Four Stages of Fan Frustration...June 28, 2009

Brett Favre is getting on my last nerve.  I am a Green Bay fan and have been since before birth.  Favre, one of our greatest players, is again acting strangely, which brings my Packer-hating “friends” great satisfaction.  I have run out of ways to explain his actions.   I am officially a Frustrated Fan.  There are four stages of Fan Frustration:

1.  Denial.  This is the stage where you hear the news on sports talk and you know you have not heard it right.  No way, Brett announced his retirement already.  He cried real tears.  He can’t be thinking of coming back.  And he can’t possibly play for another team.    

2.  Anger.  This is the stage where diehard fans begin to criticize what was once their hero.  You’ll see the humorous signs at the stadium, read some great blogs, and notice that the callers on talk radio have turned against Brett.  You fight this anger because it goes against the loyalty you had to the player.  Then you find yourself wearing a t-shirt that says, “We’ll Never Forget You, Bert”

3.  Bargaining.  The bargaining stage is when former fans now say things like, “If only Brett had been treated better here at Green Bay… Well, okay, he can play for the Jets, just not any of our rivals…I sure hope that someone gives him a job outside of quarterbacking so he can move on with his life…Maybe Donald Trump can hire him for Celebrity Apprentice.”

4.  Acceptance.  You pop a beer and say, “To hell with it.  Bring on the Vikings!”

Bark in the Park...May 21, 2009    

The Cincinnati Reds had a game on May 19th that allowed fans to bring their dogs.  Dogs and their owners sat in a section that was reserved just for them.  Ticket package with the dog was $25, human tickets were $17, making dog tickets only $9.  This unique idea helped to increase ticket sales, something their team’s been unable to do on its own.  

Reds merchandise doesn’t exactly fly off the shelf.  Their marketers need to take note--this dog population is an entirely new group that the Reds could sell their goods to.  Little doggie hats, bandanas, and jerseys at steep prices.  Dog toys with the Reds logo.  And, along with hot dogs, vendors could sell Kibbles and Biscuits.  For the humans, a choice between Red Dog and Flying Dog beer.

The dogs in attendance Tuesday night watched the game more closely than the humans.  The majority of them were disappointed with the fielding of the ball.  Some howled at the pitching.  There were a couple of fights in the stands.  A few were thrown out for indecent licking.  One held a sign that said “Pedigrees Against PEDs (Performance Enhancing Drugs).   Another, who when interviewed, gave his name only as Rover said, “This is a great time.  It makes Cleveland’s Dawg Pound look like a joke.”

Dogs at baseball games are not an entirely new concept.  The Greensboro Grasshoppers bat dog, “Master Yogi Berra,” recently became infamous for crapping on the field in the middle of his shtick.  Fans loved it.  The YouTube video clip of the event has had almost 20,000 hits (and after this blog will most likely get two more).  Incidentally, the Greensboro team has another bat dog named “Miss Babe Ruth.”  That name brings to mind the pool scene from Caddyshack with the Baby Ruth bar.  I’m sure that if fed properly, Babe won’t disappoint the fans.

The Fish Whisperer...May 18, 2009

My nephew, Calahan, is 12 years old and addicted to fishing.  He gets ready for school extra fast so he can run to the lake and fish before the school bus arrives. 

Last summer, there was a fishing tournament on the lake we live on in northern Wisconsin.  Cal and my niece Brenna, 10, were allowed to enter the competition.  The adult supervision wasn’t too swift as we did not really understand the rules of this tournament and so when all the other competitors started at 8 am, we were still in bed.  We thought Cal and Brenna didn’t start until 10 am.  Unfortunately, 10 am was when they were supposed to come in and weigh their catch at the half way mark. 

So, these two kids were on the short end of the stick without a boat or bait when we realized the deal.  Instead of crying or pouting, they did what most kids from dysfunctional families do—they adapted.  As the fishermen came in to have their morning catch weighed and counted, Cal and Brenna stood in the water waiting.  When the fish were released back into the water, stunned, but alive, Cal and Brenna would catch them with their hands and put them in their bucket.  It was amazing how many fish they caught; they were like little bear cubs at the running of the salmon.

