Sure I'll root for the team that seems most associated with where I happen to be living. I was raised in a suburb of New York: I was glad when the New York Yankees won year after year. When I moved to Maine to teach, it was nice to increase my awareness of the Red Sox, Boston being the nearest major city. But the Red Sox brought limited fair weather that year. When the World Series rolled around it was big Bob Gibson burning his pitches across the plate. Thus, I was for big Bob Gibson.
I have to admit that I followed the 1973 Knicks before they got to the finals, But when I point out that I became mad for the Chicago Bulls only after Michael was a routine news highlight, you see what I mean. When the Bulls disintegrated, I quickly switched my passions to San Antonio: then, to the Lakers.
This behavior puts me in the camp of many a champion. OK, I also rooted, fanatically, for Ali before (as Clay) he humiliated Sonny Liston. But Clay was already an Olympic champ before I ever heard of him. It wasn't me who backed him when he was eleven in Louisville.
So how come I've never supported the Detroit Pistons? They had a dynasty. I didn't follow basketball those years. (Of course I was living in my car at the time, had no access to TV.) Last year I rooted for the dysfunctional Lakers even while Detroit was beating them.
Right now, tonight, Detroit spotted San Antonio eight point in the opening moments of this Game Two. Good.
What do I have against Detroit?
I adored Dennis Rodman when he was the Bulls' bad boy; I'd ignored him when he was the Piston's wild man. Could it be because I've never lived for longer than a week in a market that gave a damn about promoting Detroit and Detroit products (not counting cars)?
Why am I writing while the game is on? I may add more later.
Man, oh man, oh Manu. Two - zip, Spurs. Is there ANYone in the NBA right now better for basketball than Manu Ginobili?
But I was talking about Detroit. How many Americans, over the TV at least, can "like" Ben Wallace? It's not his fault. I've never had a problem loving blacks: Louis Armstrong, Bessie Smith, Billie Holliday, Dizzy, Miles Davis ... Sugar Ray, Ali ... E'en so, this WASP can't relate to Big Ben's mask of a face. He could be one hundred times "nicer" than I am (that wouldn't be that hard), but I don't feel it through his appearance. (Hey: he could play Greek tragedy without wearing a single prop!) (Assignment: write a Comedy! for Ben Wallace!)
I learned to love Rodman with his stupid hair and his godawful tatoos; but Rasheed Wallace? Yech. Rasheed's talent is awesome. He should be one of the best; but there's something screwy upstairs. Rodman was screwy too, but we loved him anyway (learned to): I did, at least.
Are my "reasons" real? Or is it after all just markets? The wizards who have sold New York and DC and Los Angeles up our noses haven't seen any incentive to make us want to love Detroit.
Or is it that Detroit really is a place that deserves to be presented to us as Elmore Leonard presents it? Of course Leonard moves his criminals back and forth between Florida and Detroit, occasionally foraying into LA. I live in Florida. I meet Okeechobee types, and have some experience with North Miami. I love Lake Okeechobee: even though I've barely dipped a line into it, have no fish stories to tell from that area. I like the whole schmeer from the Keys to the Palm Beaches, and on north to Saint Augustine. So what do I have against Detroit?
I may think of things of which-way-ever tendencies, but for now I'm merely going to add the story of my first experience with the phrase "fair weather." Grade school. Kid from school, lived across a street I hadn't long been allowed to cross, invites me to Cony Island. Oh, wow. I loved Cony Island. As a very young kid my parents had taken me there for my birthday. I loved to ride the swinging cars of the Wonder Wheel. I looked in awe at the Cyclone, at the Parachute Jump. With a cotton candy in my hand (and all over my face), I was in heaven. I said sure.
The kid's father, who would escort and chauffer us, was quick to add a warning: "You're not going to turn out to be a fair weather friend, I hope?" I didn't understand. I must have looked stricken. The kid explained to me: his father meant the he hoped I wasn't going to take the treats, the free trip to Cony Island, and then disappear: not be a real friend.
That was the first time I had the commercial facts of outings shoved in my face. Of course some adult had to take us: and bring us back. Of course some adult had to pay. That's what adults were for, wasn't it? Were we supposed to owe something back?
I was being told that if I didn't remain this kid's "friend" I'd be a stinker. But I wasn't this kid's friend! I'd never said a word to him! This kid was fat: and dull. I had no intention of being his friend. He lived on the far side of the busy street. But I did want to go to Cony Island.
It was a fun trip. Mr. Henn kept us away from the biggest, most violent rides, but he did give us several trips on the Thunderbolt: my first experience of a roller coaster.
And I never again talked to that kid. Neither did he come visiting me. Then the worried father and the fat son moved away.
I never rode the Thunderbolt again till I was in the army. My buddy, who'd worked one summer as brakeman on a roller coaster, riding "the world's tallest roller coaster" all day, used the Thunderbolt to show how blasé he was. Good. Now we're ready for the Parachute Jump! And the Cyclone!
I don't think my friend ever forgave me.
Whew. Seven games ... and David Stern's international future prevails. Beautiful to see Manu, Horry, Duncan ... Bowen, Barry ...
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