12/11/01
FANATICAL? YOU WISH
I WAS THAT SEDATE.

Welcome to MY house.

If you are one of mine, then you are greeted with open arms. If you are not, you are about to have the worst experience of your life. I will make you cry. I will make you hurt. I will make you wish you were back in whatever pathetic city it is that you crawled out from under. And I won’t limit my hate to you alone. Your mom will feel it. Your unborn children will feel it. THEIR mongrel children will feel it. And if you ever make the mistake of coming back to MY house again … I’ll remember you and it will start all over again.

I am a fan.

In fact, I am the WORST kind of fan. I am the loud, obnoxious, and downright frightening kind of fan. Ask anyone who has been to a game with me … or better yet, ask anyone who will NOT come to a game with me.

Now, just to be clear, I am not the type of fan who paints myself up in the team’s colors and runs through the stadium sliding down the steps and stuff like that. I am the guy who believes that the team can hear everything I am screaming, even if I am screaming from my upper deck seats, way, WAY, in the back. It doesn’t matter, you see, because the team is tuned in to my words. Every player is waiting for that last bit of inspirational instruction from my lips to push them over the edge and into the waiting arms of victory. Oh they can hear me. And for the poor souls from other cities who happen to be seated in my section, rooting on the enemy, well THEY can hear me too. And it makes them mad. BOY does it make them mad. The daggers that shoot from the eyes of these hapless fools is worth it every time. I can FEEL their anger. I BATHE in their hatred. And when I look up at the scoreboard and remind them that MY team has won, they exit as quickly as possible … throwing me one last hate-filled stare as they go. I smile and wave, knowing that they will not soon forget this night or the intimidating presence that is me.

Sure, I’ve been close to getting my head kicked in. But I’m not a little guy, and most people would think twice before getting into a scrum with me. But for the most part, I think most people appreciate my fanaticism. I do not spoil for a fight … unless the enemy fan is looking to throw it down, of course. I whoop and holler and try to come up with snazzy taunts, because the enemy team can hear me too, you know.

Case in point: I am a die-hard New Jersey Nets fan. I have been since I was 13 years old. I know exactly where I was when Drazen Petrovic was killed in that fatal automobile accident. I can remember thinking that Yinka Dare was gonna be a worthwhile player one day. I witnessed the Derrick Coleman experience. I’ve been through Albeck, Fitch, Wohl, Reed, Daly, Beard, Cal, Casey and now the Great Scott. I have seen the worst. And here, in what is shaping up to be a FINE Nets season, I can recall some of the best moments in MY house.

NJ NETS v TORONTO RAPTORS ’00: Vince “Half-Man, Half-Amazing” Carter was in the building and seated in the section next to mine was, and I kid you not, an entire section of what appeared to be Mexican-Canadians. They filled one whole area and were waving flags and singing everytime Vince got his hands on the ball. I could tell they were itching for a Vince dunk. It was going to be a long night for them. During the game, when the Raptors had the lead, the group would chant that “OLÉ” song that you hear at soccer games. I let them have it from the beginning. The Nets went on to win that game and during the final seconds, I stood up in my seat and sang that soccer song with the words, “Go HOME” replacing “OLÉ”. Oh I got some dirty looks. But the gracious losers, who referred to me as “that Nets fan guy” high fived me on the way out. You gotta stick with the winners baby. What else do you expect losers to do?

NJ NETS v CHICAGO BULLS ’97: With Michael Jordan in his prime, the Nets pulled out an improbable 99-98 victory. Phil Jackson was LIVID on the sidelines, at one point throwing his clipboard to the floor in disgust. I could swear he turned around and pointed at me, saying “That guy single-handedly took us out of this game.” There were plenty of Chicago fans in my section that night, and I was drunk with power. I screamed myself hoarse as I took out Jordan’s jump shot with my witty barbs, and crushed Scottie Pippen’s spirit with my “Get your flat honker off this court Pippen!” They couldn’t handle the pressure and wilted. I gleefully invited my Chicago section sharers to “Get your bandwagon-jumpin’ asses out of my house!” I pointed due west and informed them that the last flight to Chicago was in three hours so they had better hurry it along. An older woman, roughly 112 by my guess, sporting her Bulls cap, looked my way and scowled as she huffed and puffed her way past me and into her loser-mobile. She won’t soon forget me.

NJ NETS v NY KNICKS AT ANY TIME IN ANY YEAR: These games are where I shine. MY house gets over run with these vermin from the city and it pushes me to be better, more bitter, angrier, and more intense than on any other night of the year. These Knick fans come into MY house and expect to be treated like guests? I don’t think so. By the end of the game, especially in games where the Nets win, I have many  a Knick fan eager to leave New Jersey and never return. I have even made Knick fans cry. Ah the glory of it all. “BACK ACROSS THE RIVER!” I yell, as the Nets pull ahead to stay. “You’re playign in JERSEY now, baby!” as the winning shot falls over the hapless Knicks. “YOUR GOD HAS ABANDONED YOU HERE!” I scream to any Knick player who looks skyward. Oh I make them all pay.

Because you see, I am a fan.

 

The Armchair QB

    Look for the next installment of "For the Sport of It" in the coming weeks. Until then, feel free to drop the Armchair QB a line.