B is for Bandwagon
June 17, 2011
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The Fair-Weather Fans of Foul-Weathered Boston
The only Bruins jersey I'd ever seen before last week. Let em' have it Bob.
First off: I’d like to state for the record that both the NHL and NBA play-offs are entirely too long, rendering the regular season into a preposterously bloated waste of time. That said, I’d also like to get this off my chest: Fuck the Bruins.
For some ungodly reason—and to the dismay of all well-intentioned sports fans elsewhere—Boston sports have had an unprecedented string of good luck in the sporting domain over the past decade. While this recent success has served to inflate the average New Englander’s perverted sense of self-worth far beyond levels traditionally accepted by the decent, God-fearing majority, to the well-trained eye it fails to cover up the grimy truth: Boston fans are about as loyal as a crack-whore at a roller derby.
Since when did the Bruins have an established fan base? Other than a few errant and poorly timed text messages last spring (before the Flyers proceeded to pull out one of the greatest comebacks in NHL play-off history), this spring season was the first I’ve really ever heard of the strange group of hockey playing ruffians known as the B’s. Nobody so much as breathed their name during my four years of college. Sure you got your standard alcoholics and unemployed street mongrels that constitute the majority of the NHL target demographic, but outside of that strange and sordid inner circle the Bruins were a non-entity. They were like a poor bastard wounded in battle and left to behind to die at the hands of a savage enemy. Unspoken of. But now that they’ve got the cup there are vendors on the streets selling puke colored jerseys so that woodworked multitudes can look good and stylish for Saturday’s victory parade. Suddenly it seems that everyone’s a fan.
And this should come as no surprise really, though it still justifies a generous degree of bitter derision. It must be pointed out that despite the delusional grandeur attribute to their beloved Celtics, the first Celtics jersey I ever saw during my time in Boston said ‘Garnett’ on the back. This is a city that either rooted tepidly for the Giants or didn’t much care about football until about a decade ago when that expansion team of theirs started winning games. And don’t let them fool you about the Red Sox either. Though they may bemoan the hard-luck times of their junior league joke-squad, the fans are a bunch of day-gamers who usually bounce by the seventh inning. Fenway’s more of a business-meeting destination than a ballpark—a boardroom for geriatrics and Jesus freaks. There’s no tailgating, no nitrous, and no Cadillac time.
So if the Boston beat’s got you down this week and you’re thinking about mindless destruction—I’m talking to you Vancouver—just remember sporting success is cyclical. As soon as their teams trend south those Boston fans will drift off once again into obscure oblivion. Until then we can only hope it rains on the gay parade tomorrow just like it did on the gay parade last Saturday.
Oh yeah, and that was a clean hit on Horton…he’s just a bitch.