The Art of Being a Fan

Daughter Becky reporting in from Seattle.

On this, the 4 week anniversary of mom's death, I'm still filled with thoughts of her, I still hear her voice every couple of days when I have to re-save a treasured voice mail and I've begun wearing her pink robe, having moved the tissues from the one pocket into the other - consolidating - with a plan to never wash it and hope that it always smells, even a little bit, like her.

As I begin putting together her eulogy, I've been thinking of her role as a fan and how representative her love of the Rays was of all the players and teams of her life.  Her friends, her family, her many loved ones; we all formed one big team of effort, joy and triumph.  Mom was a great fan of baseball and of most sports, but she was absolutely best at being a fan of her friends.

Jimmy and I are basketball fans.

We lost our own NBA team in the off season, a band of Oklahoma City business men bought our Seattle Supersonics and moved them to OKC.  With the team went 42 nights of absolute delight for Jimmy and I. 

For the past 2 seasons, we sat in the 7th row behind the home bench and as Jimmy learned about the rules and strategies of the game, I studied how the coaches interacted with the players, tried to predict injuries by the mechanism of the impact and, sitting so close, especially enjoyed feeling like I was actually heard when I'd scream at a player, coach or referee.

In bad times a few seasons ago, I was a fan with a sign. 

Our coach was Bob Weiss and he was absolutely terrible.  Our record was absolutely terrible.

Back then and at this same time of year, I began wearing my Santa hat to games and made a pretty red and green holiday themed sign that said "All I want for Christmas is a new head coach." 

I felt Coach Weiss was blaming players for our dismal performance when his coaching was the real cause - he's not really a coach, he's more a friend and all the players were quoted as saying they weren't getting any direction from him or his staff. 

It was time for Bob to go and I was going to help him leave.

After Christmas passed, my sign changed to "It's not them Bob, it's you." 

He didn't last through the first week of January.

Jimmy carries one all-purpose sign and he only brings it when I bring a sign.  His sign says "I'm not with her."

I've had my share of fits at refs, opposing players, even other fans when they've behaved just slightly worse than me.

My worst moment, by far, as a fan came a bunch of years ago when Nate MacMillan's jersey was retired during half time at a Sonics game.  Nate was an assistant coach for our team then and if you've never seen a retirement ceremony, it's really neat. 

Dignitaries from the front office, the city, the league and the cream of our past player crop were all on hand.  One of the executives of our club was Wally Walker and he was so roundly hated by the fan base (for expensive and inane recruiting/trade decisions) that fans used to pitch in and hire an airplane to pull a banner that said "Wally Must Go" or "Fire Wally" around Key Arena for a couple hours before each game. 

Well, Wally Walker gave a speech early on in Nate's jersey retirement ceremony and I just couldn't help myself, with the arena dark and Wally speaking into the microphone, a few fans began boo'ing and I don't know what came over me - mob mentality, perhaps - but before I knew it, at the top of my considerable lungs I let out a "Wally You Suck" and he actually stopped talking, he was so shocked.  A round of applause, not just for me but for the whole defiant effort, erupted throughout the arena and Wally's speech was cut noticably short. 

In the press the next day, Wally said he was shocked by the reaction.  I took that as a personal accomplishment.

John, my seatmate for that game, told me he thought it was disrespectful to NATE to boo Wally but I disagreed, saying that if I was Wally's neighbor I could put a sign in his yard, if I shopped at the same grocery store as Wally I could give him a piece of my mind in the check out line or if Wally and I banked at the same branch, I could educate him waiting for the ATM.  But I never see Wally.  I don't know where Wally lives, shops, banks or eats. 

I had one chance and one chance only to let Wally know my thoughts.  And I did.  And it felt good.

It was many years before Wally was fired and all of town rejoiced when he left.  He's recycled in the industry, ruining someone else's organization.  Wally's a jerk.

And this year, at a WNBA game right after the City of Seattle totally sold out to the Oklahoma City ownership group and made a deal for the Supersonics to leave town, our Mayor, who I long ago unofficially named Captain Kangaroo, showed up at the Seattle Storm game. 

During the trial to move the Sonics, Mayor Roo admitted he'd only been to 2 Sonics games in more than a dozen years.  Then, within a few days, he's at a Storm game.  They showed him on the Jumbotron and the crowd boo'ing was so intense and immediate that they instantly took him down.  I realized I couldn't find him around the arena and that meant that he was probably sitting pretty close to Jimmy and I in our 3rd row behind the home bench.

Sure enough, with 6 minutes left in the 4th quarter and the Storm well ahead, the Capt'n and his wife (poor soul) made their way out, crossing just a few feet right in front of us. 

Realizing I do not know where Capt'n lives, shops or banks, I knew this was my one shot and I stood up and let him have it.

"Captain Kangaroo, you sold us out, you're an idiot, YOU move to Oklahoma City, you suck." 

Again, applause.  And surprisingly, catharsis. 

My team left.  Idiots bought them and moved them to one of the most ignorant and racist places in the country.  I went to all the rallies.  I called all the politians.  I spent ridiculous amounts of money on season tickets.  And, in the end, none of that mattered.  The Sonics are no more.  But screaming at the Capt'n, that felt great. 

Now, make no mistake about it.  This type of behavior displeases my mother greatly.  Foul language.  Angry tones.  Grimaces.  Mom expected more from me and yet, I just can't quite deliver.

Mom was a polite fan.  I am not. 

As she was dying, I'd be dealing with some emerging disaster with her illness, hovering over her, helping clean up, straighten out, comfort or administer and occasionally, I'd say a swear word. 

And all mom would do is say "Becky, that is not my favorite word." 

I think daddy, an excellent swearer, a bi-ingual swearer, in fact, perhaps desensitized mom to these things. 

To help Jimmy and I cope with being team-less in Seattle, I bought an 8 pack for the Trailblazers and last night was our first game. 

It was great to be in an arena again, only this time watching a good team with 17000 crazed fans, Nate MacMillan is the head coach for Portland and we sit 3rd row courtside, baseline between the Blazers bench and the basket.  Paul Allen, team owner, Microsoft founder and bazillionaire, sits 2 rows in front of us. 

We have good seats.

I took a sign and in honor of mom, it was a nice one.  Of course, I don't have anything to complain about.  Yet. 

Me and my sign made it onto the Jumbotron and Blazer fans came down the aisle just to see my sign and give me my asked-for and very theraputic hug.  The mascot dog-type-thing gave me a nice long embrace and kissed me with his round plastic black nose pushing into my face.  I was hoping for a hug from Paul Allen but his body guards would not have allowed it, I'm sure.  Maybe next game.

I will never be a fan like mom was a fan.  But she did appreciate my love of the game, my game, basketball, and I think she accepted that my fandom is like everything else about me;  different and not very polished but with my heart in the right place.  Unless you're Wally Walker.  Or Captain Kangaroo.

Love and prayers from here to there.

Blazers beat Sacramento by 1 point.