What if they held a sporting event and nobody cared?

Miller beer has been running an ad campaign that centers on “Wendel,” a large “everyman” beer driver admonishing folks who aren’t worthy of selling the “High-Life.” These transgressors range from snooty, up scale grocery stores, to pretentious night clubs, to skybox occupiers-“located in section La De Da”- at a baseball game. “Wendel” bursts through the door of the inner sanctum, and loudly poses the question, “Alright, who can tell me what inning we’re in?” The dozen or so revelers, too busy trying to impress one another, immediately go mute. Their collective eyes glaze over as if someone had reached in their skulls and simultaneously removed their brains. With that, “Wendel” confiscates the Miller High Life, too much pomposity for him and his product. These seat fillers are becoming more and more prevalent for several reasons, and there isn’t a goddamn thing anyone can do about it; because money, not loyalty or avid support makes the world go ‘round. Sadly, I’ve witnessed this type of pseudo fan behavior first hand, on more than one occasion, at different sporting events. But it wasn’t always like this.
As a child I attended a New York Yankee game with my friend Tom. My father had procured the Eastern Airlines box seats. We sat behind Mitch Miller of Sing-A-Long With fame. He and his companion cheered with the best of them. He was undeterred by the behavior of giddy, annoying adolescence boys. It was all part of the game experience back then. Then something changed.
In 1984, my friend Gregg and I attended a New York Mets game. When we arrived, we bought the cheapest tickets available. I planned to employ the same scam I used dozens of times at Yankee Stadium, we’d tip the usher to let us in the field level seats. The subterfuge went off without a hitch. The kind, gruff gentleman escorted us to two seats located behind home plate near the field, to my friend’s delight. There was one proviso we were not prepared for. The “fans” located in our vicinity did not cheer a fine play. Nor did a timely extra base hit provide enough impetus to raise them out of their seats. While we nearly shouted ourselves horse, we were gazed upon with one collective stink eye. I was perplexed, what was the root cause for such sedate decorum? Gregg summed it up. “They were too rich, and to private” to behave in such an uninhibited manner. I thought “Why the fuck did you come then?” They could have stayed home and been stuffy and uptight.
Over the years this type of behavior became more ubiquitous. In 2005, my beloved Cincinnati Bengals, after many years of futility, reached the AFC playoffs for the first time in sixteen seasons. My son Cory and I made the trek from Florida to Cincinnati. We obtained handicapped seats half way up the lower bowl of Paul Brown Stadium. We were seated directly in front of a season ticket holder’s skybox. Thousands of long suffering fans were whipped into a frenzied state. Everyone was on their feet. Cory had commented about the fever pitch of the ear splitting decibel level. …and those occupying the box behind us wanted us to be seated so they could view the game (when they decided to watch) unimpeded without having to stand. I turned and addressed them. I questioned their loyalty. Cory inquired about what kind of fans were they after waiting so many years of ineptitude, to remain so impassive. I told Cory that they weren’t fans, but people who want to show other people how successful they are by purchasing a skybox. “Look at me, I’m in a skybox, aren’t I great!?” Who’s winning? Who cares, as long as everyone knows I’m wealthy, and I’m here. It shouldn’t be an issue. Real fans should want to stand as opposed to feeling they shouldn’t have to because they paid for the privilege not to; and those that do stand are annoyances to their exclusivity. “How dare those peons show their support in such a demonstrative way! Don’t they know who we are and how gauche they are?” These are the type of folk who now frequently inhabit our hallowed arenas of sport; and it’s only going to get worse. Sure, some of them like Spike Lee, like him or not, are real fans. They aren’t always the most knowledgeable, but you can’t beat their enthusiasm. However, they are the minority and not the majority.
Elite season tickets at Yankee Stadium will run you around $100,000 per seat for eighty-one games. A step down will still cost you nearly $45,000. Courtside seats to a Lakers game will run you around $2500 per. Face value of 2008 Super Bowl ticket prices were between $700 and $900. Those same tickets commanded a $4000 resale price as offered by brokers. Oral favors not withstanding, the average loyal fan that doles out 20% of their gross pay for eight games worth of support, might be hesitant to shell out half a kidney to see their team through to the bitter end; and now there are seat licensing fees to boot. It’s no better for the World Series. After corporate execs, celebrities wanting to be seen, and other assorted rich and maybe famous get theirs, so does Mr. or Mrs. Lifetime Rooter, except it’s not a ticket they get.
