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.

Willing the Team to Victory

When I’m watching a Man U game on TV I like to be alone in my room where I can yell and gesticulate and generally be as obnoxious as possible without worrying about aggravating anyone (or embarrassing myself). Otherwise I want to be with other Man U fans who feel the same way I do when everything is going to hell.

So…suffice it to say that watching a game on mute while lying next to a sleeping girlfriend in a Boston hotel room isn’t the ideal atmosphere. Especially when Sir Alex insists on sending out a team that would struggle in a Carling Cup game (I’m looking at you Gibson) let alone an important early April game against a team that has had our number the past few seasons and while all of our title challengers are nipping at our heels.

(Please excuse the use of “our” or “we” as though wearing my replica Rooney jersey somehow puts me on the Man U payroll, but I am one of those kind of fans. I am also on the Red Sox and the Celtics and University of Michigan football team if you’re wondering.)

After the 2^nd Noble penalty found its way to the back of the net my frustration was at an all-time high and all I could do was silently curse the world, curse the fact that I really like Green Street Hooligans, that I bought my dad that West Ham jersey and that I was stuck in that room. So I gave up. I shut the game off and rolled over and put my arm around my girlfriend and tried to go back to sleep and forget about those damn Hammers fans singing that stupid song. 

This might seem like maturity. I could’ve (and have in the past) started throwing things and ranting and raving and let my whole day be ruined by the bad bounces and pre-Champions League stumbles of the “most hated team in Britain”.

But it wasn’t maturity. It was petulance. I was being a spoiled brat who gives up as soon as my team comes under pressure. Instead of hanging around to watch another fantastic Man U comeback (3^rd time this season they have comeback from 2-0 down at half) and a hat trick from my favorite, vocabulary-challenged, player I quit Instead of having faith in a team that is renowned for its ability to overcome adversity and the likelihood for relegation-threatened West Ham to collapse, I stopped believing.

Part of me is superstitious enough that I actually thought if I just shut off the TV then it would increase the chances of something amazing happening, simply because I wasn’t watching. But I would be lying if I claimed it was anything other than I just didn’t believe.

I don’t know where the skepticism comes from although maybe rooting for the Red Sox my whole life hasn’t helped. Maybe New Englanders with our Calvinist love of struggle, hardship, and Blue Laws makes us all overly negative? The inferiority complex of Bostonians trickling down into my fandom? Or maybe I’m just a miserable bastard, who knows? My girlfriend will watch her team right to the end believing they will make the miracle comeback, my team gives up a goal 1 minute in to the season and I’ve just given up all title hopes.

When the game was over and I was walking across the street to get some breakfast I couldn’t help but look at the results and fist-pump my way through an intersection (getting a few strange looks in the process) and believed that my decision to shut off the TV had been the impetus for my team to push on and get the win. Such is being a fickle fan, we all have our ways to influence the games, even if mine is simply to lack faith and give up. We all have to do our part! 

Glory, Glory Man United!