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.