People who wouldn’t know a baseball from a ballsac, have some sort of insatiable need to attend sporting events. The least they can do is be excited about what’s going on. They don’t even have to know what’s going on, just act like it. Make your fucking deals on the golf course where they belong. Maybe “Wendel’s” next commercial can show him whacking a Miller High Life bottle over a “non-fans” head. That’d garner some face time.

Life in the Slow Lane

An historic event capped off another thrilling season of men driving rapidly in circles in cars that look similar to the ones we can buy save the Andy Warhol paint schemes. Jimmy Johnson, not to be confused with Junior Johnson, or Howard Johnson (the baseball player not the motel) for that matter; won his third consecutive Sprint, (the cellular phone company not the lesser race car circuit) Cup. It used to be called the Winston Cup until the suits (hard puffing race fans included) decided that smoking was bad for us and a cigarette brand was considered poor PR to be the primary sponsor of a sport that used countless amounts of the world’s most precious and valued resource. Also, the carbon monoxide from the exhaust fumes produced is sufficient enough to cause cancer in the hundreds of thousands of race fans attending each and every event anyway. Why make matters worse.
Jimmie Johnson’s accomplishment far outshines that of James Frank Kotera a.k.a. JFK, who recently surpassed Francis (not Frank) Johnson (no relation to any of the Johnson’s previously mentioned) after 30 years, for amassing the world’s largest ball of twine.
Ironically, it had been thirty years since Cale (with a “C” not with a “K” like the vegetable) Yarborough won his third straight NASCAR Championship. An eerie coincidence don’t you think? Sadly, either twine gatherer received neither the adulation nor financial reward Jimmie Johnson has garnered. And I know why, sponsorship!
Each NASCAR team has about $120 million in revenue. 75% of that comes from sponsorship. Primary sponsors contribute $20 million on the average. The primary sponsor gets to have their name festooned on the hood of the car they back. The primary sponsor also gets to plaster its name on the helmets and fire suits of the driver and the pit crew. And when the race is over, each individual can be counted upon to don a cap proclaiming their loyalty.
But don’t you fret none for the lowly secondary sponsor, who get to have their name on the rear quarter panel of the car. They only have to contribute about $10 million for the privilege. An agreement with the primary sponsor allows for the secondary sponsor to have the drivers and pit crews wear apparel bedecked with the little guys logo a couple of races every year. This does not go unnoticed by NASCAR, or the France family who run NASCAR, (you can readily substitute one name for the other). It’s similar to the NFL allowing teams to have multiple regulation jerseys. They’ll tell you it’s to liven things up a bit. But the No Fun League encourages the practice so fans will have another reason to buy more shit. Race fans, who already own tons of merchandise with the primary sponsor insignia, can run out and get the “limited edition” merchandise with the secondary sponsor’s logo on whatever it is that they buy, and they buy a lot.
According to Forbes, each team cleared about $12.3 million in profit last year. NASCAR showed a profit of over $3 billion. So in addition to television rights, the near 200,000 attending each event are buying a lot of stuff.
The South wanted a sport that was uniquely theirs, and Bill France Sr. gave it to them. I’m sure he did not envision the monolith that was to spring from that first race he organized along Daytona Beach in 1947. Hats off to Mr. France and everything NASCAR has accomplished. That’s some family business. I’m just not that into it. Before you cry out “sacrilege!” let me explain.
As a kid, I sat with my grandfather, (he was a Ford man) and watched stock car racing when it was aired on ABC’s Wide World of Sports. Each Memorial Day, or around Memorial Day when ratings became more important than tradition, I watched the Indianapolis 500. That is until the IRL, or Indy Racing League, and CART, or Championship Auto Racing Teams got into a pissing contest and the ill feeling diluted the sport and divided the drivers. I have attended stock car races at Nazareth Speedway in Pennsylvania, at Flemington Race track in New Jersey, and a Busch race at Homestead Speedway in Florida. The engine noise alone raises my testosterone level. I try every year to make it a point to watch the Daytona 500, the event that ranks only behind the Super Bowl in terms of monetary value. A happening so enthralling, that it’s on my list of things to do before I die; experience the Daytona 500 in person.
