GO... ummm... Team!

The New York Yankees have won 26 and competed in 39 World Series. Hmmm… interesting. So far, Shaquille O’Neal (who has the dimensions roughly those of a small Blue Marlin) is ranked number one in the NBA for Field-Goal percentage (59.7%), Field-Goals per 48 minutes of play (averaging 12.59) and blocks (with 166). Imagine that. Randy Moss set an NFL record for most receiving yards in a player's first six seasons with 8,375 yards. In 2004, FC Porto beat AS Monaco 3-0 for the European Cup in soccer.

Yaaaawwwwnnn… sigh… Zz.. huh? No, man, I’m awake. Zz… zzzzz…. Ahhh, yeah, Penelope. Oh, Penelope! Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Let’s face it: there is a societal expectation that the average dude be either good at a sport, well versed in sports or fanatically follow one team. Such that if a lone 12-25 year old guy were to want to break into a group of similar 12-25 year old guys, his best bet is probably to display an encyclopedic knowledge of stats and figures or demonstrate exceptional skill at the no-look pass. Of course there are exceptions; some guys have designs on Princess Leia, some are interested in philosophy and literature and some still (ahem) are so self-interested that it doesn’t really matter what other people’s interests are. Ahem. Cough… cough.

Sorry. There’s something in my throat.

Psychologist Simon Baron-Cohen, in his book ‘The Essential Difference: The Truth About the Male and Female Brain”, postulates that while women are empathizers, men are systemizers. Essentially, our brains are hard-wired to set up systems and organize things. As a result, males intrinsically feel compelled to be competitive for the sake of establishing where they stand compared to other males; it would be unthinkable to allow things to go undefined. This explains why a) guys naturally form hierarchies and b) we exhibit dominance through our mastery of rules and the manipulation of the laws of physics to slam that other jerk that thought he could slip through the defense without us seeing his slow, monkey ass (i.e. athletics). Yeah! Where you goin’, baby? Huh? Where you goin’? That’s right: NOWHERE!

But I digress…

The point is, under Baron-Cohen’s theory, guys—by their very constitution—are supposed to excel at sports, or at the very least, be desirous of being good. That desire can, if genetics deny otherwise, take the form of living vicariously through those that are actually good. Additionally, because men are predisposed to establish systems in an attempt to organize the world around them, males should also be interested, to varying degrees, in sports statistics and speculations. After all, stats seem to be the pinnacle of masculinity: it gives men the opportunity to combine both competitiveness and figures breaking that competition down into neat boxes, percentages and pie charts. Why else would guys watch a ballgame, watch SportsCenter for highlights of that game and others, AND check the paper the next day for the exact same box scores?

SIDEBAR: Paco’s on to Something
Just seconds ago, my roommate shot an empty coke bottle from across the room into the trash can 12 feet away. He easily could have gotten up from his chair and walked it into the trash can OR we could conveniently place our trash cans closer to our desks. Instead, he made the shot, celebrated with a fist-pump (the universal gesture for “God, I rock!!”) and exclaimed “Yessss! Two for two!” Presumably, he’d made one earlier in the night. Show of athleticism: check. Celebration to establish dominance: check. Immediate mathematical analysis thereof: check… Need I say more?

Old Baron-Cohen maintains that while systemizing is the common thread amongst men, levels of intensity vary. Some men, naturally, are going to be more heavily invested in sports and some (ahem… damned throat!) are going to lack interest and, sadly, talent. Those men that are less interested in this form of systemizing, according to B-C, are more likely prone to be empathizers and, therefore, women. This is a heated point of contention I have with his argument; I was following all the way until this point.

Random Angry Interjection by a Fictional Reader:
“That’s absurd! There are plenty of engineers, scientist, web-designers, stamp-collectors, Magic: The Gathering enthusiasts, etc. that are exceptional systemizers and just God-awful at sports.”
Editorial Response:
(Pensively stroking chin) Hmmm… I suppose you’re right. Lord knows when I’m at a party or bar and happen upon a conversation with other dudes, I immediately reach for my Magic deck or slide rule and throw down. Get out.

Not only am I simply terrible at sports (or anything requiring any kind of hand-eye coordination, for that matter), but I couldn’t care less how many homeruns and RBI’s Barry Bonds had last season. I can be competitive, sure, but only to the point where I know I’ll likely lose. At which point I throw my hands in the air, roll my eyes and say “_________ is for suckers. What a stupid sport! Who invented this anyway?” If conversations I’m in turn to sports, my eyes generally glaze over and I wait patiently for the first lull in the conversation to comment on the weather or rounds that need to be consumed.

I certainly admire those guys that are exceptional athletes and fall prey to the same silly social assumptions everyone else does. “Hey, d’you see Matt make that touchdown/goal/homerun/free-throw last night?” “Yeah. Golly, what an awesome guy! I’m gonna buy him a drink for being such a good person the next time I see him.” While it bodes very much against my favor, I understand why the star football player is always so popular. They can be liars, jerks, criminals or have terrible penmanship, but WOW, what an awesome 80 yard punt return he made. It all makes sense (lousy Simon Baron-Cohen).