The next most amazing thing I witnessed was what Cal would do to revive fish that were floating on their sides.  He would hold their mouths open and move them around in the water, forcing water into their lungs (or whatever that’s called in fish).  Then he would let them go and they would swim off. 

The “Fish Whisperer” and his partner ended up coming in fifth place in the competition.  They won a beer koozie.  After that final weigh-in, I noticed a fish floating on its side.  I watched Cal pick it up and work his magic.  The fish slowly swam off, saved.  As we cheered its survival, a seagull swooped down into the water and snatched that fish. 

Narcissist Island...April 30, 2009

Reality shows are a big hit in our country, and for the most part, they are entertaining.  I have an idea for a reality show starring athletes with tremendous potential but poor judgment. 

The concept is that the group lives in seclusion together and must prevent each other from making stupid decisions, which will tempt them daily.  When they make the right choice, they get food.  People will tune in to watch the super egos try to avoid the pitfalls of bad decisions in order to survive.

The first season’s contestants would be Michael Vick, Dennis Rodman, Alex Rodriguez, and Plaxico Burress.   The show’s host will be Pete Rose.

Day One will be easy.  They will be given the choice of investing their signing bonus money into a 3% interest savings account or into Bernie Madoff’s guaranteed Double Your Money account. 

Day Two will introduce them to a litter of puppies abandoned by their mother and some feeding bottles of formula. 

On Day Three, they awake to find boxes of performance enhancing drugs and vials of clean urine and blood to use if tested.

The challenge on Day Four is a fun one.  A fully stocked mini-bar is brought into the house.  So are the keys to a Bentley and weapons that can be easily concealed.

Day Five brings them to Las Vegas to Sports Bet.

By Day Six, they are hostile and turning on one another, having been deprived of food for five days.  The show has no host, as he disappeared in Las Vegas.  It is bedlam.  Given this madness, the show’s producers have no choice but to bring in The Mediator, Bobby Knight.

The Name Game...April 17, 2009

I was recently in Washington, DC listening to local sports radio, which referred to the Nats and the Caps.  The Nats are their baseball team, not to be confused with gnats, the annoying bug.  It’s a shortened version of their full name, the Nationals.  The Caps are their hockey team, not named after head gear preferred by balding men, but a one-syllable abbreviation of their real name, the Capitals.

Just think of the poor Naming Committee that must have spent weeks coming up with the perfect names for these teams only to have them shortened to words that have different meanings. 

This is not just a problem in DC.  This is epidemic.  There are the Bucs, Yanks, Boys, Pack, Cards, Pats, Mavs, and Niners to name a handful.  And then there are the Sox.  They have twice as many fans as most. 

The shortest of all team names is the A’s.  Alas, it too has been shortened from Oakland Athletics.  It’s lucky for us that other teams haven’t gone to just one initial or it would be real confusing to the sports world.

Some teams that have been around a long time, such as the Giants, Mets, Jets, Bears,  Lions, and Rams were originally given short names and I think that’s because those sophisticated naming committees didn’t exist back then.  Just loud fans that didn’t want to shout four syllable words when cheering for their teams. 

Only the extra large fan can wear a t-shirt that has enough room to have Buccaneers or Knickerbockers across it.  Forget about putting it on a sign, it would block the view of an entire section.  Plus, how many fans can even spell those words?   And then there’s a team brazen enough to have two words—yep, the Portland Trail Blazers.  I would not want to be a sports announcer for their games.

Was it just random or planned that the Jets and Mets rhyme?  Chicago put some thought into team names because it has the Bears and the Cubs, which could be related.  It also has the Bears and the Bulls (eat your heart out Wall Street).

Birkie Beard...February 11, 2009

My hair stylist’s boyfriend is going to compete in the American Birkebeiner, which is North America’s largest cross country ski marathon.  It is a 51 kilometer race affectionately known as the Birkie.  Her boyfriend has already run many marathons and competed in iron man competitions.  He is in great condition for this race. 

