Over a beer the other evening, my friend Mort said that football players are the third most boring people in the U. S. of A. He awarded the second slot to sportscasters, then went on to say that the fans are the biggest bores of all. Mort tends to make silly lists like that when he’s drinking. Give the man a few brews and he’ll go off the deep end every time.
We were in our favorite neighborhood bar just around the corner from his house, enjoying a cold one and playing darts. Mort, like always, was winning. The funny thing is the more he drinks the better he shoots, and the more he wins the more outrageous his opinions become. Most of his conversational bombshells don’t bother me because I know how he is. I know he likes to drop them just to see what sort of reaction he’ll get—to see me flinch—so I usually let his outlandish statements just lie there. But this time I got upset; the crack about football fans was downright mean. So I came back at him with, “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
Mort took the time to score his first bull’s eye before he turned to me and said, “Have you ever listened to one of those pests talk once the pre-season games begin—or even during the draft?”
“Mort, I’m a fan myself.”
“But you’re the exception that proves the rule. You’re intelligent—more-or less—but ninety-nine percent of football fans have never had an original thought in their heads. Everything they have to say about their favorite game is warmed-over sportscaster prattle they’ve gleaned from guys like John Madden. And the worst part is they can’t wait to inflict their secondhand insights on anyone within earshot.”
“It’s a free country, Mort. You don’t have to listen.” I tossed my first dart, which missed the board and stuck in the men’s room door.
“Wrong!” Mort said. “In my office after every game those dunderheads call a meeting near my desk to discuss its finer points. Loud. Over and over and over. I’m force-fed boring football stats and idiotic athletic clichés which have been lifted, word-for-word, from some sportscast, and delivered as Revealed Wisdom.”
“When that happens, Mort, just take a break. Go take a leak.”
“You kidding? It’s even worse in the bathroom. Football fans are stationed at every urinal and stall, ready to talk the ears off the trapped souls who at that moment have no choice in the matter. Others buttonhole innocent hand-washers at the sinks. It never occurs to those dimwits that just because you’re male, it doesn’t automatically follow that you’re interested in childish pro football drivel.”
“Really, Mort, you’re overstating the problem.” My second dart struck the target’s metal rim and fell to the floor. I ignored it. “What’s the harm of a little fan chatter? And anyway, it’s only—what, how many games are there in a complete season?” Right off I was sorry I had asked such a basic question and was glad when Mort didn’t notice, or just ignored me.
“Nothing’s wrong with it, if it were only once in a while. The fact is, though, football fans give equal weight to each game, and they discuss it all week long with an intensity usually reserved for an event like the Second Coming. Then the cycle starts again, from scratch. Same crap commentary week after week. The fan’s endless jock-jabber begins to wear really thin by the end of the season.”
Mort shot another bull’s eye. I could see where this game was going, but I got lucky and during my next series I scored a clean ten, which made me feel a little better; at least I wouldn’t be snookered. “Mort,” I said, “you just have a low boredom threshold.”
“Only when it comes to football talk. I get fed up starting with the first reports from training camp.” He fired a thirty-pointer, then said, “Look, buddy, I love the game of football—it’s just the boorish and boring fans I can’t stand. Most of ’em have the social graces of a chimpanzee and the I. Q. of a cucumber.”
“That’s a rash generalization, Mort. The fans I know are—”
He cut me off. “Just listen to ‘em. Like for instance that wild and crazy guy at every home game, the one who leads the team cheers. He’s there every Sunday, skunky-drunk, making a fool of himself and annoying everyone around him, and it’s not just because of his body odor.”
“Not everybody,” I said. “Some of us enjoy the way he really gets into the spirit of the game.” With my next series I managed to score 20 points on the first dart, but the other three somehow wound up in the wall. “Anyway,” I said, “that guy is a bad example of your average football fan.”
“Or a good one, depending on your point of view. The grown men are the worst, you know. They’re little boys in large bodies—with skulls as thick as a lineman’s thighs.”
By this point I was at a loss for words. I had to admit that a lot of Mort’s rant was spot on. The interminable discussion of obscure football facts, the endless repetition of certain trite phrases like “We can win it all if the team stays healthy,” and the childish bantering arguments that fans indulge in does get old fast, even for a dyed-in-the-wool fan like me. But I would never admit that to Mort. I pointed to the darts in his hand. “Your shot.”
Mort toed the line and leaned in toward the board. He slowly raised his right hand, a dart pinched between thumb and forefinger, squinted into the bar gloom, and said, “Wait. I’ve changed my mind. Football fans are really victims. They’re like those suckers that P. T. Barnum said are born every minute.” He flicked his wrist and let the dart fly straight for the bull’s eye—”thunk!” Mort took a deep breath, raised the second dart into firing position and said, “Their worst sin is allowing themselves to be manipulated by slick businessmen who, in order to stimulate ticket sales, regularly threaten to move the team to another city.” Flick—”thunk!”— another bull. Mort smiled, then took a sip of beer. “The team owner’s—those powerful rich guys scheming for more cash to feed their greed—they’re the real bores.”
Couldn’t argue with that. I decided to go to the men’s room rather than watch Mort throw his last dart. I had to, I couldn’t bear it any longer.
A version of this satirical fiction was originally published in the Baltimore Evening Sun on September 21, 1979. Back then it was about baseball fans; but now, since we’re into the football season, I decided to switch it for the blog rewrite. I’ve changed the game, but it doesn’t matter; rabid sports fans—the worst of them—exhibit the same extreme behavior anywhere there’s a ball to pitch, swat or punt. Copyright © 2008 Jim Sizemore.