When sports fans say "we" (and why we aren't crazy).

Photo by Blake Guidry on Unsplash

“After we got swept in the NLDS in 2008, I sat my kids down and I told them, ‘You don’t have to be Cub fans because I am. You can pick another team’. So they took the weekend and thought about and decided they wanted to stick with it. I told them, ‘Alright, but just know that it’s going to hurt.’” - From a conversation I had last week.

You should be a sports fan. Or at least have enough of an interest to pick a team, and own some clothing with their logo.

Last Thursday I was having a bad day; life feels like it keeps throwing more curveballs, and I hate curveballs. My baseball career ended when pitchers started throwing curveballs. In my last at-bat, I saw the ball arc, and I walked out of the box before the ball hit the mitt and the ump rung me up — true story.

Then I became an adult, and the curveballs were job applications, health insurance, and hand, foot, and mouth. But that’s not what this story is about.

I was on campus at UT working a freelance gig. It was a cold morning so, on the way out the door, I snagged my Chicago Bears beanie (I call it a toboggan but I’ve said that in front of other people and they looked at me like I had two heads with toboggans on each).

“Go Bears,” a guy set his Starbucks cup on the table. He was wearing a quarter-zip with a company logo I didn’t recognize.

“Hey, we’re not bad this year,” I said.

Note that I said “We.” This is actually a violation, in my opinion. You must be a fan of a team for a minimum of three years before you can say “We.” The only exception is if the team represents a community you are part of i.e. if you attend UT, you may say “We” from the day you enroll, if you move to Sevier County, home of the Smoky Bears football team, you can say “We” from the day you close on the house.

“Well, we were 4-2 last year before the, ugh,” he trailed off. He unslung a computer bag from his shoulder and sat down.

“Oh, yeah. The Washington game,” I said. Last season, the Bears were 4-2 before losing on a Hail Mary to Washington, which derailed the season, and we went 1-10 the rest of the year.

Note that I knew what he meant. I think this helps a bit in my early use of “we.”

“You from Chicago?” he asked.

“Johnson City, Tennessee. But I’ve been a Cubs fan since I was 9, and then I just adopted the rest of the teams,” I said.

He chuckled and sipped his coffee. “I’m a Cubs guy too.”

“Where were you in 2016?” I asked.

2016 was the year the Cubs broke the curse and won the World Series.

“I was at Game 6 of the NLCS when we beat Kershaw,” he said.

“I was at Game 2 when Kershaw beat us,” I said.

We both sat there for a beat in silence, no doubt thinking about the 2016 Cubs: Anthony Rizzo, Javier Báez, Addison Russell, Kris Bryant, Ben Zobrist, Kyle Schwarber, Dexter Fowler, Jason Heyward, Miguel Montero, David Ross, Jon Lester, Jake Arrieta, John Lackey, and Kyle Hendrix and yes, I just recited that from memory; no chat-GPT or Google.

We talked about how much we loved Javy Baez, and our memories of going to Wrigley (he’d grown up on the Northside, close to Wrigleyville). And then he told me about sitting his kids down after getting swept in the 2008 NLDS and telling them they didn’t have to be Cub fans, but if they did, it would be very painful.

“They’re glad they stayed,” he said, laughing.

We talked for 20 minutes and then went on our way. I never even got his name. But it wasn’t so bad a day after that.

So pick yourself a team, pick the one closest to your zip code, pick the one your dad liked, or pick the Cubs (it’s going to hurt); and then buy a hat or a t-shirt.

Don’t tell anyone, but if you join us next season, you can say “We.”

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