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The Evolution of a Boston Red Sox Anti-Fan

By Mark Grueter

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Well, the Boston Red Sox finally won the World Series, and what an absolute bore it all was. I see the dumb bastards (a.k.a. “the fans”) swam in the Charles River - that cesspool of water, industrial waste, piss, and shit - as a way to celebrate. They could not have done better.

Having grown up forty-five minutes north of Boston, I have lived under the Curse my whole life. The Curse, not of the Bambino (which, obviously, never existed) but of having to live in the company of the face-painting, flag-waving, cap-wearing conformists who take “sports” seriously.

I confess that as a youth I used to be a fan of the Red Sox, too. It was hard to avoid; I hadn’t developed my own thoughts, I was athletic, and so it seemed natural, while playing sports, to idolize the pros. I even considered myself an expert on sports – more “knowledgeable,” as it were, than television wizards such as Peter Gammons. In high school, I was one of the pioneers of what is now known as the Fantasy League movement. And I invented a category called “troubles,” which combines doubles and triples for statistical/judicious purposes.

But even then, I unconsciously rebelled against the Red Sox and sports in general. While everyone else sided with one of the two best players on “our” team (Wade Boggs or Roger Clemens), my favorite player was Marty Barrett, the team’s second baseman during most of the 80’s. Martin Glenn Barrett, a bald-headed, pint-sized man who never quite realized his potential, was a mediocre player in his prime. But that didn’t stop me from pleading his case. I insisted that Barrett belonged on the All-Star team, citing his batting average ‘in the clutch’ and stellar fielding percentage.

I wasn’t way off. When the Red Sox went to the World Series in ’86, Barrett had just won Most Valuable Player of the American League Championship Series and probably would’ve won MVP of the World Series had Calvin Shiraldi, Bob Stanley and Bill Buckner not conspired to deny him the achievement.

Growing up, I was known around town for my support of Barrett, more so than anything else, sadly. In Little League, I imitated Barrett’s batting stance the year my team won the championship – the same year I also led the league in batting average (.725 - thanks all the same) and stolen bases. For one of my birthdays, my parents took my friends and I down to Fenway Park; we sat right along the first baseline and I held up a computerized placard that read, “Marty Barrett = MVP.” Christ, my friggin’ cat’s name was Barrett.

My choice of Barrett wasn’t completely random - I liked his attitude and style. He was known as the “computer” of the team, possessing an uncanny ability to pick runners off of second base via the “hidden ball trick.” He was also a “pissant” – a term my high school basketball coach once used to describe me. In the 1990 ALCS, Barrett, by then a somewhat obscure and notorious figure, threw jugs of Gatorade onto the field to protest the awful officiating.

And at some point in the late 90’s I pretty much stopped following sports after my favorite players grew old or in one case, died aboard a Learjet.

With everything that was happening around me and in the world, it just seemed foolish to continue devouring box scores. Today, the whole gamut of collegiate and professional sports seems to me a colossal waste of time, a yawn. How anyone manufactures a real interest (no financial motivations) in this stuff has become, for me, a curiosity.

Now, what Boston fans are starting to realize is that the mythical Curse of the Bambino was the best thing that ever happened to them. The American media and sports fans across the country gave Boston special attention because of their alleged plight. The region enjoyed the role of martyr and minority. From here on out, Boston will be rightfully ignored.

Some “true” Red Sox fans vehemently rejected and disapproved of the bandwagon aspect of the team’s recent juggernaut. These principled, courageous individuals only respect fans who have monitored the team throughout all its lows as well as highs. But who cares? It’s an entirely different team than it was six years ago anyway. Boston went out there and bought the players they needed to win. Only the dreaded Yankees spent more money. And just as politicians buy elections, baseball owners buy championships. Furthermore, the Red Sox demonstrated no loyalty by dumping local favorite and perennial all-star Nomar Garciaparra when it became convenient to do so. So please spare us the pious claims of history, tradition and loyalty.

Get any fan going, by the way, on their favorite subject and they are not likely to stop, partly because they’re incapable of discussing anything else. Primarily, people talk about sports because it’s comfortable to do so, especially during this foul Holiday season of ours. It’s an icebreaker, a crutch, it’s easy and inclusive. For most people, all that matters is that things go smoothly, cleanly, and so challenging or controversial topics are carefully avoided.

Yes, the Red Sox beat the Cardinals in what was the worst World Series since 1918. The utter tedium of the actual games didn’t stop everyone from feigning excitement over them. Contrived exhilaration and pseudo-sentimental stories from career fans and admirers flooded New England newspapers and airwaves after the victory.

Yet, what happens when the party is over and the Red Sox fan/player is forced to reflect? He is asked to talk about life after success, and so we get the incoherent blather from of befuddled Johnny Damon and the whoops and hollers from his adoring, inebriated fans.

Sports fans are better at playing the victim, the loser. Complaining about coaches’ decisions, the opposition team or biased officiating, is their metier. Talking about what success feels like or, more importantly, what it all means, leaves them blank, dumb. They walk away mumbling something about never having thought of that. Having spent most of their lives with the mind-numbing world of sports, fans never teach themselves how to actually think. Despite a few tense, unpredictable moments, watching a sporting event ultimately makes one feel nothing at all. It leaves a void, which is why retiring athletes typically find no other existence other then despair or getting back into the game at some level.

It’s the sheer stupidity and pointlessness of the game that bothers me. Look at the sort of people it attracts, listen to the droning commentary, the hucksterism, the steroids, Ron Artest. It doesn’t even rise to the level of entertainment. The world of sports embodies all of the worst elements of mass culture: greed, disloyalty, corruption, laziness, ignorance and complacency. The recent Red Sox victory epitomizes all of this.

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Mark Grueter is a writer living in New York City. He can be contacted at grueter@methree.net.

© 2004 Me Three