Bermuda Shorts - James Patterson [41]
I feel the same way about the other sports I follow. A high towering fly ball arching up and into a summer sky will get oohs and aaahs from a crowd even when they know it’s an easy out. No camera can capture that in the same way that human eyes can from the stands. In hockey, a turnover at the blue line will cause the players to peel back all at once, like a school of fish all changing direction at the same instant. You won’t see that on TV. Perhaps basketball can be caught all at once on camera. But the bouncing ball, the squeak of shoes on wood, the yip and yak of the players, and the slapping of flesh all make more sense in person.
In the late 1950s, when my father first took me to games, he wouldn’t let me duck under the turnstiles. He would stop me and make me turn the metal arm, and once inside, he’d have me check the counter that registered the number of people who had passed through. The following day, he’d show me the page in the newspaper where game attendance was reported.
“If you hadn’t been there, that number would be different,” he’d say. He wanted me to realize that my being there mattered. I believed him, and I still do.
My father always had a cordial word for the ticket-taker, and would hold up the line to get in, waiting for a cordial reply. Once at our seats, he wouldn’t sit down until he had formally greeted all the familiar folk around us, shaking hands as he inquired about their health and that of their loved ones, and receiving a prognosis for the outcome of the day’s contest.
I hadn’t realized the power of his example until last season, when, while I was tailgating at a Redskins game, a woman I didn’t recognize approached me.
“Are you a Caps season ticketholder?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“In section 417?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” she laughed, “my friends and I sit a dozen rows behind you. Every game we watch you arrive and shake everyone’s hand. We call you ‘The Mayor of 417.’ We think it’s good luck to watch you make your entrance! On nights when you don’t show up, we worry. It’s good to see you here, too!”
The bonds that exist in my section at Caps games evolved spontaneously. Scattered about the first few rows in the upper deck by the rail at center ice, we have gravitated together, closing ranks against the opposition fans who sometimes clog the sections. Washington, D.C., being the Capital of the Empire, boasts two congressional delegations from each state of the union; when joined with the Canadian Embassy and that country’s presence here in the Capital City, representation in significant numbers for virtually every opposing team is guaranteed. That, plus the fact that D.C. is a bus, car, or train ride from Philly, New Jersey, New York City, and Pittsburgh, means that from time to time an infestation can occur. Measures must be taken. We frown upon section dwellers who give tickets to opposing fans. We keep an eye on seats as they come open and hurry to recommend replacements. We monitor each other’s “rage” during more heated engagements to ensure a proper level of enthusiasm is maintained. We worry when one of us is absent, and make inquiries. We have a regular Irish pub a block away we adjourn to for heady analyses, breakdowns, and, in my case, meltdowns!
In front of me sits the Irish Barrister of 417, ready with answers to legal questions and points of hockey law as far as history and the rule book are concerned. He keeps a cool head unless his native Boston Bruins are in town, whereupon he turns traitor, dons his hometown’s sweater, and advocates against us. His wife has become the Conscience of 417, ruling on what behavior is and is not tolerated in our section. She is patient, understanding even, but her patience has its