Of all the despicable swine of the sports world, fair weather fans are, perhaps, the most callous. For those unfamiliar with this term, a fair weather fan is someone who has little interest in following sports or supporting a specific team, until said team begins to triumph. Take, for example, sports stars who don Yankees caps in postgame interviews — of which there are many. Though these stars often are not from New York, nor do they play for New York teams, there is something en vogue about wearing the gear of the world's most successful franchise.
For obvious reasons, fans of the Jets, Mets and Knicks could never be considered fair weather fans. Yet fans connect with their teams and want to see their teams win. So, when a disloyal fan celebrates a pivotal victory, devoted supporters of fruitless teams brim with anger. Imagine dedicating your entire life to art only to see a friend, who dabbles passionlessly in finger painting, create the next great American artwork! That feeling would be analogous to how I felt during Super Bowl XLII four years ago.
As a Jets fan from Westchester, N.Y, I begrudgingly attended a friend's Super Bowl party to watch the New York Giants take on the undefeated New England Patriots. Just as with yesterday's Super Bowl, a Giants-Patriots showdown is equivalent to the apocalypse for Jets fans. We hate the Patriots because they are our division rivals who, after coaxing Bill Belichick into resigning his position as the Jets head coach after one day in office in 1999, led the Patriots to three championships. Jets fans also despise the Giants, who have always trivialized the Jets by declaring themselves the "older brother" New York football dynasty.
Anyway, on that fateful February day, I listlessly arrived at my friend's house, a grimace plastered on my face. I perused the room for Jets sympathizers when my eyes fell upon an appalling sight: my friend — let's call him "Philip G. Herman" — wearing a Michael Strahan jersey and a matching Giants hat. Sure, there were many attendees dressed in Giants attire, but Phil's getup particularly caught my eye.
Phil's limited-edition Strahan jersey and matching hat were adorned with the Super Bowl XLII logo, leading me to conclude he had purchased the items that morning at the local Sports Authority — a presumption Phil would later confirm. Yet the most distressing aspect of Phil's garish apparel stemmed from the simple fact that he had never before shown the slightest interest in the Giants. He may very well have attended the Super Bowl party in a shiny, green Chad Pennington jersey had the Jets (miraculously) made the Super Bowl that year.
When I confronted Phil with all the pent-up rage of a scorned football addict, however, he indignantly defended his love of the Giants … despite the fact he could not name five players on their team. But, when David Tyree made his exceptional catch, inexplicably pinning the ball against his helmet in double coverage, and when pre-self inflicted gunshot wound PlaxicoBurress caught the game-winning touchdown reception, Phil whooped and hollered with the rest of my tormentors as if he himself had won the Super Bowl.
I will never forget that day, because I — a fairly pleasant and seldom spiteful person by nature — resented my friend's happiness, uncontrollably cursing his fortunes under my breath. An ancient proverb maintains that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Nonetheless, in sports, any friend who supports my enemy is inherently my enemy. Especially when that friend only flaunts his commitment to a team when that team achieves greatness.
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Zach Drucker is a senior majoring in International Relations and Spanish. He can be reached at Zachary.Drucker@tufts.edu.
