The Real Fans?

It's easier being a fan on days like this.

My grandfather was stationed in England, just outside London, during the Vietnam War. Unbeknownst to him this would lead, some 40 plus years later, to me being a diehard and fanatic Manchester United supporter. See, my grandfather was able to witness the historic mid-60’s triumvirate of George Best, Bobby Charlton, and Denis Law and was enthralled by the style with which they played the game. As a kid I found a packet of holographic player cards that my grandfather had collected. The long hair and ridiculous short shorts, the logo, the cool nickname, everything looked so interestingly foreign to my 10 year old self.

Little did I know that 10 years later I would start playing soccer thanks to a college girlfriend and a co-ed indoor league in Warwick that would be my Sunday (and sometimes Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday) refuge for over a decade. Once I started playing the game it was inevitable that I would be enthralled by the sport and I had to seek it out at the highest level (sorry MLS but not quite). Thanks to my grandfather’s stories and collectibles there was only one team that I could support.

No one roots for this team but we don't care.

(Now this is a far-cry from the love affair that I have developed with the team in the present day , which includes following every soccer writer I can find on Twitter, keeping the transfer blog bookmarked, and watching any game that might be on TV including the Spanish-language telecasts of the Copa America or under-20 World Cup. Incidentally, though I don’t understand a word that they’re saying I still think the announcers were much better than those on Fox Soccer. I even had my girlfriend read Fever Pitch to get a better understanding of my mentality, then told her to read Juliet Naked as well just to show that I wasn’t just a troglodyte sports fan. Not sure it worked.)

Following Manchester United, and European soccer in general, has taken its place alongside the Red Sox and Celtics and I consider my knowledge of the subjects to be well-above the common fan. (This is when we get to the actual point of the blog, by the way.)

Why do I always consider myself a “better” fan than everyone else? Why do the “pink hats”, the people singing “Sweet Caroline” (singing it karaoke-style while wasted in Vegas doesn't count), or people who don’t know where we picked up Mike Aviles bother me? Why should I care? Why does it have to be a competition? Shouldn't being a fan be about the communion of fun and common interest, not about the depth of feeling that any interest might arouse?

The other night at Good Times (which is ironically never a good time) I kept shaking my head, laughing, and/or getting actually upset at the ill-informed comments of the drunks at the bar. I don’t know why the random Tigers fan who seemed to know nothing about the Tigers other than that they don’t serve Bud at Tigers Stadium (he was old but I assumed he was talking about Comerica Park not flashing back to the ’84 World Series) upset me. I can’t get upset because he works all day and doesn’t spend every waking hour studying the ticker on ESPN.com or watching Baseball Tonight.

There isn’t a single person in Manchester (England not New Hampshire) who would think that I was anything but a carpet-bagging Yankee pink hat for Man U just because I live in the US. I wasn’t brought up with stories of Busby’s Babes and I didn’t get to see the ’99 Champions League win as it was happening so I don’t count as a “real” Manc. That’s basic English elitism about US soccer fans but aren’t I (and a lot of Red Sox writers too, I’m looking at you Pete Abraham and Bob Ryan) being just as elitist about people who aren’t fanatics about the teams we hold dear?

Here's to you John  Lackey!

While I’m slamming my fist down, having my night ruined, and getting pissed every time that John Lackey pitches most fans are going to be grabbing a beer and talking with the people near them about how great it is to be out watching the game. It’s time to grow up and stop giving a shit about how little most people know about the Red Sox or baseball history. It’s time to embrace the “pink hats” as all part of the game, just as it’s time to stop holding a grudge because people are ignorant. Fine, you might not be the same type of fan as me (you probably have a lot more fun being a fan) but if you have any questions feel free to ask.

In the end, I’m the one with the answers and the issues.

Heartbreak

I wish people would stop saying, “Everything happens for a reason. It’s for the best.” It’s categorically not for the best. Eventually time will ease the pain, the failure, but nothing will change the fact that I didn’t want this. I couldn’t imagine this happening. I’m embarrassed, ashamed, devastated…

You know when you’re driving to school or to work or to any place that you’ve been a million times and suddenly out of nowhere you realize that you’ve arrived but can’t remember the drive at all? We’ve all done it. The body goes into autopilot, muscle memory pushing you forward down a very familiar path. The same happened on my trip back to the East Coast.

It was five days of staring straight ahead, the road endlessly stretched out in between markers that seemed more real on a map than when driving through them. Gallup, Amarillo, Oklahoma City, Indianapolis then….home. It was five days of heartbreak, painful acceptance of blame, and regret.

Some people say they have no regrets. I am not one of those people. I have plenty of them but never has something left me this empty because I regret not MY unhappiness but that of the person who I loved. When you do something supremely stupid you feel bad because it hurts your family but their love is eternal and not only will they forgive you but they will try to support you. A relationship (she would want me to call it a domestic partnership) even one filled with love, is far more fragile than that.

My friends like to joke about how I think everything sucks, that I am always miserable, and I can’t have a good time. I wish there was no truth to the gag. Until I know how to make myself happy how can someone possibly be happy with me? I don’t have any answers and right now under a cloud of depression I’m having a hard time focusing on the future, just the sadness.

All of this depressing, desperate whining is the explanation for why this Adele song, which I heard probably 3092 times on the way home, is so powerful to me and came out at exactly the wrong time. Listening to any emotional song during a break-up is a bad idea, but this is striking because rather than an image of clothes strewn about on the ground outside, broken picture frames, and lots of heavy drinking, this song inspires just a deep longing for a return to the status quo. It is rationale anger and true sadness, not of HOW it ended but rather that it ended at all. Anyway, make fun of me if you like but each time this came on the radio the waterworks were soon to follow…