On Becoming a Seattle Sports Fan

About a month ago, I went to Safeco Field with a friend to watch the Mariners play the the New York Yankees, scum that they are. We met early at the beer garden across the street from the field. We each had a beer and a hot dog and we talked about our busy weeks while casually observing the tight denim backsides of the female fans. All very ordinary, except for one thing: I was wearing a brand new, brilliant white Mariners jersey. It was the first time I'd ever put on such a flaunting, flashing display of my little place in the fandom. And it felt great.

But I find myself wondering sometimes, how did I get here? It wasn't that many years ago that I not only avoided professional sports, but downright loathed them. It's not that I hated sports. Far from it. I had the time of my life playing co-ed soccer years ago, and again recently when I played on my company softball team. We lost every game, badly. In fact, the mercy rule came into effect in a couple of innings. But we had a blast losing those games.

No, it was never about sports. It was the corporate commercialization of the game. It was the performance-enhancing drugs. It was, I felt, wasting one's time and money on spoiled, over-paid jocks who didn't really represent my city or state, but were here only because they were paid to be. Jerks!

So what happened? How did I go from Major League Hater to the guy standing at the cash register of the Mariners Team Store, happily forking over a wad of cash for a jersey I probably wouldn't even wear that often?

I'd gone to Mariners games a few times a year since 2001 because the company I worked for at the time had season tickets. It was something to do. And I started occasionally watching the Seahawks in 2003 if nothing better was on television, but it wasn't until a lazy Sunday in 2005 that some inner sports fan scratched himself and then flipped a switch in my brain. Ambling through the channels, I landed on a Seahawks game, saw that they were beating the Atlanta Falcons and decided to stick around and watch. The following week, I watched again as they beat the Arizona Cardinals. The week after that, they lost to the Washington Redskins, but by this time something was already happening. I was becoming familiar with our team. I suddenly knew the names of our players. Brown, Tatupu, Wallace, Babineaux, Trufant, and of course, Hasselbeck and Alexander. It was becoming the perfect Sunday ritual. Me, the television, some guacamole.

At some point during the season, I bought a knit hat with the Seahawks logo emblazoned across the front, you know, to keep my head warm. Then I bought another one, in a different color.

For eleven weeks straight, the Seahawks never lost a game and it was during this time that I got it. That feeling. Something like hometown pride, but also camaraderie with people I didn't even know. I spent the playoffs cheering and screaming in bars with these people.

By playoff time I'd bought a cool Seahawks t-shirt with bright, lime green piping on the sleeves. By the end of Super Bowl XL, my voice was nearly gone from screaming at the Goddamn referees. I was a fan.

When I moved to the Seattle area in 1999, Ken Griffey Jr. had just left the building so I wasn't around for the many cheers and tears that man created during his ten years as a Mariner. I was, however, always aware of his impact and it was amazing to see how excited people were when it was announced that he was coming back. A woman in my office absolutely squealed with delight the moment she got the official word.

The 2009 Mariners season hasn't exactly been great, but it has without a doubt had its great moments. A lot of this obviously has to do with Griffey's return. It's been reported all over that his return to Seattle has done something spectacular, not only for the fans, but also for the moral of his team. He's made this season so much fun to watch if only because of the chance he might do something wonderful like he did in the August 12 game against the White Sox, in which, in the 14th inning, he pinch-hit an RBI single to give the Mariners a walk-off win. A scoreless 14 innings and I was ready to give up and go to bed. But when I heard Griffey was up to bat, I stayed up to see what would happen. And when he ripped that ball down the right-field line sending Adrian Beltre home, I jumped and screamed while the dog and cat fled to another room with their ears down.

It's moments like this that make me a fan. Not to mention Ichiro's recent record-setting achievement of 200 hits in 9 consecutive seasons. The man is simply amazing.

But I still haven't answered the question. What happened? Is it because I'm turning 30 in a couple of months? A simple matter of fading idealism as I get older? I have been reading less Noam Chomsky--opting instead to watch reruns of How I Met Your Mother. Aren't Marshall and Lily so adorable?

I'm not yet a sports nerrrd. I don't memorize stats. Half the time I don't even know what the stats mean. I've joined a fantasy tournament exactly once, resulting in the most neglected fantasy team ever. But I'll be sitting in the center-field cheap seats for this week's series against the White Sox. I'll be there in my gleaming white Mariners jersey and I'll be wearing that same jersey during this weekend's series against the Goddamn Yankees--even if I'm watching at home alone. It's more fun that way.

I am a fan.