My bouts with sucking at sports started very early in life. I had always been the really chubby kid who, after getting picked last for kickball what must have been hundreds of times, finally gave up. All the athletic skills one obtains in their formative years on playgrounds and with neighborhood kids, I skipped out on. Now, no matter how much I want to make that shot or catch the football, there isn’t a single person on the court or field who doesn’t know that I’m not only going to miss it, but very likely trip over my own feet at the worst possible moment along the way.

My parents recognized that boys are supposed to play sports when they’re young if they’re to be well adjusted. When I was in second grade, they signed me up for little league baseball as a way for me to learn basic athleticism and good sportsmanship. I hated the idea from its conception. I got picked up by the worst team in the league: The Rialto Expos. Other boys got to be on teams named after respectable clubs like the Rialto Dodgers or the Rialto Yankees. Not only were the Expos about the worst team in major league baseball, but they weren’t even American. Our colors were powder blue and red… in looking back at my team picture (in which I’m scowling like only seven year olds and old priests can) I resembled an Easter Peep with cleats and glasses.

They put me in right field in hopes that I wouldn’t cause too much damage to the rest of the Expos that were actually eager to play. I spent the better part of practices trying to reason with the coach and manager as to why I, specifically, didn’t need to run the laps with everyone else. Games were (to use the most precise cliché possible) bitter-sweet. I’d stand in the field cursing my parents for ever having made me play while the coach cursed at me for not facing the diamond when someone was at bat.
“Ramirez, goddamnit, keep your eye on the game!”
“Ramirez, your glove is not a goddamn hat!”
“Ramirez, that’s the eighth goddamn time you’ve tied your shoe this inning!”
“Ramirez, your parents just said they hate you. You’re an embarrassment and they’re going to take the catcher home and give him all your things.”
I lived for the end of the game when the baseball moms would have snacks and punch set out. I’d stuff my chubby face with Cheetos and brownies and pretend to commiserate with the other boys over how much we should have won because the other team sucked.

At the end of every game, while I was busy with my Capri-Sun, the coach would announce who the MVP of that game was. My ears would still anxiously perk up as if I had contributed anything to that game but provoke ulcers for coaches and parents of real players. It would be years later when I realized that every boy had to get MVP for at least one game. Incidentally, the kid who played catcher got MVP twice before I ever got it the first time… at the very last game of the season. “Ramirez, you actually hit the ball this time and you kept your glove on for most of the game. We’re all proud of you, son.”

I still hate baseball. Sure, I like going to the stadium and taking in a game (of any sport, really), because I can amuse myself with stadium things during the game. Invariably, I’ll have buddies who will know what they’re doing, so I’ll take my cues from them and yell at the players or the officials when appropriate. I’ll get my fill of beers, nachos and peanuts, do the wave and probably even buy a hat; I’d call that a good night. If I had watched the exact same game at home, I’d have either fallen asleep or gone on to meticulously organize the magazines on the coffee table.

Being from right around Los Angeles, I take part in the same kind of fair-weather fandom that every other Angelino does: I root for the Lakers after they’ve won. I can enjoy watching basketball on TV because I can step away from it for a few minutes and will actually get a response when I ask “What happened?” When the Lakers play the Kings, I will generally jeer and vociferously advise Mike Bibby as to how he should recover from a missed three-pointer, as I am wont to do. I can even go on and on about how much I hate Tony Parker of the San Antonio Spurs, but were I to see either Mike Bibby or Tony Parker in a bar… you better believe I’m going to ask for them to autograph whatever article of clothing seems most appropriate at the time. I’ll then go straight to tell my buddies about the time I called Mike Bibby a bitch and run to Ebay with an authentic, autographed Red Stripe beer visor.

I can’t fathom how people start fights and riots over sports. British soccer hooligans are notorious for getting rowdy after their favorite club loses… or wins… or is even made reference to in passing. Not only are these characters not part of the team, but no one on the team probably even cares that their honor is being defended by someone a police report will later describe as “shirtless, stumbling and reeking of cheap beer.” I’ve seen sober people in the states get incensed when someone says their favorite ball club is the Yankees. Perhaps a car won’t get overturned, but it’s an uncomfortable situation no less (what with the flurry stats and threatening profanities).

It’s absurd. I can’t understand how other men can possibly invest themselves to such degrees. I know guys that will sit down with a cooler full of beer and watch football from dawn ‘til dusk on Saturdays. I can’t think of anything that can hold my attention longer than an average movie, much less watching different people do much of the same thing over and over again. Hmmm… that may also explain my impatience with girlfriends.

You know it’s gotten bad when even alcohol is against me on this one. There are tons of things that don’t peak my interests, but at least I can take solace in the fact that major alcohol companies are with me. Skyy doesn’t sponsor chess tournaments. There are no Corona Promise Keeper conventions. Happily, I’ve never heard of the Chivas Regal International Genetic Biology Roundtable. But roughly one in three bars is called a sports bar, major sporting events have booze affiliates and most domestic beers have contests for tickets to the final four, World Series and the Super Bowl. Salt to the wound: Buffalo chicken wings are the official food of the American sports spectator. Screw you Simon Baron-Cohen!

That’s all.