SPORTS COLUMNIST The Loyal Sports Fan
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hat it means to be a patriot—not to be confused with the Bill Belichick definition. True patriotism spans across the 50-nifty, the greatest country on planet Earth and the winner of back-to-back world wars. “From the mountains, to the prairies, to the oceans white with foooooam.” Patriotism in the professional sports realm is born from and embraced by those who stand and kindly remove their cap for the singing of the national anthem, and wearing red, white and blue—or gold, orange, green, purple, black and the like on game days. Shell out that Andrew Jackson for a hot dog and a nice cold brew- hopefully a local one. Embrace the freedom to relentlessly boo, yell and curse players because they get paid millions more than you. It’s the American way. Game-goers think it’s a given right since tickets can cost $25 to $80 per seat for a pro football gamethen add extra money for parking and snacks. When sellout crowds may feel they’ve paid for behavior freedoms they cre-
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ate a perfect storm that parents wish they left their little ones at home. When the sellout crowd has more alcohol than blood coursing through its veins, and the masses are in beer lines or on the concourse searching for the beer lines. Refrain from the obscene or do so in moderation. If children are around, it could enrage the father who decided it was a good idea to take six-year-old Jimmy to his first baseball game on Opening Day. And when those once-a-year “fans” get back to wherever their ticket says they’re sitting, guess what they’re doing? Yelling, “Suck it, Mr. All-Star! My neighbor is better than you, and he’s a mailman!” Try blocking out those on the verge of a blackout, little Jimmy, and listen to your dad as he tries to explain on-base and slugging percentages to you in between handfuls of the trail mix mommy packed while she was ripping dad for his decision to take you to a baseball game on “idiot’s day out.” Aside from Jimmy’s first game experience, and those alcoholic one-timers who got company tickets from their boss and took that as an invitation to live life without morals at a public venue, there’s a different breed of humans filling stadiums across the country—genuine patriots. They’re the ones who support their team for the long haul and sport their favorite players’ jersey on a weekly basis. A mustard and beer stained pullover that bares smudged autographs of dudes who played a quarter-century ago, scores points towards genuine patriotism Don’t mistake these fans with those that participated in the Aaron Hernandez jersey swap at Gillette Stadium, home of the New England Patriots. Trading in their No. 81 jerseys of the guy who went into jail as a tight end, and will most likely leave as the opposite, if not acquitted of first-degree murder. These jersey-wearing patrons are the ones who live and die by what their NFL team does on Sunday afternoon, or Monday night, or sometimes Thursday or Saturday. The outlook of their whole week hinges on whether their team won or lost. These are the real patriots to the game. The ones who play fantasy football, tailgate five-plus hours before kickoff, take up four parking spaces with their Ford F-250’s and Chevy Silverados, grill masters and smorgasbords. The ones who fire back at the asshole in their section wearing a Tom Brady jersey and feels it’s necessary to yell, “all day baby!” after every completed pass. Take a look around, on the walk into the stadium, at the rows of cars with bumper stickers and personalized license plates that read, “#1 fan,” “Broncos4ever,”“RaiderH8er,” and at the poles hoisting team flags that fly under the stars and stripes. This is patriotism at its finest.