Wednesday, September 15, 2004
"Ya Can't Listen to 'Em, Sweetrivah!"
I'd like to apologize to my entire readership for slacking with my daily updates this week. Joe, Keith, and Scott, this one's for you.
Regarding the Oakland Memorial Massacre of Monday night, I wish I could say I was surprised. After the Dodgers infiltrated the stands at Wrigley and the fans invaded the first base line at U.S. Cellular, this seemed about as routine as Milton Bradley arguing balls and strikes.
Obviously, Frank Francisco's Jerry Springer-esque chair toss was an inexcusable and unfortunate turn of events, but I think it's interesting how shocked people seem to be by it. Anyone who's gone to a ballgame has witnessed fans that take pride in getting as close to The Line as they can without crossing it. There is a new breed of fan that creates a game within the game of goading players into 1) acknowledging their barbs and 2) taking shots of their own, be it verbal or physical. Remember George Washington Duke, the Don King-like promoter from "Rocky V"? He'd get in Rocky's face and practically beg for the Italian Stallion to beat him like a side of beef and then bail out with "Touch me and I'll sue." The spirit of George Washington Duke is alive and well, thriving among the so-called fans of America. These people do pre-game research, digging up personal information or anything they can use to get under a player's skin. Then they go to the game and bait an outfielder by referring to his young son by name, screaming that "he sucks worse than his old man." What gives a "fan" the right to do that? Paying for a ticket and six beers gives you the right to personally attack a man's family? I don't think so. All it gives you is the right to drink those six beers and watch a baseball game. Don't throw the First Amendment at me either because if one of these bums marched into 'ol Thomas Jefferson's office and told him his wife was a hooker, he'd get a lot more than a Constitutional Amendment in return.
What if this happened to any of us? What if someone walked into our cubicles and offices, stood six feet from us and viscously heckled us while we worked? If we didn't physically remove them ourselves, we'd surely have security do it for us, right? Imagine if you couldn't. Picture a scenario where you could do nothing about it and were expected to go on about your work as if nothing was going on. You couldn't do it, I couldn't do it, and no one should have to do it, whether they're ballplayers or blacksmiths. Yes, they are paid millions of dollars, but their job is to play a game and provide you with entertainment. Show me a contract where it says "player shall endure repeated tongue-lashings fortnightly" and I'll concede my case.
Am I saying there needs to be language laws at ballparks? Of course not. Am I saying the fans in Oakland deserved getting a chair thrown at them? That's insane, if not criminal. My point is, don't incite a fight and then act like an innocent child when you get one. Fans have every right to cheer and to jeer, to encourage and discourage, but keep it about baseball. Keep it relevant to the game, not because you're required to or because a player might attack you if you don't; do it out of basic fairness and respect.
Of course, the ultimate blame always falls on the players. There is never a justifiable reason for a player to cross that sacred line between Baseball The Product and Baseball The Consumer, not in anger anyway. No matter how personal and cruel the abuse may be, it is only an explanation and never an excuse. There needs to be a mutual respect between fan and player that often times there is not. Fans need to remember that players, while twice their size and of exponentially greater wealth, are as human as they are. Players need to remember that no matter how much a fan might know about them, they don't really know them and are only trying to get them rattled to help their team win. It's the obvious truth and very easy for me to wax on about when the greatest danger to me is a jammed Xerox machine. What can I say, I still have hope.
That being said, here's a funny story of an experience in my life where the player/fan trust was mutually violated. Two years ago, my cohorts and I had seats about ten rows up in the corner of the end zone at the Rose Bowl. As loyal USC Trojan fans, we were there to enjoy another classic battle against crosstown rival UCLA. After suffering the torture of eight straight losses to the powder puff Bruins, we were loving every minute of the resurgent Trojans recent prosperity in this age-old rivalry. At halftime I noticed the mortal enemy known as Cade McNown strolling by on the sidelines. After Cade personally ripped my heart out and put in a doggie bag four years in a row as Bruin quarterback, I felt this was my moment of redemption, with the scoreboard showing USC ahead by several touchdowns. So, I yelled at the top of my lungs, "You suck, McNown!" as he passed by. Brilliant material, I know. Well, pretty boy Cade stops in his tracks and starts walking back towards me. He asks "Who said that?" My buddy Joe, yes that Joe, had not been involved at all up until now. Before I could take responsibility for my gabbing jab, Joe stands up and answers with the voice of a grizzly bear, "I DID!" From that point, the words and gestures flew back and forth with the ferocity of a street fight, highlighted by Joe proclaiming, "You couldn't hold Tim Ratay's jockstrap!" A befuddled Cade threw a bottled water at Joe who caught it and threw it right back at him, splashing Cade in the process. The confrontation fizzled from there, but as we sat and Cade whispered in the ear of the nearby security officer, you could almost hear him saying "Don't you know who I am? I'm Cade McNown. I almost won a national championship here." The security guard fought back a smile as he ignored Cade, probably laughing as we were as the former Big Man on Campus smugly trudged along.