But is he ready for the cold?

He claims he is.  He has purchased the best cold weather gear that allows his body to breathe and move in the conditions.  And he has grown a beard to ensure that the icy wind in his face will not distract him in this quest through the snow.

Here is how I envision it:

The first dozen kilometers—his sinuses will adjust to the frigid weather and in doing so will drain.  He cannot grab a tissue from his pocket or wipe his snot on his sleeve because his arms are busy with the poles.  Plus, that would look sissy.  He will snort it into his lungs or let it run.

The second dozen kilometers—he is no longer cold so his sinuses have stopped draining.  That is a relief.  He is in a comfort zone with his body.  The mucus he snorted into his lungs is irritating him and needs to be spit out.  

The next dozen kilometers – he is sweating. He has been moving for a long time and is thirsty. Even in the winter temperatures, he wants to shed his clothes and guzzle a bottle of water, but he can’t do so because it would break his stride. 

The last dozen kilometers – his body is now sweating profusely.  Sweat is running down his back, neck and face.  They say the lean body is 75% water.  He’s down to about 15%. There is nothing dry at all about his dry wick clothes.  Every drop of fluid in his body is draining from his pores.

The finish line is in sight.  This man has cross country skied for 51 kilometers.  He is spent.  He searches the crowd at the finish line for his girlfriend.  All he wants to do is to embrace and kiss her. 

She can’t be found.  She is running like a scalded ape to evade the ten pound snotsicle where once a beard was. 

Up North Meets Down Under...February 3, 2009

We went to a local pub here in northern Wisconsin to watch the Super Bowl. There was a pot luck dinner set up on the pool table and we were with a number of friends and were familiar with all the patrons that were there.  Then in walked a stranger.  When he ordered a beer, the bartender had a hard time understanding him and I detected some sort of speech impediment.

Then he sat with us and introduced himself and the puzzle on his speech impediment was solved.  He was Australian.  He is in America to demonstrate his invention of an artificial cow vagina, the latest in Aussie cow fertility treatments.  Wisconsin is just one of his many stops.

We treated him like an old friend, how else can you treat a vagina inventor?  We warned him about what to avoid on the pot luck table (didn’t want to see him leave here with his artificial vagina and an e coli infection, could cause harassment from his friends).  Then we explained the game of American football to him.

We told him what a simple game football is to follow.  Then as the game progressed and we explained things to him, I realized that it really is not a simple game to explain. 

“There are two ways to score, a touchdown or field goal…oh, and the point after kick…unless they try to run it in for a two point conversion, but that’s only used in situations where the score is, um, well, that’s hard to explain.”

All discussion would cease during the commercials, those required focus.  That puzzled him -- in his country commercials are just a necessary pain.  We explained to him that is how it is here as well, 364 days of the year, with the exception being the Super Bowl. 

He wondered why Ben Brown, punter for the Arizona Cardinals, a fellow Australian, wasn’t on the field.  We tried to explain that the punter is not really wanted on the field too often.

I became the pub translator of our new friend with the unique invention and funny way of talking.  We would introduce him to other patrons and then laugh at how perplexed they were as they strained to understand him…”You invented what?” 

After the game, his country-mate Ben Brown said in an interview, “We busted our arse out there.”  I was able to interpret this due to my vast translation experience.

We confused our foreign friend even more when we cheered for the numbers we had in the pool.  “Numbers in the pool?”  “Oh, not a pool to swim in, but a gambling pool.  You see there are 100 squares and you buy a square and then numbers get put on your square and if those numbers come up at the end of a quarter, you win.”  Another simple concept that is not so easy to explain.

Next in the game came the safety on Kurt Warner.  More explaining to do “When we told you there were two ways to score, we forgot about the safety…not sure why it’s called a safety…oh, when we told you a safety was when a quarterback got tackled in his own end zone we also forgot to add that in a third down situation if there is a holding penalty, that is also a safety.”

When there were two and a half minutes left in the game, he started to get his coat on.  We had to tell him that two and a half minutes could go for 15-20 minutes because of the two minute warning and all the time outs, stopping the clock with the passing game and clock management.

