Entry One: Whither Fandom
6/11/12
(It’s always good to begin a possible ongoing set of entries with one that’s outdated before it’s even been posted, right? All honesty, that doesn’t bother me in the least, given that I don’t consider it the goal of this entry to be completely on time for whatever games are happening on a given day. This, and hopefully it’s future follow-ups, is much more concerned with looking into a particular aspect of simply being a fan, and maybe starting a conversation. Feedback/discussion always welcome.)
It’s currently 5:35pm on a Monday afternoon, unseasonably cool for Jersey City in the middle of June. The kitchen window in my apartment is open due to my criminal lack of air conditioning, and a day that that seemed destined for shorts, sandals, and no sleeves has gradually morphed into a full on black jeans/sneakers/hockey sweater (white Brodeur 30, Reebok Edge 2007 model, if anybody’s interested) situation due to the bursts of cool air that haven’t let up the past couple of hours.
For some odd reason, I’m sitting here nervously sipping vodka and watching old clips of New Jersey Devils playoff runs and Stanley Cup victories on YouTube, rather than, say, doing much of anything constructive.
Wait, duh, scratch that.
It’s not “some odd reason” at all, really. Tonight is Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Final, and the Devils have the opportunity to be the first team since the 1940’s to come all the way back from a 3-0 Final deficit and force a determining Game 7. It’d be on home ice, and there’s a 50/50 chance I could wind up with the Wonka-esque Golden Ticket to Newark should it come to fruition.
On cue, I eye up the handle of vodka on my windowsill again.
Before you or anyone else says anything, believe me, I know how absurd this is.
“Blah, blah, blah, it’s a game. Blah, blah, blah, the players don’t care about you, ya know. Blah, blah, blah, sane people create emotional attachments to things that actually matter in the grand scheme. Blah, blah, blah, babble babble babble, word-vomit-word-vomit-“ SHUT UP.
Sorry.
Yet here I sit, clock now approaching 5:43pm, ready to get up in a couple of hours and mosey on down next door to my downtown Jersey City neighborhood bar for at least two and a half hours of nervous pacing, hand-wringing, face-rubbing, and most likely one too many $4 Jameson shots, regardless of the outcome, given that either outcome will necessitate them.
A typical Monday evening at Lucky 7's tavern, plus one nervously pacing idiot in the background.
Doubt is a healthy thing. When I attended a Catholic private high school back in the proverbial day, our Theology – NOT religion class, it was Theology – teachers often stressed to us the importance of not taking what you hear on Sundays at face value, that you could not claim to have true faith unless you were willing to question it and put it to the test. It wasn’t a way of saying that religion was bad, obviously – whether you feel that way or not doesn’t mean one damn to me or this attention-whore of a post at the moment – but the lesson is clear: if something is truly important to you, you need to reflect on it, all its positives and negatives.
Well, go figure; tonight’s game, this entire season, my whole Devils fandom is very important to me. I’ve flushed enough dollars down the toilet to be at about half of the games, playoffs included, at Prudential Center this season, and I’ve missed hardly any televised action when I haven’t been able to attend. All that time, cash, and nights with a raspy voice (occupational idiocy for a singer and actor), you’re damn right I’m willing to be pretty introspective.
Why DO a lot of us get this way? It’s the Devils, the Mets, and the New York Football Giants for me, but if you’re reading this there’s an excellent chance there’s at least one particular group of millionaires that get you all wound up like this, too. You cheer them, scream at them, Tweet angrily about them, and allow yourself to feel vicariously through them. Their joy is your joy, their victories your victories, their downfalls counted among your own, their boyish camaraderie jumping out in crystal clear-HD.
I suppose there are some basic answers. Regional pride, perhaps, love of a team that wears an emblem representing where you come from; hell, that’s what tends to drive the bitter wars between the Devils, Rangers, and Flyers in the NHL’s Atlantic Division. Maybe it’s the simple passage of time, watching so many games, and accumulated time leading to emotional investment; after all, no matter how much whining you’d hear after an episode in the final season of Lost, those same whiners inevitably found themselves flipping back to ABC one week later, having to come this far. Christ, why do you think people keep watching Monday Night Raw, or why am I so hell-bent on seeing A Song of Ice and Fire all the way through to the seventh (HA! …prove me wrong, Martin) book?
Is it more than that? Is it just all those things to different degrees? Is it nothing like that at all, and we all just sucker ourselves into this annual tradition of screaming at the TV and buying disgusting numbers of hot dogs at filthy concession stands? And what do we get from any of it? My stomach is in knots, I fall asleep thinking about statistics and game plans, and at odd intervals I’ll even think about putting on the NHL Network or NBC Sports despite my abiding annoyance with Barry Melrose and outright distaste for Mike Millbury and Keith Jones, the Von Vultur and Schultz of the NHL’s preferred franchises.
I’m eyeing that handle of vodka again.
It’s 5:59pm.
I’m flicking on clips of the Devils defeating the then-Mighty Ducks of Anaheim back in my high school graduation year of 2003. I watched one of these games during my graduation party. Game 3, I want to say.
In most likely less than five hours time, the NHL season either ends, or I wait with bated breath to hear if I’ll be attending the absolute final game on Wednesday. In other words, I’ll be waiting to hear if I get to spend even more money I should probably put towards groceries or the small college debt I just learned I still owe.
My stomach is doing back flips, my contact lenses are starting to irritate me, and I think I’m going prematurely gray.
Upon further self-reflection…
…Yeah.
Perfectly happy this way.
Why do you ask?
(Postscript: They lost. Yup. Thankfully I turned down the shots people attempted to buy me. For the best. Really. Bottom’s up.)