The Fan

The Fan

The Fan. 2016. Oil on Canvas. 66cm x 79cm.

A solitary fan, his face anguished, sits alone in the isolated silence of failure. His team has lost again. They came so far, so close, but just not close enough and now he has nothing—nothing but an empty stadium and rumination of what might have been. His despair is an unwanted, unsavory and loathsome side effect of devotion, a result of his absolute, exclusive committal and unswaying servitude over many years—all to a singular team.

And I know how he feels. Growing up as a teenager in Scotland, I was not a big sports fan, but I loved World Cup soccer and the Olympic games. Nevertheless, supporting Scotland in the World Cup was about as fulfilling and successful as an Ernest Shackleton expedition. And cold too. The 1970s Olympics were also light on Jock joy; going to the bathroom you could’ve easily missed both Scottish golds while the Yanks racked up well over sixty.

Since then I’ve moved about a bit, from Scotland to England, to the USA, and to boot, the UK became part of the European Union in the ’70s. I’m currently a dual citizen of the United States and the Europe, thereby offering an impressive array of celebratory sporting prospects. The UK is presently technically part of Europe but admittedly this may be a fanciful fandom stretch here, although lately I really like Bayern Munich.

Some may think this is selling out, or fair-weather fan fickledom, but I see it differently; more pragmatically, and guaranteed to provide revelry and festivity, at least occasionally in an otherwise bleak sport’s silverware existence. So for this year’s hockey Stanley Cup, when my first pick, the Washington Capitals, lost to the Pittsburgh Penguins, I immediately donned the Tampa Bay Lightning jersey. But they too were pounded by Pittsburgh. Hey, let’s go Pens!

Struck by Lightning

Sports Review: With youthful suspense, I wait eagerly in the cavernous darkness as blue neon streaks dart above me in all directions. Hearing the apparent crackle and sizzle of electrical arcing, I crane my neck up to the left and right to observe streams of sparks from what could be large Van de Graaff generators suspended 75 feet overhead. I hear the increasingly enthusiastic oohs and aahs of a large crowd all around me as the light and electrical show unfolds with great drama. Thumping music fades in gradually while roving searchlights briefly illuminate random swatches of revelers in what transpires to be an eighteen thousand strong gathering. “Na na na na na na na na na,” is the growing chant and it’s hard not to join in. I went to my first AC/DC concert in Glasgow, Scotland decades ago as a teenager and that Australian rock band has certainly demonstrated staying power. The song playing tonight,  Thunderstruck, is a recording, however, and the crowd is not here to party with Angus Young and Brian Johnson. We are at Amalie Arena to watch Tampa in the National Hockey League (NHL) playoffs. Nevertheless, the show is more grandiose than most rock concerts.

Tampa has a pretty good hockey team, and in my opinion, one of the better named: Tampa Bay Lightning. Lightning connotes irrepressible power, heavenly streaks, electrical arcing and sparking, and it annexes pyrotechnics and thunder while channeling the very best of AC/DC. Lightning gives the fans a satisfying array of choral and brand messaging options; for example, let’s go bolts, let’s go light-ning, be the thunder, and we are lightning. Not all hockey teams have such creatively powerful monikers, for example the Toronto Maple Leafs or the Pittsburg Penguins. There is only so much that can be done with foliage or small flightless birds to capture the imagination and evoke vigorous human emotions.

Like a lot of sports, hockey is a mega-business in America, with 30 teams playing a total of over 1,000 rock show games per season to reach the playoffs—which in Europe we would call quarterfinals, semifinals and the final. Except, in America each of three playoff rounds has up to seven games against an opponent, pretty much assuring a most devoted fan may spend every waking hour following the action. And action it is—the puck is played rapidly up and down the full length of the field, even behind the nets, while fighting and brawls between players are customary and encouraged. Players will punch the living daylights out of each other, and in contrast to the World Wrestling Federation, hockey fights are authentic. In UK soccer, if a player punches another he will be red-carded, sent off, suspended for a number of future games, and may be charged with violent conduct by the Football Association and the local police. In U.S. hockey, the offending player receives a two-minute timeout—the same punishment meted out for nefarious misconduct, including tripping, hooking, high sticking and interference. Oftentimes this two-minute relegation is considered too severe for the hockey fighter as he sits out his chastisement angrily banging on the glass and recklessly spilling Gatorade on those around him.