Not So Subliminal Suggestion..., January, 6, 2008

I am resolved to get in better shape in 2009 and lose some weight.  So, I had a small portion dinner and was sipping on my 64 calorie beer as I sat down to watch the Tostitos Fiesta Bowl game last night between the University of Texas and The Ohio State University. 

The first thing I noticed was the center of the field was painted with the giant Tostitos label.  I started to get hungry.  It was great when the teams were in the red zone because then I wasn’t being reminded about chips by a 10 foot long logo.  But then the camera scanned the sidelines and I saw the Tostitos’ label on top of the down marker.  My stomach growled.  It was like watching a scary movie, where I attempted to keep looking away –but instead of trying to avoid a bloody scene, it was so I wouldn’t crave chips. 

I made it to the half but by now I’m feeling like Pavlov’s dog.  Every player on both teams was wearing a patch on their uniform with the Tostitos’ label.  Every time the camera would close in on a player, I would feel the starvation wave over my body.  I finally told my husband that I just had to have some chips.  He looked at me and told me to eat some grapes. 

He is recently returned from a deployment to Afghanistan and he is brave enough to tell me to eat grapes?  Does he not know that is dangerous territory?  I have just watched over an hour of football being teased by chips and I’m supposed to be satisfied with grapes?  I stomped to the kitchen, got out a bag of chips, waved them in front of his face and ate some to satisfy the craving and then ate some more to show him that I’m not being bossed by him.

Now I have a curious thought.  If a bowl game named after a chip worked on my psyche, I wonder if my car would be clean if I had watched the Meineke Car Care Bowl?  

And what if there were a bowl game sponsored by Viagra?  It would give a whole new meaning to 3rd and Long.

Frozen Tundra, December 15, 2008

My sister, my brother and his girlfriend and I went to the Packers game last Sunday.   High temperature for the game was 17 degrees, it was 0 when we departed for the game.

We drove to the game wearing only 8 layers of clothing and put the rest on in the car when we arrived at the stadium. This is a great challenge, as you cannot move too much with all these layers, yet you are trying to lift your leg to put it into ski pants. Oh, it helps to take the boots off before putting the ski pants on. But don't touch your sock to the floor of the car because it's puddled with melted snow.

Once dressed, we stepped out of the car and made our own tailgate party. The car next to us was tailgating with bottled beer.  As soon as they opened a bottle, they had enough time for one sip before the beer froze solid. It was amazing. Our cans were not freezing. We were using straws to drink so we could insert them through the holes in our knit scarves. The bottle boys tried to put hand warmers on their bottles to keep the beer from freezing, but that didn't work. They offered to trade us 2 bottles of beer for one can. What did they think we were, stupid?

The night before the game I had made 4 poster boards, one for each of us to hold up. They were very professionally done, with creative messages. We got to our seats and the first opportunity to hold up the signs came and two women about 8 rows in front of us held up their signs with the exact message I had put on two of my signs. And these weren’t those unoriginal D-Fence signs. 

I brought a hefty bag full of goods into the game, and a lot of people in line were curious about what was in it. Truth be known, it contained a thick blanket and a bath mat (to sit on). Security didn’t even check the bag, I could have had a case of beer in it. 

Once at our seats, my brother refused to climb under the blanket with us and said the bath mat was probably loaded with dead skin cells. When my sister and I would have to leave our seats to go to the bathroom, we would kindly cover the men in front of us (which kept the blanket out of the slush) and tell them, "Here you go boys, warm up a bit." When we walked out, that blanket weighed about 45 pounds, it had soaked up so much water and other spilled liquids.

There was a drunk guy about 5 seats down from us who took his shirt off and kept it off through the third quarter.  He would stand up and yell and wave his chicken arms in the air.  He was thin, but around his waist had some fat, which turned dark red from the cold.  His girlfriend would stand up next to him when he’d do the yelling and proudly put her arms around him.  A couple of times they made out because she found him so irresistible.  Early in the fourth quarter, he was doing this routine and lost his balance and fell on the guy in front of him who told him to get his coat on, sit down, and shut up.  Not a peep from him the rest of the game.