Yeah, ya gotta respect players and they gotta respect you, I tell ya. Like I said, when the chairs started flying in Oakland Monday night, I wasn't the least bit surprised.
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Regarding the Oakland Memorial Massacre of Monday night, I wish I could say I was surprised. After the Dodgers infiltrated the stands at Wrigley and the fans invaded the first base line at U.S. Cellular, this seemed about as routine as Milton Bradley arguing balls and strikes.
Obviously, Frank Francisco's Jerry Springer-esque chair toss was an inexcusable and unfortunate turn of events, but I think it's interesting how shocked people seem to be by it. Anyone who's gone to a ballgame has witnessed fans that take pride in getting as close to The Line as they can without crossing it. There is a new breed of fan that creates a game within the game of goading players into 1) acknowledging their barbs and 2) taking shots of their own, be it verbal or physical. Remember George Washington Duke, the Don King-like promoter from "Rocky V"? He'd get in Rocky's face and practically beg for the Italian Stallion to beat him like a side of beef and then bail out with "Touch me and I'll sue." The spirit of George Washington Duke is alive and well, thriving among the so-called fans of America. These people do pre-game research, digging up personal information or anything they can use to get under a player's skin. Then they go to the game and bait an outfielder by referring to his young son by name, screaming that "he sucks worse than his old man." What gives a "fan" the right to do that? Paying for a ticket and six beers gives you the right to personally attack a man's family? I don't think so. All it gives you is the right to drink those six beers and watch a baseball game. Don't throw the First Amendment at me either because if one of these bums marched into 'ol Thomas Jefferson's office and told him his wife was a hooker, he'd get a lot more than a Constitutional Amendment in return.
What if this happened to any of us? What if someone walked into our cubicles and offices, stood six feet from us and viscously heckled us while we worked? If we didn't physically remove them ourselves, we'd surely have security do it for us, right? Imagine if you couldn't. Picture a scenario where you could do nothing about it and were expected to go on about your work as if nothing was going on. You couldn't do it, I couldn't do it, and no one should have to do it, whether they're ballplayers or blacksmiths. Yes, they are paid millions of dollars, but their job is to play a game and provide you with entertainment. Show me a contract where it says "player shall endure repeated tongue-lashings fortnightly" and I'll concede my case.
Am I saying there needs to be language laws at ballparks? Of course not. Am I saying the fans in Oakland deserved getting a chair thrown at them? That's insane, if not criminal. My point is, don't incite a fight and then act like an innocent child when you get one. Fans have every right to cheer and to jeer, to encourage and discourage, but keep it about baseball. Keep it relevant to the game, not because you're required to or because a player might attack you if you don't; do it out of basic fairness and respect.
Of course, the ultimate blame always falls on the players. There is never a justifiable reason for a player to cross that sacred line between Baseball The Product and Baseball The Consumer, not in anger anyway. No matter how personal and cruel the abuse may be, it is only an explanation and never an excuse. There needs to be a mutual respect between fan and player that often times there is not. Fans need to remember that players, while twice their size and of exponentially greater wealth, are as human as they are. Players need to remember that no matter how much a fan might know about them, they don't really know them and are only trying to get them rattled to help their team win. It's the obvious truth and very easy for me to wax on about when the greatest danger to me is a jammed Xerox machine. What can I say, I still have hope.
That being said, here's a funny story of an experience in my life where the player/fan trust was mutually violated. Two years ago, my cohorts and I had seats about ten rows up in the corner of the end zone at the Rose Bowl. As loyal USC Trojan fans, we were there to enjoy another classic battle against crosstown rival UCLA. After suffering the torture of eight straight losses to the powder puff Bruins, we were loving every minute of the resurgent Trojans recent prosperity in this age-old rivalry. At halftime I noticed the mortal enemy known as Cade McNown strolling by on the sidelines. After Cade personally ripped my heart out and put in a doggie bag four years in a row as Bruin quarterback, I felt this was my moment of redemption, with the scoreboard showing USC ahead by several touchdowns. So, I yelled at the top of my lungs, "You suck, McNown!" as he passed by. Brilliant material, I know. Well, pretty boy Cade stops in his tracks and starts walking back towards me. He asks "Who said that?" My buddy Joe, yes that Joe, had not been involved at all up until now. Before I could take responsibility for my gabbing jab, Joe stands up and answers with the voice of a grizzly bear, "I DID!" From that point, the words and gestures flew back and forth with the ferocity of a street fight, highlighted by Joe proclaiming, "You couldn't hold Tim Ratay's jockstrap!" A befuddled Cade threw a bottled water at Joe who caught it and threw it right back at him, splashing Cade in the process. The confrontation fizzled from there, but as we sat and Cade whispered in the ear of the nearby security officer, you could almost hear him saying "Don't you know who I am? I'm Cade McNown. I almost won a national championship here." The security guard fought back a smile as he ignored Cade, probably laughing as we were as the former Big Man on Campus smugly trudged along.
Yeah, ya gotta respect players and they gotta respect you, I tell ya. Like I said, when the chairs started flying in Oakland Monday night, I wasn't the least bit surprised.
# posted by j.h.k. @ 1:12 PM 
