In the bizarre moral framework of my teenage years, the most miserable bastards I knew were those who wouldn’t pick a team and stand by it. Whatever the sport, they would attach themselves like barnacles to the hull of only the best teams: Duke basketball, Dallas Cowboys football, et cetera. These were horrible creatures with no sense of loyalty whatsoever. I would imagine them years older, getting their comeuppance by discovering that their wives cheated on them with the poolboy. (This was a stupid fantasy for a number of reasons, not least because the opposite scenario was far more likely.)
Anyway, in a development that would devastate my 13-year-old self, I have turned into one of those people, though only as it applies to sports, not to being a cuckolded husband. I am, as of about three years ago, a big fan of Spanish soccer powerhouse FC Barcelona. Not coincidentally, they are, for the past three years, unquestionably the best team in the world, and employ the services of the best player of his generation, Lionel Messi.
I don’t mind being one of the latest (and lamest) people to hop on that bandwagon. Being a Barça partisan is a fucking fantastic experience. All they do is win, and in bunches. You may remember the Clásico against Real Madrid in November, who had just signed the world’s most recognized coach and were smashing all comers. A building has a better chance against a wrecking ball: 5-0 in Barça’s favor. The second leg of the Champion’s League match against Arsenal last week, after Barça dropped the first 2-1? The Spaniards breezed through 3-1 against one of England’s best squads, despite their two best defenders being out. It’s gotten to the point now where it’s like a game in a Playstation season: a simple 2-1 victory doesn’t even do much for me. It’s OK, but unless Messi scores a brilliant goal and the team piles on five or more, I am tempted to hit reset.
The odd loss does indeed burn, which is a surprise because I couldn’t name a single one of their players two World Cups ago, but the defeats are rare enough that it doesn’t matter. Rooting for Barça is virtually all fun, and with no commitment. (Should Barça fall on genuinely hard times, I’m almost certain my favor will shift to the best team not employing Cristiano Ronaldo within a few hours.) In contrast, rooting for the Cubs is an anvil around my neck; I want to ignore baseball once June begins and they are already 75 games out of first. But since I’ve been with them since I was in diapers, there’s no leaving now.
The only downside of the mercenary approach to sports fandom is meeting someone who really is a genuine fan, who will inevitably see through you and think you are a scumbag. I had this unfortunate experience during a chance encounter at a soccer bar with a couple of real live Spaniards not long ago. We started talking about La Liga, and it turned out that they were fans of Deportivo la Coruña, a currently middling squad that won a couple of titles maybe a decade ago. They asked me who I liked.
Barça, I said.
One of them raised an eyebrow. Did you live there or something?
No, I just like the way they play.
You picked a good team.
Yeah.
He looked me over suspiciously. Señor, he was surely thinking, you are a miserable bastard.