With that being said, I must say the idea of men making a perpetual series of left turns at high speed for hours is not something I want to devote my limited free time to each weekend. I’m already frittering away my valuable leisure time watching baseball, football, basketball, and golf. Hey, maybe I should give up watching some of those sports and…. start a ball of twine instead of following NASCAR. They both go round and round.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

For the rabid sports fan, late October, early November, is when the when the sun is at its apex above the sports landscape. The symmetry of alignment for all followers of the games men play is unequaled at any other time of the year. The Major League baseball season comes to a close with the crowning of a new champion. The NBA and the NHL launch their schedules, where each team has a renewed sense of hope and promise. College basketball kicks off with midnight madness. The NFL has reached its half-way point, and the playoff picture starts to come into focus. Not so in college football. This time of year brings with it deliberation and consternation. To playoff or not to playoff that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of the BCS, or to take arms against the pollsters, and by opposing end them.
I fear this year there is a heightened sense of discourse relating to a college playoff format. No other than our newly elected President has fanned the flames of debate with an ill wind.
On the eve of the Presidential election, ESPN broadcaster Chris Berman, during the nationally televised Monday Night Football game, posed a question to both candidates. If they could change one thing about sports, what would it be? Like the true Republican that he is, John McCain wanted to rid sports of drugs. Lets give a shout out to Nancy Reagan. Since sports are a microcosm of society, his answer was a well meaning pipe dream. Barack Obama’s desire was no less daunting, but it's his timing that was timely. Obama would bring some sort of playoff system to college football. Does this mean the system as it is should undergo more finite scrutiny than past years just because our new President considers it a pressing sports issue? I don’t know how much more heated the argument for or against can rage.
Football is the only sport that NCAA Division I does not have a championship for. The BCS or Bowl Championship Series is a byproduct of the FBS, or Football Bowl Subdivision. The BCS was created to settle the matter of which team is the “real” champion because no selecting organization could ever reach a consensus; even though the NCAA declares, prior to the formation of the BCS, that there have been 49 Consensus National Champions from 1950 to 2003. The definition of consensus is a “general agreement.” But in 16 of those years previously stated, there were multiple teams “generally agreed upon” as National Champions. 2003 was a curious year since the BCS already existed and acknowledged LSU to be the National Champion, but the “consensus” champs were USC. Huh? You got all that? Yeah, me either.
In 1926,Illinois economics professor Frank G. Dickinson, devised a mathematical formula to, once and for all, determine a definitive National Champion. The “Dickinson System” was used as the “be all, end all” until 1936 when the Associated Press decided who was the country’s premier collegiate football. After 1949, the “consensus” system was implemented, even though each year up to five different governing bodies, (AP, UPI, FWAA, NFF, USA/CNN, USA/ESPN) weighed in with their results. That’s quite a consensus.
The blackest eye to the system(s) occurred in 1984, when the lightly regarded Mountain West Conference, anointed Brigham Young University its champion. They ended their less than daunting season with a Holiday Bowl win over a less than stellar Michigan team. BYU was the nation’s only undefeated team, though it didn’t qualify for any of the major bowl games. Almost by default, the NCAA in their infinite wisdom, made BYU National Champion. There was great unrest on several college campuses around the country. And look at the strides we made. Georgia was odd man out last year, and this year the BCS/NCAA could find themselves amid another conundrum.
Some teams have three games left, some have two. Some have conference championships, some don’t. The BCS can’t take more than two teams from any one conference for their bowl games. Somebody somewhere is going to be pissed. Utah, Boise State, and Ball State, if they finish the season undefeated, will cry foul, that no one gives them the respect they deserve, and that they merit consideration for the National title; wah, wah, wah; and the beat goes on.
Barack Obama may not be aware of the Pandora’s Box he unwittingly (or maybe not), has good naturedly put under the collegiate football microscope. How hard WOULD it be to rid sports of all drugs anyway?

