Hell Hath No Fury Like a Kopite Scorned

Sports fans are an unruly lot. Poke your head into a sports bar during pretty well any sporting event and you’re likely to witness all sorts of rowdy behavior. From yelling at the plethora of TV screens and constant “high fiving” (a predominantly North American trait), to swilling and spilling beer, the sports bar crowd is a unique, primarily male microcosm of our society. And, it is just such a mob that I found myself firmly planted amongst for hockey viewing yesterday evening.

It all started harmlessly enough. A couple of buddies and I met up after work at a downtown Vancouver sports bar to down a few pints and take in a Vancouver Canucks telecast. There were several hockey games on the various screens, and plenty of people on hand to cheer on all the different teams. In typical Canadian fashion, there was some polite competitive jawing going on between fans sporting an assortment of jerseys, but it was all in good fun.

However, as the evening progressed I couldn’t help but notice an increasing number of another sort of jersey. Unlike the pullover style hockey sweater, these jerseys had collars, and all of them were red. That’s when it dawned on me: red means The Reds, as in the Liverpool Football Club. It’s mid-February, and the second round of the UEFA Champions League is just getting underway. The bar was most certainly filling up for an international football match, which on a world scale far outweighs the significance of a hockey game.

Still, I was puzzled because the matches are played at night in Europe, which means the live broadcast in Vancouver should be at mid day. One member of our table turned out to be a fellow from Liverpool (I suppose I should have known by his flipped-up collar and, well, accent…), and he explained that he had been in the same bar earlier that day to watch Liverpool take on arch rival AC Milan. He was now back in the bar to watch the rebroadcast of the same game. He also pointed out a few “blokes” who had watched it with him, but had remained in the bar since that time. They also planned to watch it all over again, provided that they could keep their heads up off the bar. Such is the dedication of the average football fan.

As such, football fans, especially the English, are a whole breed apart from hockey fans. You’ve probably heard the term “English football hooligan”. It is more or less interchangeable with the term “English football fan”, and refers to an unbridled passion for a specific club (and the English national team) as well as a general state of drunken disorderliness. English fans are notorious for violence at matches both home and abroad, and as a result have actually been barred en masse from attending World Cup games involving their beloved English squad. Liverpool fans, who refer to themselves as “Kopites”, are some of the least reputable, as displayed in the 1985 European Cup final against Juventus F.C. where they essentially killed 39 Italian supporters.

Which brings me back to the sports bar last night, and the growing presence of red clad Kopites. Our pal from Liverpool felt quite at home, especially since he already had 5 pints or so under his belt and posses the prerequisite accent. Meanwhile, my buddy Gary and I were starting to feel strangely outnumbered by Liverpool football “fans” in our hometown establishment. So when we looked up from yet another deep hockey oriented discussion to see our pal chatting with a rather large, crooked nosed skinhead in a red jersey, we wanted to do our best to fit in. Since he was sitting right next to the guy, Gary put on his best face, stuck out his hand for a shake and exclaimed “Hey buddy, nice win today!”

Just like that, our lives were in grave danger. Well, not necessarily mine, but most certainly Gary’s. I had some lesser sort of guilt by association, but Gary had committed a mortal sin.

Almost immediately, this massive Kopite dropped Gary’s hand and slowly backed away. His face grew redder and the veins in his skull began pulsating to the extent that I was sure they would soon explode. He glared unflinchingly at Gary as his mouth began to froth a little around the corners.

“Why you f*ckin’…!” he began before his voice trailed off.
Finally, after much hyper-ventilating, he thrust his chin forward and shrieked, “I’m going to kill you!”
He then turned on his heels and charged off to a nearby table where he started gesticulating wildly to a group of red jerseys, occasionally turning back towards our table and pointing at Gary while nodding menacingly.

Unbeknownst to us, the fellow had just been telling our pal from Liverpool that he had gone to great lengths to get through the entire day without learning who had won the match. He was just about to sit down and watch it with his mates who had all accomplished the same feat.

