PARIS—And so what if I hate winners?
Does that make me a bad sports fan? A good fan? A bad person? A good person? Who knows. Mostly I think it just makes me a monumentally confused person.
I’ll admit it. All things being equal, all loyalties and betting interests aside, I’m cheering for the underdog.
I have two unconditional sports loyalties: the Canucks and the Blue Jays. You can add any Canadian team or individual competing internationally to that list. And that’s about it. In matters sporting, I’m an Aristotelian communitarian first, a Millsian utilitarian second. Because when the big dog wins, a couple of people are happy. When the little dog wins, it gives millions of little dogs around the world hope.
Oh, I’ve tried on a few crushes in my day. Sometimes we get along famously. And sometimes it all goes so wrong.
Mlle Trotter doesn’t see it quite this way. She’s more blunt, whenever I bitch to strangers in bars, or at cocktail parties, or on the metro, about a former flame – the Packers, the Red Sox, the Patriots. Federer. The Spaniards.
“Oh, Andrew? Don’t mind him. He hates winners.”
Is she right? Do I hate winners? Is that why, after four lusty honeymoon years spend rooting for the home team in Boston, the Red Sox won the series and suddenly I couldn’t stand them anymore? Is that why the once-pitiful Patriots franchise went from penthouse to drags-of-the-outhouse in my books in a span of four years (three of which produced Super Bowl victories)?
Is this why I showed up at Carr’s bar in Paris last Tuesday, at 5pm, to watch the inauguration ceremonies and down a beer or two with some joyous, exuberant American expats, thrilled that after 8 long years they no longer need to pretend to be Canadians, but when I saw the place packed-to-the-gills with … winners … I turned tail? Is Obama now somehow the evil empire, the Goliath? What the…?!?!?!
Mlle Trotter would tell you that she’s right, because she always thinks she’s right. But she would also argue, perhaps convincingly, that once I adopt the underdog, and the underdog wins, I’m often left feeling disassociated. Suddenly the underdog isn’t my underdog anymore. It’s like when the secret, obscure band you’ve always loved suddenly blows up, sells a million albums, places a couple songs in the new Hyundai marketing campaign. At that point I start saying things like, “Well, I never really liked Modest Mouse anyways” or “the Flaming Lips’ old stuff is better. Trust me, kid.”
I’ve been thinking about it a bit this week. I normally don’t like to think about these things very hard. But here’s my early analysis:
It’s not the Goliath that I abandon. It’s the crowd, the winners, David’s cheering section. The Israelites, previously adorable and doomed, now pumping fists and beating chests and wearing authentic pink David ballcaps and selling out the stadium, pricing out the loyal fans to make room for corporate folks who don’t even know how rocky-slingy is actually played. Everyone suddenly acting like they were big shit all along.
Please excuse the tortured analogy. Sometimes I have a little too much time to waste on Wikipedia.
Anyways. Normally I’m not the sort of writer to tackle the hard questions – the “what’s it all mean?” I leave that existential stuff to men like Ed, to women like Chantelle. I like the concrete, the clear, the evident. Winners, losers, jokes – that’s my beat. So I’m a little out of my element, trying to figure out the what and the why of my FAI (Frontrunner Abandonment Issues).
Also, I’m a little worried, because I mentioned in this space, earlier this month, that I was, maybe, yes, becoming a Pittsburgh Steelers fan. And suddenly Mlle Trotter, who was tickled pink by this revelation (though she’d never wear a pink baseball hat), is worried. What if the Steelers win Super Bowl XLIII on Sunday? Will I turn against them, the big winners?
If I have any new insights into this problem in the coming weeks, I’ll let you know. But then again, if the world one day suddenly makes sense to me, if I feel like I’ve figured it all out, am I any different than a Red Sox fan? I would never admit to that.
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