“Fandom is a great beacon of our cultural idiocy,” a pro ballplayer once told me. “Wanting your team to win and not understanding why they can’t is so dumb.” This has always stuck with me, not because I quite agree with it — why would there be sports at all if no one rooted for anyone? — but because the way I feel after my team loses is generally not so much disappointed or upset as something close to dumb, and dumb in a particular way; that is, for having any kind of emotional reaction to athletes winning or losing games.
The psychology of this reaction is complex and has surely inspired many studies, journal articles, cultural studies, and so on. I don’t feel the need to analyze it much more than we already do. And I need to qualify this by saying that I covered both Duke and UNC basketball as a journalist, which means that I have: A) a certain amount of objectivity (although you would be amazed by how many sports journalists are actually just diehard fans of some team or other); B) an unusual diffusion of what rooting interests I do possess. Not many people can get behind both of these rival programs.
For a longish time, I adopted the ballplayer’s no-rooting, fandom-is-idiocy ideology, because I have Buddhist tendencies and will look for ways to practice them. But over time, I’ve come to appreciate that fandom, expressed in certain ways, bespeaks a certain kind of generosity and ardor that I don’t really want to relinquish, and probably can’t even if I were to try. I grew up around here. I remember Rich Yonakor and Gene Banks and Ranzino Smith and Alaa Abdelnaby and where I was when [insert any number of great Duke and/or UNC moments here]. Our fandom dwells in our childhoods. To abandon it is to be less than our full selves. Continue reading The Tobacconist, Vol. 6
I was at last night’s game in Cameron Indoor Stadium, in which Duke thrashed Louisville, 82-56. I covered the Blue Devils in 2011-2012 and so had seen numerous games in the justly legendary building, but there’s something very different about sitting in the stands. It’s not just that I was literally on the other side of the court from press row, nor that I was with some friends who had kindly invited me. The whole feel of the experience is different; the eyes see differently; one’s investment is different. The specifics of the action on the court yield to a broader absorption: swaths of play; looks on players’ faces and attitudes of body language; and those almost mysterious rises and falls in collective intensity level that are like weather systems passing in quick time lapse.
Because I’d always gone straight into the press room when I was covering Duke, I had never thought to take the time to visit Cameron Indoor Stadium’s museum/shrine to Duke basketball and varsity sports generally. We arrived rather early and had some time on our hands, so we wandered through it. The one exhibit I’ll never forget was what I took to be an artist’s heroic rendering of basketball shoe at an approximately 2:1 scale, about the size of a small dachshund. As I moved closer and read the placard, I discovered that it was an Actual. Shoe. Worn. By. Jahlil. Okafor. You know what they say about men with big shoes. Continue reading The Tobacconist, Vol. 5
For a few years I worked for a redoubtable and stereotypical prima donna chef who was known to 86 menu items in order to force customers to order other ones; refuse to cook certain cuts of meat past a certain temperature regardless of whether it was ordered that way; deny his stock of nicer wine glasses to guests who didn’t spend an arbitrary minimum amount on their bottle; and so on. He drove his cooks like oxen and could be mercilessly hard on his floor staff as well, and harder still in affect because he didn’t throw Ramsay-ish tantrums. Instead he gave cold, calm, premeditated, dead-eyed, withering disapproval. It hurt up under the sternum to receive this treatment, but there was treatment of his that hurt even worse: being ignored. Once that happened to them a few times, waiters knew their time at the restaurant was short. They’d never be fired, of course: that could result in filing for unemployment, which the chef would never risk paying. He’d simply make them feel so exiled — abetted, somewhat unintentionally, even apologetically, by the rest of the front-of-house staff, who were too terrified to risk affiliation with a pariah — that they’d quit sooner or later, often as a means of putting and end to an unhappy spell working the restaurant’s Siberia section, which of course included Table 13.
After UNC beat Duke in Chapel Hill last Thursday night, Duke head coach Mike Krzyzewski was asked about shooting guard Grayson Allen’s low scoring output. Krzyzewski began his answer like so: “Trevon…” Then he tailed off and rephrased his response: “Grayson had to handle the ball a lot.” He didn’t mention Trevon Duval again.
Continue reading The Tobacconist, Vol. 4.
Is it going to go like this for the Tar Heels? Lose multiple games in a row and then come home and maul a lower-division conference opponent 96-66 (or 96-65) behind a big night by Luke Maye? At what point is the inflection point, if any, where progress begins? Everyone knows UNC is too talented and has too much experience to be as bad as they frequently are, so why, frequently, are they? This is really the question of the season in Chapel Hill, unless the team somehow gets so far past the inflection point that the Final Four becomes a legitimate subject. Continue reading The Tobacconist, Vol. 3