But fate was not on his side. Gary was. And his perfectly orchestrated plans had been dashed right before his now glazed eyes.

An idle death threat, you ask? Something not to be taken seriously, perhaps? Well, maybe you should pose that question to certain Italian families? I for one wasn’t sticking around to find out. A woman scorned has nothing on a Kopite burned, and I was headed for home before this one unleashed his fury.

Oh, and if you’re curious, I did receive a text from Gary this morning, so I’m assuming he survived the ordeal. In the end, if I know Gary, he probably had them all charmed in no time, and has been invited to join in with them for the airing of the next match. Just like a Liverpool fan, Gary never seems to walk alone.

Confessions of a Sports Junkie

Sport - a particular activity (as an athletic game) so engaged in
Junkie - a person who derives inordinate pleasure from or who is dependent on something

Thus defined, a sports junkie would be an individual who is mad about playing sports. In terms of physical and mental health, this generally wouldn’t be considered such a bad thing.

In our society, however, the term has morphed into a description of an individual who is mad about watching sports, primarily on TV. A sports junkie is therefore some sort of extreme sports fan, as in fanatic.

Fanatic - marked by excessive enthusiasm and often intense uncritical devotion

One could certainly draw into question both the physical and mental health of just such a specimen. (For those interested in carrying out any scientific study, I would recommend doing so on February 3, when essentially the entire male population of Sports Junkies will be glued to their televisions and couches, gawking in awe at the Mecca of all Sports Junkie events – The Super Bowl. The much rarer female Sports Junkie may also be present, although sitings of the female are scarce indeed.)

I’ve never really thought of myself as a Sports Junkie, although a number of my close friends, especially my sister, would beg to differ. My thinking has been that I actually have other hobbies and activities that keep me occupied, so my entire life is not spent in front of the tube watching sports. In my mind, that makes me a casual sport watching enthusiast.

That said I’ve been known to watch 3 NFL football games in a row on a Sunday. Regardless of the fact that this is done as part of an exclusive “Haute Cuisine NFL” club, where we consume high end food and drink and discuss politics and philosophy while cheering on the Seattle Seahawks, some would say this makes me an addict, and thus a Sports Junkie. My sister finds the behavior appalling and in need of an intervention. I find it charming, amusing and quite, well, normal.

Nonetheless, an event occurred last night that I’m afraid leaves no doubt in the great Dave-as-Sports Junkie debate. For last night was the Men’s Semi-Final at the Australian Open. (That’s a tennis tournament for those of you not in the know, one of the four major annual tournaments). It promised to be a memorable match, with Roger Federer, the world’s number 1 player, taking on his most likely eventual successor at that lofty designation, Novak Djokovic.

Federer has been number 1 for as long as anyone can remember, but Djokovic has been closing in on him; beating him in some minor tournaments, and challenging him at several majors. Last night’s match promised to be something special, and I was determined to watch it – live.

There was just one small complication. The Australian Open is held in, where else, Australia (Melbourne, to be exact). I live in Vancouver, Canada, where the live feed started at 12:30 in the wee hours of the morning. If I were a sane person, a “non-fanatic” as it were, I would have set the VCR and watched the match at some reasonable hour over the upcoming weekend.

But a true aficionado of sport is not satisfied with day-old product. No, a true fan needs to see the match as it happens, with no chance of finding out who won prior to watching the events unfold. It’s almost as if the knowledge that the combatants are actually engaged in competition as you watch means that you’re a part of it. Sure, you’re half way across the world as you jump and scream during set point, or gnaw your nails to the bone during a third set tie breaker, but that’s the excitement of watching sports on TV when it’s live. Doing the same to a taped version of the same event would just be silly. Right?

