time ‘02 rolled around, I was no longer in diapers. . . but virtually into Depends).
What I didn’t expect, in that mind-blowing, watershed moment in my sports world, was the empty feeling that accompanied the thrill of victory. Perhaps if I watched the game in the ol’ stomping grounds, it would’ve meant more – knocking back beers with the ol’ gang, an explosion of popcorn, chips, and hot wings showering down around us as we danced away the game’s final seconds. Instead, I watched the game some 800 miles away. . . alone. The only witness to my fist-pumping leaps about the room was Rusty, our beta fish – I can only imagine what it must’ve looked like to him from inside his bowl. (If I looked ridiculous, ol’ Rusty never said anything, and he carried it to his grave.)
Not long afterwards, though, that victory was tainted by the ensuing Maurice Clarett fiasco, and the questionable tactics I blasted other schools for committing (the recruiting violations and preferential academic treatment of athletes), came back to tarnish the Buckeyes’ championship. My sense of pride slid somberly into a cloud of shame. Oh, how I wanted to savor that victory. (Yeah, and although that crystal football remains in the Ohio State trophy case, it might as well be a lemon.)
So, experiencing a championship as a fan (for me at least) seems anti-climatic. Like when you’ve spent countless hours blasting your way through multiple levels of Doom only to realize the final battle is far less-than epic. If anything, you should have your fog machine ready and enjoy the fleeting moment with some fellow fans, so at least your high-fives and chest bumps aren’t wasted on Rusty.
Now if you'll excuse me, I think my co-workers need a little help with their "Love is a Battlefield" dance floor sequence.
Copywrite 2009 Rick Rantamaki
So you want your team to win a championship, eh? But what does that mean to you? Really. . . give it some thought. Unless you’re on the team, or somehow related to a team member, or part of team management and/or ownership, or ticket sales, or have a hand in merchandising, a championship only serves to provide you with a few days of bragging rights, maybe even a week or two, at best – especially given the ever-shrinking off-season(s).
(Of course, this argument does not address gambling, which is illegal in most states, even though it accounts for 98 percent of all gambling. . . but, since that’s illegal, I’m going to avoid that illegal-ness in this post. . . but, that doesn’t mean I won’t address it later.)
Perhaps a championship would justify that shirt, jersey, or hat, you’ve been proudly sporting around town, professing your undying love for your favorite team. (Which is merely a marketing tool for that franchise – and yes, that includes colleges. You actually pay THEM to advertise FOR them.)
But, what does that merchandise say about you? That your hometown team is the best (be it recently or in the past)? That you’re proud to live in, or once lived in, the team’s hometown? That you root for a winner, therefore, you are a winner? Or, does it signify the opposite, say, that you fear no ridicule for wearing the logo of a team that hasn’t even come anywhere near a championship. . . in ages, if ever. (This used to be the moniker of Red Sox fans, but now their logo has come to mean, “This bandwagon has a better view,” or “I root for a team that is willing to do most anything to outspend those damn Yankees.”)
And how about those player specific team jerseys? C’mon, think about it. Given the modern free-agency market, not many players start and finish their careers with the same team. So, that hundred-plus dollar jersey you’ve been wearing to most everything (including weddings. . . and funerals), may become obsolete by the time the trading deadline rolls around. . . then you’re left feeling like yesterday’s fool (i.e. me on the doorstep of another failed date).
But, let’s go beyond trying to justify fan wardrobe. Let’s examine the impact these championship games really have on the average fan (I'll use myself as an example. . . so you can put your hand down). I once thought they’d mean more [to me]; that somehow a championship would make my life better. Say, for instance, my co-workers (who would, undoubtedly, be impressed and inspired by my amazing ability to become a fan of a championship caliber team) would carry me around on their shoulders, while other co-workers lead the procession, shimmying their shoulders like they were in a Pat Benatar video, as we glide through the corridors in the churning fog singing “What a Feeling”. But then again, my expectations may exceed reality.
Look, I’ve been an avid (not rabid) sports fan for most of my life. I look forward to watching major sporting events. I used to even get swept up in the whole Olympics thing, but that was back when the Cold War pitted us against those evil commies. “USA! USA! USA! Do you believe in fabricated miracles?! YES!”
