A Lesson for the Bandwagoner

It really nags at me. I am always amazed at the number of “UT Alums” out and about every year, on or around the time of the Thanksgiving “Backyard Brawl”. The successive losses are piling up so high for the Aggies that my relatives don’t want me to be alone during the holidays. I suppose I give my relatives reason for concern. This year, I twisted an ankle on a coffee table after the blocked punt that sealed the win for the Longhorns. There’s really no telling how low I could get emotionally if I was alone with my loser-team and a hangover. But, one thing is for certain: I’ll never switch allegiances. I’ll quit on the coach and the QB, but never the team. What really bothers me is that the more the Longhorns win, the more “Alums” they seem to have to help them celebrate wins from your backyard Kroger, to the most remote deer blind. Bandwagoners.

It’s a scientifically proven fact that the number of fans a team has increases in direct relation to its win-percentage. Longhorn Fans are getting so brazen in this state that they don’t even pretend to have a legitimate affiliation with the school. I don’t even bother asking how they think they’re entitled to join the maniacal, drunken mob-convulsion of the Austin Undergrads after another victory over the kind and dignified gents from College Station.

For the record, a fan is only entitled to wave the “Hook-em’ Horns” sign at me if he/she was enrolled there (or a state-sanctioned satellite) for at least two semesters before flunking-out and assuming his/her career as a Plano receptionist or Baytown dog groomer.

I just don’t respect the growing legion of Faux Horns. I do respect people who celebrate their teams’ good fortune as a legitimate expression of their long-time affiliation. For example, there is a high school friend of mine in Chicago who is more Irish than a leprechaun, dipped in green ink. His name is Sean O’Connor. His story is an illustration of honest and certifiable, non-bandwagoner, accredited sports fandom.

Sean’s dad was an Irish-Catholic from Belfast, Ireland. And, so was his dear mum. All of his brothers were at least part-time bartenders, as you might have guessed, from the time they were old enough to ride the scooter down to the corner. (And, they'd fight eachother for the scooter.) Any Chicagoan knows that it’s a much more pleasant trip to the Lakeview neighborhood surrounding Wrigley Field than to the rough and dirty South Side. Still, his dad took him to games at Comiskey from the time Sean was old enough to tug green beer through the nipple of his bottle. There they endured the interminable agony that the team had suffered since their last championship in 1906.

Sean and his father were always faithful. It’s always been sexy to be a Cubs fan. But, to my friend, it seems to be more about the connection with his roots. It seems that the elder Mr. O’Connor chose the Sox as his team because the Cubs were owned by a Protestant. The White Sox were owned by a Catholic. In 1910, Charles Comiskey built his ballpark at 35th and Shields. Shields St. ran through Bridgeport, which was as Catholic a neighborhood as could be found.

When Sean and I exchanged emails relating to the World Series Sox Sweep, I dutifully read and responded to his jubilant praise for the South-Siders. Although still stinging from what I saw as mystifying impotency at the plate by Astros 3B, Morgan Ensberg and SS Adam Everett, I gave Sean the ear that he had earned from his years as a real fan. As he crowed, and wished that his dad was there to crow along, I couldn’t feel a bit of resentment (as I cried over the wasted efforts of Backe and Pettitte).

I do however resent the legion of Faux-Horns that are breeding like rabbits at spring-break. This is not sour-grapes (although I can understand how it may appear that way). Its just that I can’t find a real UT graduate with whom to share the experience through the mob of Walmart-Longhorns. This crowd should show a little shame. If a sports fan wants to share in the joy of having an archenemy, he needs to take a lesson from Old Irish Sean O’Connor: he needs to pay his dues (or tuition).