So last night as I went to bed around 11, I set the alarm for 1 AM and promptly fell asleep. It was rather difficult to shake off the cobwebs when the alarm pulled me out of a deep sleep, but I managed to find the match on TV and propped myself up to watch history unfold.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the five set marathon match I expected, but rather was a three set dismantling of the world’s number 1 by his younger opponent. There was some great tennis, but in the end, it was no contest. Djokovic had prevailed in less than three hours and the clock had yet to strike 4 AM. This was in its own way good news, because it meant that I could squeeze in another three hours of shut eye before my alarm would go off a second time, signifying it was time to get up and head to work. My late night sports watching plan didn’t seem so crazy after all.

There was just one small unforeseen problem. After the match I couldn’t sleep. No matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise, I was wide awake. Consequently, instead of merrily snoring away for the few hours I had left to do so, I all but finished reading Billy Bathgate, channel surfed and essentially watched the clock slowly march on towards dawn...

Thus, I am here before you to admit that, in certain cases and according to some people’s interpretation of the definition, I am indeed a Sports Junkie. I must be. The dark, puffy circles under my sunken eyes are a telltale sign, as is the incessant shaking of my hands and the odd head twitch I seem to have developed. My co-workers have been whispering about me all morning over at the water cooler. And, as with many other addictions, it has led to harder stuff. I’m currently on my third double espresso of the day. Sports Junkie, meet Coffee Junkie!

Yankees Go Home!

Pabst Blue Ribbon really is awful stuff. You don’t tend to notice this when you’re actually drinking it, because the fact that you are indicates that you’re already inebriated to the point where you think drinking cheap swill is a good idea. No, the moment you realize that Pabst Blue Ribbon is awful stuff is the moment you open your eyes the following morning. Trust me.

Our Saturday thus started rather slowly. It was to be another day packed with discovery, yet I was having trouble getting past exploring the inside of my eyelids. Beth managed to get me up with the promise of good coffee, and a reminder that our day’s agenda was to start off with a true New York experience – an afternoon matinee game at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx.

When we started planning this trip, a Yankee game was high on my to-do list. Once we decided on the weekend, I immediately checked out the schedule and was thrilled to find that Major League Baseball would be in the middle of inter-league play. Not only that, the American League Yankees would be playing their arch cross-town rivals, the National League’s New York Mets! It was being billed as the Subway Series 2007.
OK, my apologies to the non-sports oriented reader. Please feel free to ignore the previous description full of nonsensical sports jargon. All you need to know is that to a sports fan, this was a big deal. Unfortunately for me, the world is full of sports fans and that game had been sold out since the season began. In the weeks leading up to our trip, tickets were going on eBay for hundreds of dollars apiece. Beth and I had decided to save the cash and try our luck at buying scalper tickets the day of the game.

In keeping with the series name, we headed to the subway to get to Yankee Stadium. The subways were under construction and over the weekend it had sometimes been hard to figure out which train was going where from what track. For this day’s destination, however, there was no question. The station was full of Yankee pinstripe jerseys. We just had to follow the masses.

The streets around Yankee stadium were alive with activity. Hoards of fans, even an occasional thick skinned Mets fan, filled the streets and local bars. Booths and street touts were on each corner selling everything imaginable to do with baseball. Everything, that is, except tickets. There were no scalpers in sight. We circled the entire stadium in search of someone selling tickets, and never saw a soul.

Our first stop once out of the subway had been the Yankee Stadium ticket office, but all they had to offer were some box seats for $280 a piece. Not even I am crazy enough to pay that kind of money for a baseball game. It was close to time for the game to begin and I had pretty well given up when Beth suggested we try the ticket office again. I rolled my eyes at such a ridiculously futile idea, but accompanied her to the window just the same. Sure enough, the agent clacked away on her computer for a moment, then announced that they had just released some tickets down the left field line for $55. We couldn’t hand over our cash fast enough. In no time we were at our seats, beer in hand.