Today, I essentially root for teams based on two simple factors: my childhood favorites (these are my primary teams), AND I’ll root for the team of whatever town I’m residing in – an obligation as a vested tax-paying citizen.
As an Atlanta area resident, my perception of championships and what they mean to me has certainly been altered.
I’d experienced nothing quite like the Braves’ worst-to-first run in ’91. It was pure ecstasy during the closing weeks of that magically, improbable season. Atlanta was a town filled with tomahawks and war chants, messages of encouragement written in soap on car windows, and everywhere you turned folks were honking their horns in support as they rode by (or maybe they were just correcting my driving technique). Every pitch during those playoffs and the ensuing World Series had us torn somewhere between agony and euphoria. If they had actually won the World Series that year, I think the entire town would’ve exploded in delirium, and there would've been “. . . cats and dogs living together. . . mass hysteria.”
The downside of such a tremendous rush is just that, the downside. The Braves essentially owned their division for 14 consecutive seasons, and not even when they won the World Series in ’95 (ironically enough, by defeating my favorite childhood team, the Cleveland Indians) did it even come close to the magic of that worst-to-first season. Mainly because many of the players on the ’91 team were already gone and the fans had grown accustomed to the business-side of the game.
The thrill was gone. We were, in effect, simply rooting for the uniforms – the names were interchangeable and the sense of personal investment was lost.
Today’s Braves are a shadow of their former selves. The franchise is under corporate ownership and the personnel changes reflect it. The framework of success which led them through the 90’s has been dismantled and nowadays the team struggles to vie for even a Wildcard spot. On top of that, the whole ballpark experience has become a struggle to defend your life savings – with the surcharges imposed by both the stadium and the league on: tickets, parking, food, drinks, and merchandise. We feel less the fan and more the victim [of yesterday's success]. A championship today seems hardly worth the investment.
Yet another example of a championship realized occurred in 2002 when the Buckeyes (another of my favorite childhood teams) won the National Football Championship.
If you’d asked me in the mid-90’s if I thought my beloved Buckeyes would win a National Football Championship in my lifetime, I would’ve honestly said, “never.” Yes, they won it in ’68, but I was still in diapers. . . so I don’t consider that a championship in my ‘sports-aware’ lifetime. (Note: I'm not counting that controversial '70 title.)
My pessimism regarding the Buckeye's ability to compete with the premier teams was predicated on them being outmatched by schools with suspect recruiting practices and questionable student policies. My team couldn’t lure the talent, they couldn’t draw the upper echelon coaches, and they either couldn’t or wouldn’t adapt to a modern game plan. I was resigned to accepting the Big Ten Championship as their highest ‘achievable’ honor. That is, until they broke through in ‘02 (fortunately, by the time ‘02 rolled around, I was no longer in diapers. . . but virtually into Depends).
What I didn’t expect, in that mind-blowing, watershed moment in my sports world, was the empty feeling that accompanied the thrill of victory. Perhaps if I watched the game in the ol’ stomping grounds, it would’ve meant more – knocking back beers with the ol’ gang, an explosion of popcorn, chips, and hot wings showering down around us as we danced away the game’s final seconds. Instead, I watched the game some 800 miles away. . . alone. The only witness to my fist-pumping leaps about the room was Rusty, our beta fish – I can only imagine what it must’ve looked like to him from inside his bowl. (If I looked ridiculous, ol’ Rusty never said anything, and he carried it to his grave.)
Not long afterwards, though, that victory was tainted by the ensuing Maurice Clarett fiasco, and the questionable tactics I blasted other schools for committing (the recruiting violations and preferential academic treatment of athletes), came back to tarnish the Buckeyes’ championship. My sense of pride slid somberly into a cloud of shame. Oh, how I wanted to savor that victory. (Yeah, and although that crystal football remains in the Ohio State trophy case, it might as well be a lemon.)
So, experiencing a championship as a fan (for me at least) seems anti-climatic. Like when you’ve spent countless hours blasting your way through multiple levels of Doom only to realize the final battle is far less-than epic. If anything, you should have your fog machine ready and enjoy the fleeting moment with some fellow fans, so at least your high-fives and chest bumps aren’t wasted on Rusty.
Now if you'll excuse me, I think my co-workers need a little help with their "Love is a Battlefield" dance floor sequence.
Copywrite 2009 Rick Rantamaki
No comments:
Post a Comment