This game was a learning experience.  Don’t bring bottled beer when the temperature is less than 20 degrees.  Bath mats really can help keep your butt from freezing to the metal seats.  Even the most creative signs may not be unique.  And lastly, people who take their shirts off during the game are probably drunk, but can be found attractive by other drunks.

Thanks for the Turkey, NFL November 26, 2008

The NFL’s Thanksgiving Classic dictates that the Detroit Lions play every Thanksgiving Day.  They have done so since 1934.  Given the fact that they are a winless team, I think it’s time for the NFL to reconsider this tradition. 

Occasionally, common sense has to supersede tradition.  My family’s historical stuffing recipe contained all the body parts that come out of the bag in the turkey’s cavity.  That includes such enticing things such as heart, liver, and gizzards.  About five years into our marriage, we were eating the stuffing, picking out all the gross stuff, when we decided this was a tradition that needed to be tossed along with the leftover stuffing.

Holidays and sports are another great tradition.  Bowl games are watched during the Christmas and New Year’s holidays.  Families plan their meals around them.  Across America, cities celebrate the 4th of July or Labor Day holiday with sporting events, such as baseball, golf tournaments, and marathons.  Then there is Thanksgiving.  We eat our dinner and the NFL entertains us with some traditional football.  Pass the salt.

Even America’s traditional Thanksgiving meal of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie isn’t the original.  The first Thanksgiving, in 1621, also served deer, eel, lobster, seal and swans.  Yes, swans.  And it didn’t have pumpkin pie or mashed potatoes.   So, we learn from history that Americans adapt and traditions adapt with them.  We no longer watch the Thanksgiving Classic around a 19” screen adjusting the rabbit ears with tin foil to get a better picture.  

What the Rut? November 11, 2008

My friend Sally’s new car just incurred $4,000 damage after a deer hit her.  The Sheriff told her that rutting season has officially arrived in northern Wisconsin.  Rutting is when the male deer become aroused and run blindly after doe scents.  They fight other bucks, make deep noises, rub their antlers on trees, and throw caution to the wind.  It’s like a typical night at Studio 54 in the late 70’s in New York City, except these bucks get lucky more frequently.

Rutting also signals the start of hunting season.  The hunters amuse me, they splash on deer urine, wear antlers around their necks so they can “rattle” them to attract the bucks (who are supposed to be tricked that there is a buck fight over a sexy little doe), and sit for hours in a deer stand waiting for that massive, elusive buck to wander into their shot range.

The deer hunters are out from dawn until dusk and then drink beer, eat, and tell their stories at night.  They lament about the one that got away.  They argue about what buckshot is the best for hunting.  They brag about the woman on the outskirts of town known as “Swamp Buck,” which means big rack, tainted meat. 

When they were kids, my sister Kim and her friend found a deer head in a neighbor’s garbage.  They took it to our Catholic grade school’s convent, placed it outside the door, rang the bell and ran.  Yep, doorbelling with a deer head.  I wonder if the nuns felt threatened or knew it was a kids’ prank.  Based on the way they meted punishment that fall, I think they had their suspicions.

I try not to drive much during rutting season, which is a great season for auto body shops.  Also keeping me off the road are the many vehicles with carcasses attached.  That in itself is a statement.  Yep, there goes Maynard with his trunk half open, and look at the lifeless eyes staring out.  Sure hope he gets that beauty mounted. 

Spontaneous Celebration? October 30, 2008

The Phillies won the World Series and I stayed tuned after the game ended just to watch the celebration.  The closer, Brad Lidge, dropped to his knees –either to give thanks to the Lord or to brace himself for the other players piling on.  Within a minute, there was a massive pile of happy men acting like boys.  Then the spontaneity ended. 

Suddenly, all those players were wearing shirts and hats that proclaimed their championship.  Yes, you too can own this official MLB gear.  Ditch those weeks old Division Champion items and sport the World Series ones.  I’m surprised a 1-800 number did not scroll across the bottom of the screen.  Next, the trophy was presented, MVP named, short speeches were made, and out came the newspaper with the “Champs” headline.  Gee, this was all feeling so staged, but not well choreographed.

