This Week in Fandom: Heeding the Call
Image courtesy of Shihab Chowdhury @shihabch
Every week, I write my nephew letters about sports that he mostly doesn’t read. They centre on my support for the Patriots Giants, Yankees, Knicks, and Tottenham Hotspur, and his love of Chelsea, LeBron James, and prop bets.
My boss asked how my weekend was, or maybe I just up and told him in order to sweeten a pretty standard corporate request. I said things were okay but all my teams were suffering; he said it was probably for the best, ‘cause if your teams were actually winning ones you might have been a different person. I didn’t realise he meant an asshole. Like, you know, a Chelsea fan or something ;).
It’s Christmas market season in Berlin. Folks gather in market squares and under festive lights, in blistering cold they presumably fend off with togetherness. You walk around a bit, purchase a curio or three, indulge in Gluhwëin, which is sweet, served hot or warm at least, and already naughty enough without a smidge of rum. You couldn’t pay me enough money to attend one of these in theory, to miss the Newcastle United game I hoped would distract me from all things Tottenham Hotspur – but it turns out I’ll do just about anything for my favourite people.
Tai is a Masshole of note, still very much devoted to the Patriots, Celts, and Red Sox franchises that offered us something to talk about in 2014. His mom, however, has a fond glaze in her eyes when she remembers New York, getting by as a resident of the Bronx. A friend of hers, a compatriot of academia, remarked upon my beanie and recalled loving the Mets in younger years – when his dad gave him half a reason to care about baseball. As defiant as I’ve ever seen or heard her about sports, Tai’s mom interjected quickly. “Oh, never! Yankees — couldn’t have cared less, if I’m honest, but had to be the Yankees.”
My fingers were turning into popsicles. Tai practically burned a hole in my scalp with his grin, as I explained to all parties that I knew in my gut I was supposed to have been a Mets fan. They last won the chip the year I was born — their colours are those of the Knicks — and I’ll be damned if Francisco Lindor isn’t my scoop of sherbhet exactly. “But,” I exhaled, proudly for once, “the Yankees were always on.”
For much of the weekend Bleacher Report offered meaningless updates about how, when and why Juan Soto might make a decision on where he intended to play baseball next season and beyond. Newcastle lost by 4 goals to 2 at Brentford, which is an hilarious little sentence to type, all whilst I ate the juiciest bratwurst, got immediately giddy on Gluhwëin number two, and petted the cashmere hide of a passing alpaca. I just needed insiders to keep telling me the Yankees were keeping their offer competitive, and they were, and they did. They pushed Steve Cohen and his new age Mets, whatever the fuck the Mets are now, all the way — but in the last 24 hours or so Juan Soto has decided he can do better than Yankee Stadium. I gather what’s sealed it, because both clubs bid north of 750-million dollars over 15 or 16 years for his services, is a difference of 5-million.
I’m currently trying to organise or rank my faux outrage.
What an obscene amount of money to pay a human being.
What an obscene amount of money to pay a baseball player. (Which is the least baseball, least romantic thing I’ve said in years.)
What an obscene amount of money to pay a New York Met.
And yet, I know the taste of karmic justice. It’s the paradise I long for, hoping for a day when Tottenham Hotspur will temporarily usurp the football superpowers with homegrown talent and sensible economics. When Spike Lee, as just reward for shooting Do The Right Thing, and Malcolm X, and She’s Gotta Have It, and He Got Game, will witness glory at the Garden for his beloved Knicks and mine. The Mets watched all their lives as the crosstown rival, my Yankees, dominated the league with commercial ruthlessness just before athletic prowess. They are MLB’s Manchester City, thundering towards (God help us) their Aguerrrooooo moment. I, a Yankee man, have no right to piss on their picnic. Even if I grew up resenting the business model, doing my damnedest to identify and uplift the good guys, I chose the Evil Empire, and now the Evil Empire has become old money. The mansion up on the hill, with the swimming pool wide as an ocean gathering leaves in the autumn, and the Rolls Royces all gathering dust, as the dynasty waits patiently for Aaron (Judge) to come spend his holidays from college — to lighten up the place with some homers.
Two months ago I was wishing every plague and pestilence against the Los Angeles Dodgers, even Shohei Ohtani and that little dog too. The very thought of the Mets right now, even the hat I keep as a spare in my living room, sickens me. I haven’t thought about the Red Sox in ages.
*
On Sunday I made the foolish mistake of going to catch the Spurs game at Belushi’s with a pair of Chelsea fans. I’d convinced myself Tottenham would somehow ‘get it up’ for big teams. I walked into the sports bar at Rosa Luxembourg, home sweet home, listening to a short story by Matthew Klam about how we’re all effectively running out of time. It was already 1-nil, thanks to a full-body burst from Dominic Solanke. Then it was 2-nil just seven minutes later, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. My company arrived a bit late, but just in time to witness all four Chelsea goals in response.
You know what I hate the most, every after a disastrous (and when I say disastrous, what I mean is soul-vacuuming) loss like this one? It’s all the asinine takes about a lack of winning mentality, a poor culture, and whether Daniel Levy is the right person to lead this club forwards — immeasurable, intangible things, when the multimedia ordinarily wouldn’t even be taking this club seriously to begin with. Why can’t a terrible football performance be down to something as simple as not nailing the fundamentals? Ange Postecoglu, bless him, mate, plays such a naïve, see-saw brand of football. Even 2-nil up, my heart lunged towards my throat because we’re constantly inviting the long ball, and the counter-counter break, or scrambling madly as our only real insurance against conceding just as quickly as we score. But, bah, humbug! – this isn’t even why I’m writing, lad.
I’d joked to said Chelsea fans that if Tottenham Hotspur didn’t win this one I was taking my allegiance elsewhere. I say these things to make myself feel warm, to entertain the idea that I can simply about-turn and watch higher quality football if I so wish. I can pack up my bags and leave if I really want to. Trade this madness once and for all for the Anfield psychedelia of my youth or for a different fever, just for change’s sake, like the malaise on Tyneside. But something coalesced this past weekend, at the Christmas market, waiting for Juan Soto, catching the 8pm screening of Wicked later that evening with one or two adorable theatre nerds. I have sufficient distractions that I needn’t dwell as long as I used to on the pain and suffering of following mediocre teams. These colours, these cities, are who I am, even if I can’t actually afford a) to live in them, or b) purchase some of the priciest tickets in sports.
And (thus) my Drake Maye infatuation abated, only two weeks in and during the Patriots’ bye week no less. I will wait instead for the New York Football Giants to glue an inexplicably competent season together, to make the NFC East fun again, and hope the universe quark-farts and sends Shedeur and Deion Sanders to the Meadowlands.
Who will wait, who will hope, who will dream, if not I?
