It was cathartic for me, I hope it's enjoyable for you:
I am watching the Twins collapse before my very eyes. Bill Smith has turned Johan Santana into Jim Hoey, Wilson Ramos into Cat Mapps, and Jose Morales austensibly into a flaming pile of dog sh%t that not even Billy Madison would attempt to light on fire on a cratchety neighboor's front porch. They are taking feeble hacks at the mammoth Michael Pineida's sharp slider and explosive fastball. I can only chuckle to myself in a defensive grinace (combination grin/grimace) to try to deflect the anger and sadness of watching a first place team wither away...
Enter Mark Turgeon. Another in the endless string of coaches to bail on Texas A & M for a larger more prestigeous program, using A & M as a stepping stone. You can't help but feel for the Aggie faithful, cheering for analagous smaller market professional and college teams myself. You hear Turgeon commit himself passionately and feverously to the University of Maryland's credo and ways, college station a distant memory of yesterday.
Enter Rajon Rando. Kendrick Perkins and Rondo are crying after Perkins' inexpicable trade, best friends for years told to say goodbye because a man named Danny Ainge decided the team needed a better swingman, to look towards the future. It's just a business, they say begrudgingly as Perk packs up his things. Nothing personal, just a business.
Enter us. We bond over them with friends. We read about them in the paper, we call in to declare our opinions to people with loud shows and louder egos. We buy tickets. We buy jerseys. We pay taxes. We build stadiums. But in glorification of what?
Enter me. Wearing my Lakers Shaq jersey loud and proud. I wear it not because I love the Lakers. I hate them in fact. I hate what they stand for, casual fans who leave games early, always having big name guys, front runners. But I have always gravitated towards Shaq. He is a freak of nature, but is personable, likable, and created the blueprint for how to market yourself as an athlete that many have followed, some to the nth degree (see Johnson, Chad). I enjoyed watching him dominate games while Kobe awkwardly tried to figure out if he was Batman or Robin. And yet, when I wear that jersey I get called out the Lakers fan I'm not, as I should. I'm in a Lakers Jersey.
But should we see the team and not the player first? Are we cheering for a person or the uniform he wears? It's so much more than just a uniform right? It has to be. It's the memories of you high fiving your dad after he catches a foul ball. It's the smell of hotdogs at your favorite stadium. It's you and your buddies having a beer and yelling at your TV as though you are the ultimate authority on life. It's creating a sports community. Fate and circumstance and injuries and ping pong balls brought these people to Minnesota for us to agonize over, critique and cheer for. We get to know them better than ourselves, watching games intently, analyzing highlights, box scores, advanced stats. Some of us are even foolish enough to blog about them.
Enter Cleveland. A city with 7 years of memories involving one man. Billions of dollars in city revenue and franchise value rest in the hands of that one man. The man is a local boy himself. He understands the psyche of the city better than most. Yet he chooses warm weather, playing with his friends, villification, and watches as his jersey burns in the streets at the hands of those who once worshiped him. Through the flames they try to forget a man that embodied a team hopelessly intertwined with a city, destined to cheer for laundry.
