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SL Satire

Why I Remain a Free Agent Fan

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Why I Remain a Free Agent Fan

by Robert Atwan

Given his numbers, Curt Flood probably doesn’t belong in Cooperstown, though I would gladly vote for his enshrinement. His persistent efforts to combat baseball’s reserve clause reached all the way to the Supreme Court and eventually resulted in free agency. Not only for the players, I should add, but for the likes of me. Thanks to Flood, I eventually became a free agent fan, unshackled at last from years of slavish loyalty to the New York Mets. I could now root for any team. If players could move about so could I. I could even — and I did — become a dreaded Yankee fan.

My Dad couldn’t believe I could root for the damn Yankees. How could I desert our beloved Mets? And the Yankees of all teams! But I did. Happily, as I applauded the impressive talents of Reggie Jackson, Ron Guidry, Catfish Hunter, Graig Nettles, and Goose Gossage. And I stayed with the Yanks until I moved to New England and — before you could say Johnny “Acts Like Judas” Damon — I transformed myself into a Red Sox fan. Did I find it hard to switch loyalties from one rival to another? Nah! Did Damon? Yet it never failed to amuse me that Bostonians imagined New York City as an urban rival. As a city, you can compare Boston to Cleveland or Nashville, but for Hub fans to think their city compares to New York is like comparing really big apples to dwarf oranges. Anyway, I grew tired of the Red Sox — not so much the ballclub but of their insular, hypersensitive, and often insufferable fans. So shortly after they won their first World Series since 1912 and I got to pose in front of the traveling trophy, I bailed on them and took up with the White Sox. I have plenty of Chicago friends, so it wasn’t hard to consider them a home team away from home.

But when I moved back to Manhattan a few years ago I returned to the Yankees, though they were so awful I switched back to the Mets when they made a run for the World Series last year. And then, when they reached the playoffs, I was so impressed by Kansas City’s style of play that I once again deserted the Mets and happily celebrated as my adroit Royals team won the World Championship in five games.  Go Royals! I continue to be a Royals fan. And I will until I’m not.

I’m the same way with football, hockey, basketball, and any other professional team sport I avidly follow. At one point I collected a complete set of hats with the logo of every NBA team and could walk out and declare myself a Timberwolves fan one day and maybe a Clippers another, though anything other than a Celtics cap could be dangerous in the Boston neighborhoods, where the very concept of a free agent fan is entirely unthinkable.

Being a free agent fan has added advantages. It not only frees you up from the insanity of “long-suffering” loyalty to teams and players who rarely return that loyalty (though I acknowledge exceptions like my fellow alumnus Craig Biggio) but also as a free agent fan I found myself free from another common insanity — the nutty partiality that mentally affects the typical diehard fan.

It’s perfectly fine to applaud your favorite stars and cheer when they produce a game-winning hit. It’s fine, too, to cheer and clap to get a rally going. But what sort of knucklehead of a fan feels he has to boo when the opposing pitcher throws to first to keep a runner close? What are those boos for? Delay of game? But these same fans don’t boo when their own pitcher throws to first also delaying the game. So what is the booing about? Does anyone know?

As a free agent fan I grew more enlightened about demented fan behavior. Why not cheer when the opposing pitcher throws to first? He’s risking an errant throw and it shows he’s nervous about your baserunner, and the cheering will clearly be for him, not the pitcher. I recall Dodger fans would cheer wildly when Jackie Robinson edged toward second base daring pitchers to throw, often taking off for second the moment they did. Here’s a tip for home team fans: Cheering your base runner will do more to discompose the visiting pitcher than your reflexive and dutiful booing.

Though I personally find it liberating, becoming a free agent fan isn’t for everyone. Some people are inherently masochists and enjoy their long-term suffering. They enjoy rooting for a dismal team and paying top-dollar to don the jerseys of multi-millionaire, media-pampered superstars who would desert them in a moment for even more money given the opportunity. Others hang on desperately to their teams because they once made it to the World Series or Super Bowl and as the immortal bard of baseball puts it, “hope springs eternal.” But I feel most sorry for those who religiously cling to teams with a blind allegiance based on little more than a region, a family history, or a superstar long lost to a rival franchise or to performance-enhancing drugs.

Some people cannot become free agent fans because they’ve been so focused on their one favorite team that they know little about other teams and their history. This is more true of baseball fans than others. For instance, if I decided next year to become a Cleveland fan I would naturally know their current roster. But I am also familiar with their past, at least from the 1950s on. I could sit down at a bar with an old-time Indian fan and talk about not only Vic Wertz, Jim Hegan, Early Wynn, Al Rosen, the great Bob Feller and Larry Doby (both of whom I’ve had the pleasure of meeting), but also throw in Luke Easter, Wally Westlake, and Dale Mitchell, a splendid hitter, who would be caught looking for the final out of Don Larsen’s perfect game as my beloved Dodgers lost to those damn Yanks in the 1956 World Series. I always agreed with Mitchell: that pitch was a ball. And, trust me, I didn’t need to look any of this up.

