Identity in Fandom for a West Coast Transplant

Identity in Fandom for a West Coast Transplant

nba-fan-mapIt’s a common theme, seen across music, literature, and a variety of other mediums – the farther away we get from home, family, or friends, the stronger those internal bonds that tie us to our roots seemingly become. It may not manifest itself as homesickness or having taken things for granted in a past phase of life, but in moments where we exist outside of our comfort zones, we all have blueprints of who we are, based on where we came from, which govern our actions and relationships in these situations. Former heavyweight champion and chronic over-sharer Mike Tyson may not necessarily have thrived over the course of his extremely difficult upbringing, but it undeniably affected who he was as an athlete and subsequently shaped his perspective later in life. And so it goes for all of us, our backgrounds and the people and groups with which we associate giving us a sense of common ground. This all being a roundabout way of saying that regardless of latitude and longitude, sports fandom frequently finds a way of bringing us closer to home.

Sports fandom, you say? In recent years, social scientists, psychologists, and the like have dedicated pages of scholarly articles and numerous books towards attempting to get to the core of what the selection of favorite teams and individuals says about us, even developing objective measures to conduct scientific studies replete with p values, correlation coefficients, and other things that are far less exciting than watching Chris Paul throw a lob to Blake Griffin. It may not matter to you or I why these allegiances exist, but it certainly matters that they do exist. So while we’re on the topic of exceptionally boring and now-virtually-meaningless terms from our freshmen research classes, let’s look at a ‘case study’: me.

Before we go any further, it’s probably optimal for me to explain my mildly vagrant living situation. I moved out west some time ago, taking a job as a contract worker of sorts, which has led to frequent relocations (every 3-6 months) throughout the mountain and pacific time zones. No, I am not on the run from the law. But other than a permanent address on paper back east, I don’t really live anywhere. My complicated answer to the simple question “Where are you from?” has produced confusion in newfound acquaintances and suspicion in US Customs and Border Protection agents. At this juncture, “home” is more of a concept than a tangible object. And with that knowledge, we begin.

Long before the awkward days of puberty, I was a similarly-awkward little kid who LOVED the NBA. I lived in New York, my family was from New York, and pretty much everyone I had ever met was from New York; alas, my team was the Knicks. To this day, when I return to my parents’ home, on top of my old bed there is a Knickerbockers pillowcase adorning the Mickey Mouse comforter. Don’t judge. However, lurking nearby that bedspread of adolescent coolness are several binders full not of women, but of mid-90s basketball cards, one of which’s sole purpose is to house Reggie Miller memorabilia. Not just a few laminated sheets; an entire binder of two hundred plus cardboard cutouts of one of the biggest NY sports villains of my childhood. You see, somewhere along the line, as a means of figuring out my budding identity, I decided I wanted to be different. I wanted to go against the grain. And so, with as much thought as a ten-year-old boy can muster into a decision that would mildly impact the next decade or so of his life, a diehard Reggie Miller, and by the transitive property, Indiana Pacer, fan was born.

We know all the story lines and we’ve seen all the highlights. We don’t need to relive the eight points in eight seconds or, in contrast, the four point play. Did my support of the Pacers serve to differentiate myself from my peers? Definitely. Was my idolization of Reggie Miller a projection of my own perceived unpopularity and underdog attitude? Probably. Did it inadvertently (or perhaps very advertently) lead to me being picked on and teased in and out of school by both kids and adults? You betcha. But as I grew up, Reggie grew older, and following a frustrating season that featured the Malice at the Palace, he retired. Now in college, I still loved the NBA, but all of a sudden, I didn’t have anything to root for. Who was I? What did I value? Why was everyone around me wearing tie-dye?

To examine who we are as sports fans, we need to look at the reason we arrived at our current team and player preferences. For many of us, we were born into it. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to explain to someone that yes, I am a Yankee fan, no, that does not mean I am also a Laker, Cowboy, and Duke fan, and yes, my parents and grandparents had me in Yankees jumpers before I could roll from my back to my stomach. We find a sense of community and pride in rooting for the home team or our alma matter because their logos reflect a part of who we are and where we came from. Sure, there may be periods of frequent disappointment or players who are part of the team that we wish weren’t (cough, A-Rod), but we root for them anyway because they’re like family. And really, who hasn’t had an argument with a family member, or uttered the phrase “He’s from a different time” when an elderly relative says something embarrassing just a little too loudly and too publicly?