Yankee Stadium is more than a sports venue; it’s a shrine to baseball fans not only in the Bronx and New York, but all across America. It’s the last of the remaining old ballparks. While all the other teams have built mega stadiums with corporate names, vast concourses and midway like gaming areas, Yankee Stadium goes on as a comparatively cramped has-been. Still, it’s the past that earns the stadium its place in history today. It is home to the most storied, and valuable, sports franchise in history. From “The Babe” to Willie Mays and Joe DiMaggio, they all played and won here. It has also almost single handedly kept the Bronx from turning into a third world slum. As a destination for people from all walks of life around the greater New York City area, Yankee Stadium has focused attention on the Bronx, and brought in much needed dollars, since 1923.

Sitting in our seats waiting for the first pitch, I took a deep breath to fill myself with the aura of Yankee Stadium. Unfortunately, I was greeted with sensations not exactly commensurate with the reverence that these hallowed halls deserve. First off, Yankee fans are not ones to dress up for a game, or bathe, for that matter. It was a hot and humid day in The Bronx, and the majority of the fans were, for lack of a better term, ripe. Secondly, since the stadium has been around since the 1920’s, that means Yankee fans have been spilling beer all over the place for more than 80 years. This day was no exception. They don’t give lids at the concession stands, so you’re lucky if you’ve still got half your beer by the time you make it through the crowded corridors and back to your seat.

The “House that Ruth Built” is being replaced in 2009. Construction of the replacement is already underway in an adjacent lot. The Bronx will still be home to the New York Yankees, but Yankee Stadium will not. Like Astroland on Coney Island, another New York area icon is about to fade into memory. My nose was telling me that for Yankee Stadium, it’s about time.

So there we were, in our left field seats, about to witness our last game in Yankee Stadium, and likewise probably the last “Subway Series” to be held there as well. Our surroundings weren’t so pleasant, but the significance of the event was not lost on us. It was only then that we first heard it. “Deh-wick! Deh-wick!”

I couldn’t believe it. By some cruel twist of fate, we had been seated in front of the loudest mouth in all of The Bronx. Not only that, but his Bronx accent was so thick, and his voice so squeaky, that he sounded just like a young Elmer Fudd!

“Aw c’mon Deh-wick Jetah! Hit a home wun fer yer goilfwend!”

I kid you not. Beth and I both had to turn around to be sure that he wasn’t packin’ and out to hunt wabbits. No, instead we were confronted with a very fat, very red faced fellow in his mid-thirties, completely decked out in Yankee’s gear.

We consoled each other with the hope that he couldn’t possibly keep up that volume for an entire game. We were certain that he’d run out of things to say, or his vocal chords would finally give out. We were wrong. I had to hand it to the guy, for what he lacked in intelligence and originality, he made up for in stamina. So, other than a short distraction from a group of large black gang bangers trying to pick a fight with a frat boy Mets fan, our game was overshadowed by young Elmer and his never ending babble-train of consciousness.

He would yell “SUEY!! SQUEAL LIKE A PIG!!” every time Hideki Matsui came up to bat or touched a ball. Apparently, “Awex Wadweegez” kissed his cousin one day. Or was it Jason Giambi? He couldn’t really remember, so that story was repeated over and over with the name of whatever Yankee happened to be at bat. The barrage went on, but the crescendo had to be when the field crew came on and “YMCA” was blared all over the stadium. That was his signal to leap to his feet and run down the aisle (ok, waddle quickly) and lead our section in the hand motions to the song. Unfortunately, young Elmer wasn’t a very good speller, so his routine amounted to a series of whoops and yips while frantically waving his hands in the air.

Thankfully, there was a rain delay in the seventh inning, and Beth and I were in need of a good hosing off before heading to a Broadway play that evening. As we headed to the exits we noticed that pretty well every other person from our section out in left field was doing the same thing, except for young Elmer, of course. I’m sure he was there until long after the game was over.

Oh, I almost forgot. There was a ball game that day. It was actually quite entertaining. The Yankees won 11 to 8. Both Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez hit home runs, apparently for their “goilfwends”.