I think it’s amusing to watch grown men shake up champagne and spray it at one another.  I was once at a celebration where a bottle of champagne was being passed around and I took a swig, it bubbled down my throat and then came out my nose.  I watched to see that happen, but I didn’t see it.  These days, the celebration occurs in a plastic covered locker room with celebrants receiving goggles to protect their eyes.   

Say It Isn’t So, Brett: October 21, 2008

There is a barn located about 40 miles from Green Bay that is painted with the words “4 Ever in Our Hearts.”  No one driving by this barn has any doubt over what those words mean.  Wisconsin has had a 16 year love affair with Brett Favre. 

When Brett announced he was going to retire, the fans were saddened; he was such an integral part of the success of the Packers and also a prolific member of the community.  Then when he announced that he was un-retiring and flew to Green Bay in early August, there was confused euphoria, one tavern sold 4 cent beers to celebrate.  The next day, he announced it would not work out and suddenly he was in a Jets uniform.

Packers fans remain loyal to Brett Favre.  Listen to sports radio and the fans reminisce about him.  Watch any Packers game and you’ll see Number 4 jerseys throughout the crowd.  Of course, some of those are because people are thrifty and they will wear that jersey until it falls apart.  That farmer who painted his barn spent a lot of time and money to show his love for Brett.  Fans still go to tailgate at Brett’s Steakhouse in Green Bay. 

Apparently, that loyalty may not be a two-way street.  It was reported Sunday that Favre has been leaking insider information on the Packers to opposing teams.   If these allegations are true, what a disappointment it brings to so many fans to suddenly realize that Favre has become a modern day Benedict Arnold.  Benedict Arnold was a Revolutionary War general who became frustrated and bitter and opposed some of the decisions being made, so he changed sides.  Favre is a Field general who faced similar emotions.  In the end, Arnold’s reputation as a traitor is his legacy.  I hope that won’t be the case with Favre.

Green Bay fans have a sense of humor and a love of tailgating.  I expect to see some great signs at the next home game and I also anticipate there may be “Turncoat” themed tailgates.  That could include a burn pile for all those Number 4 jerseys and turning his tearful retirement speech into a party game, every time a tear drops you take a swig.  

Fowl Hunting, October 14, 2008

I awoke to the sound of gunshots on Saturday morning.  No, I don’t live in Afghanistan, but I do live on a lake.  Duck hunting season has begun.

My first indicator of duck season was when I pointed out a homecoming float driving down the street.  My friends laughed at me and said it wasn’t a float, it was a duck blind.  It’s covered in camouflage netting and conceals the hunters from the ducks. Hey hunters, just come to my house.  No concealment necessary, the ducks have been here all summer crapping on my dock.

My brother once went goose hunting to North Dakota and said that the blinds where he hunted did not look like homecoming floats, they were very sophisticated.  He explained that the hunters would lie on their backs in the blinds and when the geese were flying over, doors located over the hunters’ bodies opened so the hunters could take their shots.  Then the extremely well-trained dogs would come out of their camouflaged igloos and retrieve the birds and place them in containers near the blinds.

I can appreciate a well-trained hunting dog.  For 14 years, we owned an English Pointer, who was not so well trained.  She could point beautifully and could run like a gazelle.  She could even retrieve.  Unfortunately, she didn’t have a soft mouth and wouldn’t return with the dove.  Like Forrest Gump, she just kept running.  When she would return, she was always coated in whatever dead animals she had rolled on. 

Quail and dove are known for being tasty fowl, but a hunter has to shoot a whole bunch of them to make a decent sized meal.  Then there’s the wild turkey, famous for its reputed appearance at the first Thanksgiving.  A few years back, during turkey hunting season, my brother shot a wild turkey.  Mom dressed it and had a big dinner event.  The meat was succulent and it was a wonderful family memory until mom bit into a BB and took out half a tooth.  It cost her $500 to get that tooth crowned.

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