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Bandwagon Boy

Krautie, bubi, you are a talented columnist, always interesting to read when it comes to politics and such, but this dreck is just a load of horseshit. You were never a fan–hell, thinking a kid playing baseball doesn’t need a nutsack shield until he is nine makes me think you know nothing about the game at all. And the way you constructed this column just smacks of a fanciful fictitious fabrication; maybe an attempt to horn in on long-suffering Cubbie fan George Will’s status as the only Beltway pundit with any baseball bona fides.

How can you say,

I have been a baseball fan most of my life. I could excuse the early years, the Mantle-Maris era, as mere childish hero worship.

then, after explaining away turning your back to the game, because your hormones took center stage, you declare yourself returned to fandom by recounting the Red Sox’s ultimately futile ’75 World Series ride?


From the “M&M Boys” to the BoSox? Allegiance shifted from the Bronx to Beantown? Bullshit, I don’t buy a lick of it. Also, in all my years, I have never, ever heard any baseball fan use the word “tater” as slang for a home run. That’s a dead giveaway that you might have read a lot about baseball, but know jack shit. How the fuck does that even make any sense? Someone hit a spud? Whoever the hack sportswriter was who entered that into the lexicon was drunk on potato moonshine and paying props to his poteen.

Then there’s this:

Then came the 1986 World Series and the Great Buckner Collapse. At that point, I figured I’d suffered enough. I got a divorce. Amicable, but still a divorce. With a prodigious act of will, I resolved to follow the Sox – but at an enforced distance. I refused to live or die with them. Which is how I got through Grady’s Blunder – leaving Pedro in too long – in Game 7 of the 2003 Red Sox-Yankees playoff.

It was a hard fall for Sox fans, but I came through it beautifully – feeling delighted, indeed somewhat superior, at my partial emancipation from the irrationality of fandom (far more troubling than the pain). Thus a free man, almost purged of all allegiance, I watched with near-indifference as the Montreal Expos moved to Washington. Little did I know.

The Washington Nationals are born. I do not know a thing about them. I do not know a single player on the team. I have no residual allegiance to them – even though I grew up in Montreal and remember well their opening 1969 season at absurdly chintzy Jarry Park – because I never cared about the Expos.

You are busted, Chuckie, busted, busted, busted. You may have been born in NYC, but if I’m to believe you were still here when Mickey and Maris were joined at the hip in baseball lore, it’s impossible to explain signing on as a member of Red Sox Nation. No. Fucking. Way. You’d have been eleven years old; your soul should have already been claimed, if it ever was really in play, by the boys from the Bronx. Even if I could buy the Benedict Arnold bit, you cannot tell me you spent ten year’s as a member of Red Sox Nation, then turned your back on them, too, and consider yourself anything remotely resembling a “fan.” You say you had “suffered enough” and distanced yourself? You knew nothing of RSN “suffering.” Go talk to these folks; try and sell them that load of manure.

And for crying out loud, it’s bloody convenient, isn’t it, that when you left New York you went to Montreal… gave you a whale of a hook to use to associate yourself with the new team in D.C., that bit of synchronicity. Bloody serendipity, that…helped block out the column and provided a bow to help wrap the sucker up!

Presto. It is 1975 all over again. I begin to care. I want them to win. Why? I have no idea. I begin following day games on the Internet. I’ve punched not one but two preset Nationals stations onto my car radio. I’m aghast. I’m actually invested in the day-to-day fortunes of 25 lugheads I never heard of until two weeks ago.

Yeah, right. It’s called “hopping on the bandwagon,” Krauthammer; buying a ticket on the “Fly by Night Fan” flight. You pulled it back then, and you’re pulling it now. If the Nats didn’t get off to a good start, and all your fellow Beltway pundirazzi and politicians hadn’t decided that season’s tickets for the new “home town team” (none of you fuckers are even from D.C., Charles, and you just laid out how your fan affilliation is dictated by your ass’s location) is this year’s black, you’d never had written this crap.

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