A Tale of Two Fans, and a Tale of Two Fans

Wife and I have had a NBA heavy week. Monday we were in San Antonio, to celebrate (among other things) Spring Break, St Patty's Day, and the Celtics being in town. We proudly donned our green, remembered the Alamo, had a second helping of chips & salsa, and rooted the C's to a come-from-behind victory.

Tuesday was historic as the Celtics then traveled to Houston and took on the Rockets (who were--stress WERE--on a 22-game winning streak). We shared in traveling back to Plano (through wind, rain, outlet malls and more) and watched the Emmy-worthy coverage on TNT as the C's unleashed a stifling defense to beat Houston.

Then came Thursday, when the Celtics traveled here, to Dallas, to take on the sliding Mavericks. It was a very good game, but in the end good prevailed over evil as the Celtics won.

This marks a season sweep of all three Texas teams for Boston. 2-0 versus San Antonio. 2-0 versus Dallas. 2-0 versus Houston.

The last team to successfully sweep all three in the same season was the Sacramento Kings in 2001. Boston has not done such since the 86-87 season, and its only the 4th time in 13 tries for them to do so.

So things are well in the land of the Leprechauns. It's been magically delicioso for certain.

Amongst all of the winning and NBA dominance that we saw, there was a revelation. The revelation first came to Wife, and then to yours truly.

What's the deal with the 'Fan'?

Fan #1. Let's call him Miguel. He sat behind us in San Antonio. He was late 50's, and donned his Spurs jersey sans undershirt. It was very smartly tucked into his Wranglers that left nothing of Little Miguel to imagine. Miguel had the Spurs logo tattooed on his arm. Yes, I'm serious. Miguel was what I'll call the "near-sighted fan." He knew the names of his players, but not the names of the opposing team. So, when he would call out the other team--he would yell Ray Joe Rondo (add a thick accent) to Rajon (pronounced Rah John) Rondo; he would say Sam Cassell's name as Sam Castle; and if he didn't know ANY of the player's name--well, he defaulted to calling them Kevin Garnett. That left us with the weird moments where there might be three or four Kevin Garnett's on the floor.

Now I can't completely fault Miguel for not knowing the complete rosters of both teams--not everyone is as endeared towards NBA nerdom as I am. However, Miguel's near-sightedness was not only displayed in his lack of cross-team knowledge, but also in being unable to accurately place blame or admit blame.

When the Spurs had a foul called against them--Miguel flipped his South Texas lid. How dare the refs call something. When the Celtics had a foul called against them--Miguel would stand, beat his chest, and air-hump the back of my noggin.

Miguel was passionate to the point of being unable to see past the ink-covered flesh on his arm.

Fan #2 (and her boyfriend). Let's call Fan #2 Shelly. Shelly lives in Dallas. She was a waitress in college and thinks she was the first person to like Sara Bareilles. She dates this guy, Gavin, who's got a full beard and wears Van slip ons. They're indie. But Gavin loves the Mavs. So Shelly loves the Mavs.

Therein lies the problem.

Gavin & Shelly sat behind us at the American Airlines Center on Thursday. Gavin may have a little sports quid-pro quo in his arsenal. He listens to local sports talk and then repeats the opinions he hears to Shelly. So Shelly then tries to express her limited sports knowledge through blood-curdling screaming, using very generic basketball lingo ("set it up", "cross-court", "top of the key") in a repetitive fashion, and assigning overall good qualities to professional basketball players ("Jason Kidd is an amazing person. He's so selfless and humble.").

Shelly's problem is that she's not a fan. She's a fan-by-association-------which is fine until you try to exert fan-like knowledge.

I think the overriding problem I have with both of these fans, and both of these scenarios, is that I just don't get it. Call me crazy--but I believe that perfect fannery exists in your realistic knowledge of your team, not painting your face. Perfect fannery exists in understanding that your players may not be the best--may not be the most athletic--may not get all of the calls. For me, perfect fannery does not include external displays of passion--such as cheers, jeers, yelling, screaming, whining, or celebrating. Hi-fives are perfectly normal, as are fist bumps if you are of the urban persuasion.

Perfect fannery can include wearing 1 item promoting your team... be it jersey, t-shirt, warm-up, hoodie, hat or other. However, I believe you should never wear more than 1 item--no hat + jersey with color-coordinated shoes. Perfect fannery means realism, in all situations. Perfect fannery means Wife will wear a Celtics jersey, go to the game and root for my favorite team--however, if the Mavs happen to use the clapping soundbite from the Cha Cha slide, she may clap along--that's fine, because its not her fannery at risk, its mine.

Perfect fannery means making an attempt to learn the names of the opposing team, understanding the penalties of the games you are watching, and having an intelligent opinion in all situations.

Perfect fannery means your week isn't ruined when your team loses. You can be upset--that's natural--but let's not let our work or relationships suffer over it.

Finally, perfect fannery means that you can only be truly passionate about 1 sports organization. Your blood can only bleed one sports color. You can root for me--but you can only die for one.