It’s Been a Long Time Coming

Yesterday I arose early to go get in line to vote. I arrived at the polls for my voting district in Pembroke Pines, Florida at 6:30. There were perhaps fifty people in front of me. By the time the polls opened at 7:00, there was an additional fifty behind me. The line proceeded quickly and efficiently. When I entered the building, an African-American woman donning a yellow “Yes We Can” t-shirt was picking up a “My Vote Counted” sticker. Several tears gently rolled down her cheeks. Did her tears stem from reflecting about how far our society has come since the days it saddled itself with the “peculiar institution” that was the scar that marred the face of American democracy? I did not speak to her about what she was feeling at that very moment. However, her tears triggered in me thoughts of an historical nature.
I wonder if she knew that prior to the Sahara Desert becoming too vast to cross easily that there was no racial prejudice. The African civilization of Kush traded and interacted with the other cultures over three millenium ago until the Nubians became isolated due the deserts huge expanse.
I wonder if this woman was aware that until the German philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hagel proposed his theory behind racial superiority in the early nineteenth century, that all races were on equal footing.
I wonder if she knew of the strides that freed slaves made during reconstruction were abruptly ceased following a trade off between North and South to decide the 1876 Presidential election.
I wonder if she knew how many African Americans lost their lives trying to gain voter rights. Right here in her home state, the town of Rosewood which was included in the 1920 census was not in 1930 due to a racial hatred so severe that the town no longer existed. Similar racial atrocities occurred in the towns of Ocoee and Micanopy as well. I always cringe a little when I see their exit signs when traveling through central and northern Florida.
I wonder if she knew that 83% of American born African-Americans are, to some degree, of mixed blood.
I’m pretty sure she must be aware Barack Obama was born of a white mother. Barack Obama is not America’s first African-American President regardless of what Katie Couric, Wolf Blitzer, and scores of other election night analysts seem intent on reinforcing. The lone beacon of clarity was Sharee Williams of CBS4 local news. She correctly declared upon hearing of the deciding electoral projections, that “America has elected their first bi-racial President.” Personally, I don’t care about his or anybody else’s racial or ethnic heritage. But I don’t understand the constant need to label individuals. It would make sense that if the talking heads downplayed race and ethnicity, eventually no one would give a shit, save the diehard bigots.
The media declared Tiger Woods African-American, though his mother is Thai, and he is also of European and Native-American extraction. Derek Jeter, as far as the sports media is concerned, is African-American, while his genealogy is mixed. The same goes for Mariah Carey and many others. Doesn’t it make sense to just say “bi-racial?” This topic could probably fuel blogs for many weeks to come.
I wonder if the teary eyed women thought of all the people who came before Barack Obama who made his quest for the country’s highest political office possible.
W.E.B. DuBois, the first man of African-American lineage to receive a Phd. from Harvard, and a founding member of the NAACP. Booker T. Washington, a philosophical rival of Dubois’ who once dined at the White House with President Theodore Roosevelt; Marcus Garvey, The Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, or Malcolm X, Carl Stokes, Shirley Chisholm, Julian Bond, Andrew Young, all paved the way for yesterday’s moment in history. No less historic was where Barack Obama delivered his victory speech.
I wonder if the woman knew what occurred forty years ago at Grant Park in Chicago, where an enormous throng of well-wishers enthusiastically roared their approval of the new President-elect. In 1968, hundreds of protesters disenchanted with the state of their country, were beaten and arrested. The crowd last night was no less discontented with the current state of affairs. The election of Barack Obama allayed their frustration temporarily, his compelling four minute address gave hope to the multitudes present, and those watching at home.
Following John McCain’s gracious concession speech to a not so gracious audience, Barack Obama addressed the gathered masses armed with words overseen by his twenty-six year old head speech writer.
Not since Abraham Lincoln has someone said so much with so little. He even paid homage to the 16th President. By the time he concluded the inspiring and poignant tale of one hundred and six year old Atlanta voter Ann Nixon Cooper; the trials and tribulations she witnessed, and in many cases he cited, endured; for the first time since 9/11, I felt truly proud to be an American. I wonder if the lady in the “Yes We Can” t-shirt knew I too could be moved to tears.