I should point out that a free agent fan is not identical — as some of you may think — to what’s known as a “fair-weather fan,” the sort of person who roots while his team is thriving but deserts it when it tanks. I have nothing against such fans, but their loyalties, though wavering, are really permanent, and they usually return to the fold immediately upon their team’s improvement. A free agent fan, however, isn’t dependent upon a team’s performance. I’ve often abandoned a winning team to support a losing one.

With the new baseball season underway, I like KC’s new spring cap with the well-deserved crown added to the lid. Maybe I’ll order one. But then again, maybe not. I could opt out and be a Cubbies fan. See, being a free agent fan can also save you a few bucks in gear.

Robert Atwan is the series editor of The Best American Essays, the highly acclaimed annual he launched in 1986. He has published on a wide variety of subjects, such as dreams and divination in ancient literature, early photography, Shakespeare, contemporary poetry, creative nonfiction and the cultural history of American advertising. His essays, criticism, reviews, literary humor and poetry have appeared in many periodicals nationwide.

One for the Mantlepiece

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SL Satire

by Robert Atwan

Some of my friends think I’m a sucker, but I’m convinced that the $4,350 I paid on eBay for a slice of Mickey Mantle’s retired liver is an incredible investment. This is a big piece of baseball history, I remind them, one of the biggest, and someday it will be worth a small fortune. They remind me that the signed Sal Maglie chest X-rays I bought years ago aren’t exactly the hottest property in sports memorabilia. I admit I made an error there: when you get down to it X-rays are really just photographs and you might as well simply collect 8 X 10 glossies or trading cards. But an authentic body part is special, far more special than just something a player’s worn, like my autographed, “game-used” Pete Rose jock strap. Most serious collectors would agree that the strap’s “priceless,” but, let’s be honest, it’s not in the same league as a vital organ.

The liver came with a certificate of authenticity signed by a head of the Baylor University Medical Center, where the damaged organ was removed in 1995 during Mantle’s transplant operation. It certifies that my particular specimen is 139 of a limited number of 150. It’s larger than I expected, much plumper than the rare Gil Hodges kidney stone I found at a dealer’s’ convention in Patchogue, Long Island, not long ago and is already worth triple what I paid for it. Though hardly in mint condition, the Mantle liver came handsomely displayed, floating inside a clear-plastic replica of an official American League baseball.

If you know anything about the liver, you know it’s by far the best piece of medical memorabilia you can own. In the ancient world professional diviners examined the livers of sacrificial animals to predict the future. They read the strange markings on the liver like a baserunner interpreting sigs from a frenetic third-base coach. Maybe experts can predict baseball’s future from my portion of The Mick’s liver, or maybe not. But I bet they can discover something about the game’s historic past. “See that botchy jumble of scratches on the top left corner,” these crafty diviners would say, peering into the crystal baseball, “these mean: eighteen whisky sours with Billy Martin at Toots Shor’s after thrashing the Red Sox.” I can think of only a few other big league souvenirs I’d rather own–like the bullet that wounded Eddie Waitkus,  the ball that killed Ray Chapman, or the handgun Donnie Moore shot himself with–but those are potential Hall of Fame items and not likely to ever appear in individual collections.

I agree that some collectibles are ridiculously overpriced. I refuse to pay $2300 for a twisted tube of Pebeco toothpaste found in Lou Gehrig’s hotel room or even $1150 for a select piece of wreckage (numbered and authenticated) from Thurman Munson’s fatal plane crash. I wasn’t even tempted by an autographed box of Lifebuoy soap from Ty Cobb’s locker listing, probably because unauthenticated, at only $1900, though it’s in near-mint condition.

My friends say six months from now I’m going to discover another Mantle liver selling for peanuts. That’s the sort of vision my mother had when she tossed out my complete set of ‘51 Bowmans. But my concern now isn’t devaluation. I’m wondering how best to show off my new acquisition. I think I’ll put it right where it belongs, on the mantlepiece, right next to one of my latest steals–an incriminating 1994 Darryl Strawberry urine sample.

Robert Atwan is the series editor of The Best American Essays, the highly acclaimed annual he launched in 1986. He has published on a wide variety of subjects, such as dreams and divination in ancient literature, early photography, Shakespeare, contemporary poetry, creative nonfiction and the cultural history of American advertising. His essays, criticism, reviews, literary humor and poetry have appeared in many periodicals nationwide.