The Me in Team

Today, I mourn, for my beloved New Orleans Saints have been defeated. 

One aspect of my personality that seems to regularly surprise strangers is that I am an avid sports fan. I have never quite grasped just why this announcement garners such astonishment, but after due consideration people generally realize that there simply is no way I could not be one.

A number of factors contribute to this. First and foremost, I was raised a football fan. My parents had season tickets to the St. Louis Cardinals. At a young age, I found myself indoctrinated into that atmosphere, an oblate whose first vows involved some sort of praise for the home team and a righteous curse for our divisional foes.

St. Louis is not a fair weather city, either literally or metaphorically. Our seasons tend to bypass the more moderate temperatures; at the end of winter, the seasons call an Allemande Left, a half-progression and a step through balmy directly into sauna, only to repeat the dance step in autumn and skip across refreshing directly into arctic.

Some have wondered why I enjoy the Pacific Northwest, and part of it is because the weather is not so extreme, and that even on the rainy days for which we are famed, it is often beautiful, a joy to not only walk in, but simply to be in.

I may love the comma as much as I love football, but it is a close call.

The St. Louis Cardinals were not a successful football team. During their 28-year tenure in our city, they made the postseason playoffs once, in 1982. They had a few moments of competitiveness, but as the adage goes, even a blind squirrel finds a nut every now and then. Despite this, we did not miss a game that I can remember. Many a Sunday afternoon was spent burrowed beneath blankets in open Busch Stadium–which, alliterative as it may be, was also extremely uncomfortable. Wind chills in the negative were not uncommon, and yet there we were, our family of four, futilely cheering on the Cardinals as they pioneered new ways to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

In St. Louis, the football Cardinals were diametrically opposed to the baseball Cardinals. The baseball team was a powerhouse in the 1980’s, with three World Series appearances. They have continued to be largely successful, including their World Series victory in 2006 (which you can be certain caused me to nearly erupt in tears.) The Cardinals are, arguably, the most successful team in the National League, the counterpart and counterpoint to the New York Yankees of the American League. New York may be #1, but we are pleased with our small city’s status as #2.

My winters consisted of disappointment endured in blizzards and ice. My summers often were composed of thrills that took my breath away almost as effectively as the humid, congested air. Each spring and autumn harbingered hope.

We did not have baseball tickets often, so my appreciation for it lagged behind football quite a bit. For a long time, I saved every ticket stub, carefully writing the score of the game on them and treasuring them as if just by holding them, I could recapture the most exciting plays. It’s not hard to remember the horrendously ugly flowered thermos that we carried hot chocolate in, carefully rationing it out so that we would have plenty left in the fourth quarter, when hours of numbness had set in. I can picture the drive down, on which roads I do not know–but I remember passing that advertisement, and that roundabout, and hearing the same commercial jingles on the radio pre- and post-game shows.

"For a hole in your roof, or a whole new roof–Frederic Roofing! 645-2000."

Good times.

I often wanted to play sports as a child, but could not. While I am fairly athletic (though I can certainly afford to drop a few pounds), I have poor vision–and optical technology was not quite as progressed in the 1980s as it is today. Likewise, I did not fill out my frame until my freshman year of college, and thus spent my junior high and high school years as thin and gawky as a shaved Siamese cat. The third strike against me was that I was shy and unconfident, both of which are detrimental to a long-term career in team athletics.

The list of things I am not successful at would be too large to fit in a single entry. However, I was admittedly pleased in college, when as a racquetball, volleyball, and softball aficianado, I performed very well. We are all allowed our small prides.

My personality thrives on team activity–and also in the cheering on of a team that can be identified as "mine". As ridiculous as it seems, dedicated sports fans are very proprietary about their teams. We invest emotionally and financially into these players. We listen to their stories, we welcome them in our community, we allow them to inspire where they should–and many times, perhaps, where they should not. 

There is nothing, however, more inspiring to me than people united in support of a common cause.

"Mob mentality" is dangerous. It is also somewhat exhilarating. Aside from having seen the television reports, I remember watching a mob patrol through the streets of West Lafayette, IN, after a Purdue football game, jumping on cars and trying to tip them over and swarming lampposts and public streets until authorities had to be called in.

