Screaming at the Velvet Bubble

Esoteric ramblings

For some reason this quaint video of Tampa Bay Buccaneers fans celebrating on the field after the final game of the 1977 season, which saw the second-year expansion franchise win its second straight game after starting off its NFL run with 26 losses in a row, has me transfixed:

It's just a lovely moment in time. The fans are on the field and some are tearing down a goalpost yet the scene has its own calm order and even a beauty about it. The police are present but there are no apparent problems and the fans seem well-behaved and comfortable on the field of play. One can feel an organic sense of community between an NFL team and its fans that is totally absent in the world of bigtime sports today.

For of all the thousands of ways modern corporate sports expresses its utter soullessness, the game-day experience has to rate near the top. Going to a game today means a non-stop assault on the senses, both in mass advertising bombardment and a constant aural and visual stampede that seems designed to prevent the spectator from settling in to watch.... the game.

Contrast the '77 Buc fans with this disgusting mess:

Note the canned appeal to fan enthusiasm. Note the number of officially-licensed merchandise our modern consumerist sports fans drape themselves in. Note the shrill, childish appeal to an artificial excitement as opposed to the casual yet more authentic joy shown by the Tampa fans.

It's not just the NHL that has lowered itself to this crass presentation. The NBA and NFL are every bit as vulgar and overtly commercial in their game-day experience. MLB is relatively constrained by the traditional pastoral nature of its game, but is struggling to overcome those limitations and join in on the rot. A ticket to a sporting event used to mean a night watching talented players perform. Now it is as much, if not more, about the "show" than the game itself.

Really, now: How does that Verizon Center stupidity differ from this?

This is all another way that the corporate sports machinery has separated the fan from the game. I recall reading Washington Post sportswriter William Gildea's captivating book "When the Colts Belonged to Baltimore" some 20-odd years ago. Gildea talks of going to confession at his local Catholic parish on a Saturday evening as a young boy and standing in line next to Gino Marchetti, then going to Memorial Stadium the next day and cheering him on.

Yes, those days are gone forever, but look how far we've slid from that kind of tie between town and team.

Nowadays, you sit in your seat and "make some noise" when the exploding scoreboard cues you like a trained seal. The multi-millionaires you are cheering for are kept under glass like a priceless museum exhibit.

What's more, we've turned our athletes into pixels in a video game. You do not relate to a pixel. You manipulate it and enjoy the sensory thrills it provides in bursts and spurts.

You do not engage the "event". You respond to the defined "highs" within the defined boundaries. In short, you remain behind the ropes and bask in the reflected glory of the spectacle.

Before the dominance of the corporate dullards, pro sports was accessible. It was something you could touch. Now it is mass-produced product wrapped in a velvet bubble. And inside that velvet bubble is a tattooed thug hopped up on steroids, crashing like a pixel into another blinking light.

We're never getting on that field in Tampa Bay again, folks.