Contrastingly, In UK soccer there can be too many faked player dives or feigned injuries during a game. Oftentimes, one player will bump into another and the roughed receiver topples conveniently amid great drama, while writhing, grimacing and holding a limb or other body part. Milliseconds later the perpetrator falls over too while applying clear and High-Definition observable pressure to some appendage. Both victims lie wincing on the field for what seems longer than a standing ovation at a Lady Gaga concert while waiting for some formal expression of sympathy. The offending player feels he should stay down as long as the traumatized recipient, should the referee feel the need to dole out some color-carded punishment. Then the recipient starts to feel a bit awkward having squirmed in fake agony for so long that he needs to make a good show out of it and be helped up by others. Not infrequently two guys that weren’t really hurt in the first place cause a situation that forces them to follow through with Shakespearian performances. This does not happen in ice hockey—bloodied players get up promptly and unassisted, gather their belongings and put on an ice pack while the game continues all around them. For this reason alone, as amazing a soccer player as he is, Ronaldo could not succeed in hockey, although he would make a fabulous prince in Disney on Ice. On the other hand I could envisage Wayne Rooney or John Terry suited up in a hockey outfit.

With religious-like zeal, the vast majority of ice hockey fans exhibit allegiance by sporting official shirts, hats and various emblematic accessories. As a testament to true American marketing genius, each team may have multiple uniforms on sale at any one time—the standard, the away, the Winter Classic, playoff versions, and other must-have special editions. Each adaptation carefully mixes genuine team tones in a variety of hues and shades that don’t stray too far from the original. Since most cities have only one team, any side playing at home is guaranteed a sell-out crowd clad in a sea of conforming club colors, much like a big bathtub filled with compliant M&M’s.


Eager fan sporting a matching playoff cap and T shirt

As with American football, soccer and basketball, hockey has an exclusive compendium of drop-dead gorgeous cheerleaders. In America our angelic advocates are flawless, stunning young ladies equipped with bubbly personalities, celebrity-white teeth, luxuriant flowing hair and original Barbie doll physiques. Their main occupation appears to vary a little by sport, but seems to be principally presence, and not exclusively to manage cheering activities as the average American sports fan is generally capable of raucousness without the need for guidance, instruction or other visual cues. Like a gift presented in pleasing wrapping paper with an affixed flower crafted from self-adhesive ribbon tape, cheerleaders enhance our overall experience.

In Washington DC, for example, home-team cheerleaders are driven around the street outside the arena in an open top double-decker bus before the game, fervently brandishing tinsel pompoms at the local populace. While cheerleaders in other sports have well-rehearsed, coordinated dance routines, in hockey they seem mainly relegated to lobbing free tee shirts to noisy supporters or pizza coupons to the loudest fan sections in the arena. I’m not sure why they don’t don skates and give us a few little party ice numbers, as the dance pageantry in basketball and football is fabulous.


Some guys go to games just to meet women

In addition to the snow bunnies, the regular ice hockey fan is treated to a varied assortment of entertaining skits every time the puck stops soaring. Waiting for repeated face-offs each time the game restarts, we enjoy 20 seconds of our favorite rousing songs, which stop precisely at the good part when the puck drops. And what is it with that pipe organ that sounds like a maniacal church organist at a carnival in hell? Oddly you become accustomed to it over a long period of time, just like the other forms of torment in Dante’s Inferno. Then, of course, for visual celebration and audience reaction there is the kiss cam, the dance cam, the decibel meter to record crowd cacophony and a variety of other product and service-sponsored entertainment acts. The diversions are, however, way better than watching Zambonis make interminable rink loops or reading innumerable unsolicited emails on your phone.

Of course, the national anthem is an integral part of the framework for the evening’s spectacle. It is a solemn almost funereal affair in the UK and is sincere and ceremonial in the USA too; however, with two main differences: US fans know the words and they join in for some parts. For example, in unison the 18,000 strong crowd will loudly yell “red,” in the “rocket’s red glare,” denoting the Washington Capitals team colors. At this time in the tournament both Tampa and Washington are playing well with the Lightning leading the Montreal Canadiens in the second round of the playoffs. With any luck the God of Thunder will continue to abet. Let’s go Bolts!