Something has been eating away at my soul for the past couple of months, causing me to lose sleep, have bouts with indigestion, and take a look at how I have lived my 22 years of life thus far, and how I want to finish my life on this earth.

No, it isn’t the death of a close family member or friend. It is not the unsettled financial markets or falling house prices. It is not even the genocide in Darfur or the upcoming presidential election. It is my “fanhood.”

Being an avid sports fan since birth, I have always taken “fanhood” very seriously. One of my first memories I have as a sports fan is a speech regarding the importance of sticking with your team in good times and bad. It was 1993 and I was watching a back-and-forth Notre Dame and Boston College football game (BC ended up winning 41-39). I tried to switch teams to the winning team with about two minutes left in the game causing an uproar of a lecture from one of my uncles. That speech stuck with me throughout my formative years as I began to anoint my teams of choice.

Growing up in Knoxville, I did not really have an option in regards to choosing a college sports team. Youth in this area sell their souls to the Big Orange, and I could be no different. Professional sports, on the other hand, were a completely different story. With no local teams to speak of, I used my deep appreciation of the history of sports to choose the Green Bay Packers and the Boston Celtics as my favorite NFL and NBA franchises.

When it came to baseball, I chose the Minnesota Twins for different reasons than the other two sports. Several teams had more storied pasts, but the Twins had Kirby Puckett. Kirby was fat but still a talented baseball player. I was fat. He was my role model every summer evening I stepped onto the field at Fountain City Ballpark.

Kirby soon retired, and around that same time I read Ken Burns’ historical narrative Baseball, cover to cover (the first of three times). I could not ignore the ghosts of greatness that have surrounded the New York Yankees for over a century. Ruth, Mantle, Gehrig, Berra, DiMaggio, the list goes on and on. Much to the dismay of my Sid Bream idolizing, Atlanta Braves loving, bandwagon jumping peers, I placed my MLB “fanhood” in the hands of George Steinbrenner and the pinstripers.The first World Series win the Yankees earned with me on board was awesome. I mean, how could you not enjoy the success achieved by class acts such as Bernie Williams, Paul O’Neil, Scott Brosius, Derek Jeter, and Tino Martinez? It was the perfect mix of veteran role players combined with the energy of some recently promoted players from the minor league system. A couple of more World Series ensued, but none of them seemed to have the same mystique as the 1998 win. More and more, the Yankees aged and spent ridiculous amounts of money on free agents trying to buy that mystique.

The 21st century has been eight years of bittersweet baseball. On one hand, the Yankees have won 26 World Series, but each one seemed cheapened by a seemingly gradual shift to living in the moment and a lost appreciation of the history of the franchise.

Fast forward to this past summer. I spent a couple of weeks in the nation’s capital in June and July. Unbelievably, I could not wait for the first chance I could attend a Washington Nationals’ game. It had been 17 years since I had seen a Major League game, and the trip to the ballpark brought back several great memories: The Reds playing the hated Braves at Riverfront Stadium. Tom Glavine bested Jose Rijo; Otis Nixon provided me with an autographed card; Deion Sanders stiffed me; and Jeff Reardon mocked me. These are memories I will continue to bore my friends with long after I am put in a nursing home.

The Nationals beat the Dodgers that summer night, and I also ended up catching the entire inter-league series with the Devil Rays. Every single one of these games, I arrived as the gates opened, watched batting practice, and stayed well after the final at bat (one of which was a Ryan Zimmerman walk off on the 4th of July). In the moments, those special moments at RFK Stadium, I found the magical aura I had been searching for since the Yankee teams of the late 1990s.

The question is, can I chase this dream of baseball innocence and magical aura, or must I stay chained to the big spending, hated New York Yankees (even Babe Ruth briefly became a coach for the Brooklyn Dodgers)? Do I relinquish the “fanhood” I have spent years accumulating if I change teams? Do I turn away from the family values I have been taught since a young age regarding commitment and perseverance? Could I be considered a sort of patriot by latching myself with a losing team in the nation’s capital in the nation’s capitol?

After reading several comments in regards to my previous article (Bruce Pearl: Savior or Destroyer?), I must admit to my obvious feblemindedness and ask the wise readers of this sports blog the proper way a true fan would handle the situation. I would appreciate your constructive instruction, since it is quite apparent I am unable to intelligently comment on anything related to sports, much less what hand I brush my teeth with in the morning. Maybe that can be next week’s topic…

Heisman

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