For others, picking our favorite teams was a conscious choice; here’s looking at you, twentysomething Chicago Bulls fans who have never been to the midwest. At the same time, having wanted as a child to be like Mike doesn’t mean your loyalty is any less strong or pure. It’s like choosing to hang out with your friends over your siblings. You chose one; you got stuck with one. Neither is better than the other. They’re just different.

Obviously, this is nowhere near an all-encompassing list of justifications for sports preferences. Maybe you dislike the Texas Longhorns because your ex grew up in Austin. Maybe you like the San Jose Sharks because you love wearing teal. Maybe you root for Mike Trout because he went to your high school. The point is, there’s a reason behind everything, however slight, and that reason is a part of us.

Back to my story. I remained in NBA limbo for those first few years after Reggie’s retirement, keeping an eye on the floundering Knicks purely out of proximity to the disaster area, whereupon I moved to DC after finishing up my degrees. While the Redskins, Capitals, and even now the Nationals have developed strong, loyal fan bases, the Wizards have lived in mediocrity or worse for quite some time. Tickets were cheap as a result of the general disinterest in the artists formerly known as the Bullets, making it easy to catch a game when there was an entertaining road team in town. In moments of exceptional boredom, I would even watch their local broadcast, which serendipitously led me to a turning point in my approach to following professional sports.

Technically, there were two things that drove me back towards my roots. But the first came in the form of one of those Wizards broadcasts, on an otherwise inconsequential night at an inconsequential time of the regular season. They were playing away against the Knicks that night. I remember seeing the floor of the Garden. And watching the crowd. And hearing the organ playing coupled with chants of “defense”. But these images didn’t make my blood pressure skyrocket or result in hate mail being composed for John Starks; they made me nostalgic. I thought of all the time I had spent walking around the city, all the games my dad took me to at MSG, all the Big East tournaments I had rushed home from school to watch. Perhaps it was in line with watching reruns of Jersey Shore just to hear the accents (which may or may not happen), but it made me feel at home.

The straw that broke the camel’s back arrived while I was watching the premier of the critically-acclaimed 30 for 30 documentary “Winning Time”, which chronicles those mid-90s Knicks vs. Hicks rivalries. There are a variety of things we could touch on regarding the film and I urge you to see it if given the chance, but the things that really stuck with me were the scenes where they showed Pacers fans’ reactions and interviews to the events of those springs. It was then that I realized, save for one internship spent living in rural Ohio near the Indiana border, that I had virtually nothing in common with the vast majority of this demographic in regards to upbringing, lifestyle, politics, and the lot. I am a New Yorker. I am not a Hoosier. Neither is better than the other. They’re just different.

These thoughts and ties back to the east coast have only felt stronger the longer and farther I have ventured from home. My wife, her family, and most of my DC friends are all big Redskins fans, so having not had true NFL allegiances (my dad kind of roots for the Raiders, but barely), I ended up getting sucked in during my time there. They were terrible those first few years and Dan Snyder is THE WORST (note to self: stop being affiliated with teams with reviled owners), but as you may have noticed, things got a lot more exciting this past season. So there we were, holing up in an airport waiting area to catch the remainder of the fourth quarter of Sunday Night Football, or waking up early to secure a spot and a TV to view the game at a bar in San Diego (underrated aspect of west coast life: beer and omelets for 10 AM games). At times it seemed inconvenient or maybe not even worth the effort, but the camaraderie we felt sitting at far-away locales with others from the District, not to mentioned the communications during the game via texts and Facebook posts with the people we missed back home, made it worth it. It gave us an anchor at a time when geographic proximity and stability aren’t exactly at a premium.

It’s easy to dismiss all this as fanatical people acting childish about silly little games. Perhaps at times it is. But there are also times where saying “I’m a big Patriots fan” can hold as much weight culturally as saying “I’m Jewish”. That may seem odd to think about, but we also live in a country where just as many people watch football over the weekend as attend religious services. So maybe it’s not that crazy after all.

As for me, I don’t know where or when I’ll settle down someday. But I do know that regardless of where I am right now, every once in a while I’ll sit down in front of the TV and watch one of my favorite teams play. Somewhere else, my family and friends will do the same. And for that moment, we’ll be connected.

Andrew Rose

About Andrew Rose

Andrew Rose is a writer and editor for Rookerville. He also manages a travel blog for his friends and family. His book, “Seizure Salad”, is a work of fiction - not in that it is a tale of fantasy, but in that it does not actually exist.

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