As with most things, however, it is the exceptions that grab our attention, rather than the myriad of everyday occurrences that pass with nary a crime.

Millions of people converge in thousands of stadiums worldwide on a daily basis, joining together in common cause. I spent many years in Busch Memorial Stadium alternately cheering football and baseball. If you are not a sports fan, I implore you to close your eyes for a moment–after reading the next two paragraphs, of course. 

Imagine something you desire to achieve. It doesn’t have to be of earth-shattering importance. Perhaps it’s an A on your next essay, or a promotion at work, or getting laid by the hottie next door. Now, back yourself out of that a bit and imagine it’s someone you care for. Sometimes, we cheer more for our loved ones than ourselves, sometimes living vicariously through them because we feel we could never achieve it ourselves.

Now, imagine if you were able to round up 50,000 people to be there, at your side, cheering and rooting on your friend. You don’t know these people; you may not even like them. However, for three hours, you are all connected by the same desire. You shout, you scream, you groan, you moan, you curse, you exhilarate, you pulse with one another. When the crowd is alive, it is electric, and that energy suffuses all of us, momentarily allowing us to forget everything that separates us from each other once we leave. During the game, thousands of people’s minds are tuned to one outcome: Victory.

You can close your eyes now. When you open them, I hope it was enlightening

.

Team sports are a microcosm of that. The team and the crowd are mirrors. You are one out of many, with a part to play that is indispensable. Some roles are more glorious than others, but the best teammates realize that what matters is both how you conduct yourself on the field and inside the locker room. This doesn’t preclude deserved pride or praise–there is no "I" in team, but of course there’s a "me". The goal, however, should be to win together, to fight and strive as one, through hardship and adversity as well as the times when angels personally deliver gumdrops to your pillows.

The attentive reader may recognize my sentiments as those I express towards relationships as well. My future wife is her own person, but she also recognizes the value of a team, and that we are one. I may be a naïf, with my view of Us vs. World, but it is who I am and pretending otherwise nets nothing but defeat. A pitcher without a catcher isn’t very effective, and will simply cause your opponents to erupt in laughter. If the third baseman fields a hot grounder and throws it to an empty first base, then it’s small consolation to mutter to oneself, "Well, I made a hell of a play" while the opposition circles the bases.

Not everyone is a team player. For many years, I wasn’t, and when I finally was, I found teammates impoverished in spirit. Karma, as they say, is a bitch. I am intelligent, but I do not believe I am a supremely insightful genius who is privy to unique secrets of human relations heretofore unrecorded. On the contrary, if I have figured it out, I am certain that everyone else can figure it out too. To my regular surprise and disappointment, I seem to sign the wrong free agents and make very poor draft picks.

Many people feel that sports are silly, or a waste of time. Instead, I view them as an example of hope, and the strength of humanity: Our ability to unite in support of a goal. In my time, I have been called an effective manager, a leader of men, and a respected teacher. I am often reluctant to assume a position of high visibility, for fame is not for me. The secret, I confide, is simply to treat people with respect, to position them according to their strengths, and to compensate for one another’s weaknesses. This is no less true as a member of the library staff as it is as a member of a football team. We are none of us perfect, and if I need to compensate for my coworker’s inability to shelf read on one hand, on the other he might compensate for my dislike of spontaneous scheduling changes. Sometimes, you have to accept your teammate is not fast, or has bad hands, or can’t hit a curveball, or can’t block a fast defensive end.

And likewise, sometimes you have to accept that your spouse isn’t always on time, or is forgetful, or doesn’t like surprises as much as you wish they would. The trick is to acknowledge what you want in your life, and what you don’t want in your life, and find someone who meets those qualifications–and, indeed, surpasses them. If you have an offense predicated on speed, then don’t pick people who are slow. If you have a pitcher that induces groundballs, then you want strong defense at shortstop and second base. If you want someone who is naturally open with you, look for those with whom you do not need a crowbar to pry intimacy from. Ad infinitum, ad nauseam.

When I was very young, I couldn’t participate in sports for the reasons listed previously. My brother, however, was something of a role model for me. Seven years older, I wanted to be him. I may have mentioned this before, but I am not inspired to search my archives, thus I ask for patience. He is the successful one, who seems to have led the charmed life to which I aspired. Handsome, popular, talented, well-paid, a respected businessman with a devoted wife of 16 years and two impish children, my nephews, who never fail to amuse me with their energy and curiosity.

My brother played football in high school, which of course I thought was awesome. I can’t name anything about his career, or even how long it lasted, for he wasn’t a star, except in my eyes. The colors of his school (which I attended later as well) were black and gold. In many ways it was the perfect school, for it had been a ridiculously successful program for as long as we could remember. In fact, in my junior year we went 7-3, and it was as if the moon had fallen to the earth and crushed our small community. Losing three games? An atrocity.

Somewhere during this time, in 1980, I became a fan of the New Orleans Saints. There were two reasons. One, they wore black and gold, like my brother. Two, however, they lost 14 consecutive games to open the season, finishing 1-15. They were so horrible that their fans wore paper bags over their head, with the Saints logo drawn on it–except also written on there was the new name for the team.

The Aint’s.

Having an innate sense of appreciation for the struggle of the underdog, and feeling sorry for them having fans that sucked as much as the team did, I adopted them as my own, and have loyally rooted for them for the last 27 years.

Unfortunately, I didn’t pick a winning team, and thus instead of merely watching the Cardinals flouder, I now had two teams to suffer with.

Founded in 1967, the Saints didn’t have a winning season until 1987, which preceded a remarkably competitive six-year run that I loved to watch, in the same year that our St. Louis Cardinals were relocated to Arizona, leaving our stadium empty for the next nine winters, our bodies and hearts no longer warmed by competitive fire but left cold and barren.

The Saints didn’t win a playoff game until 2000, when they defeated the St. Louis Rams, who had moved to fill the void in 1995. I was dubious about the Rams at first, but grew to love them and still root for them to win any game in which they don’t play the Saints. I watched that playoff game in a bar in Illinois, and as one of perhaps three Saints fans out of the many that had packed the place, I was pleased to persevere in hostile territory and cheer on my Saints, who defeated what many people have called the best offensive unit of all time. The 2000 Rams, the Greatest Show on Turf, defeated by the lowly Aint’s.

It was beautiful, and a welcome respite from the lean decades of loss.

I confess that it was somewhat nice to be unique; until 2006, admitting you were a Saints fan was the equivalent of unzipping your parka and showing off the third arm growing out of your chest.

"You like the Saints?" people asked incredulously. "You must be from New Orleans."

Nope.
 
They just deserved at least one true fan.

The entire history of the beleaguered Saints’ last two years is not going to be repeated here. Not only can you easily Google it, but I can’t possibly do justice to it. The Wiki article is here, and all you need to do is use your browser’s Find function for "The Effects of Hurricane Katrina". I guarantee that I have never suffered as much as those people, and I pray

with all of my heart that I never will.

I suspect that my words won’t turn anyone reading this into a fan, but a search for "New Orleans Cinderella Story" would be a good place to start.

They finished 3-13 in 2005, after playing their entire season away from New Orleans. There was no reason to expect anything short of another year of struggles. Instead, as has been written about far more eloquently than I can, New Orleans captured the hearts of America, winning their division and progressing to the NFC Championship this afternoon, the first time in their history, one victory away from the Super Bowl. This season has been the culmination of nearly two decades of desire on my part.

Unfortunately, that victory did not come. I thought they would prevail, midway through the third quarter, the score tight and the Saints marching. In a span of minutes, the wheels fell off and the dreams of fans everywhere spilled out onto the tundra of Soldier Field, trampled underneath the aggressive play of the Chicago Bears.

39 years. 7 winning seasons.

In some ways, it sounds remarkably like my life, just with a few more empty years added onto the end. I’m hoping the years ahead of me aren’t filled with disappointment and loss. When I feel the most alone, when it seems like everyone is digging out their paper bags and turning their backs, I cling to the thought that somewhere, sometime, I’ll find a fan of my own, who rather than jumping on the nearest bandwagon, will cheer for me as loudly during the losing seasons as the winning ones, steadfastly at my side, a partner, a teammate, for all time.