Dr. Dale Moore

Essayist, bloggerist, philosopherist & ramblerist

I spend a lot of time in sporting venues. Truth be told I love sports of any kind, except soccer which is pretty much an unwatchable spectacle on any level. I don’t know, maybe its the bogus officiating that totally steams my bean. Soccer officials don’t throw flags for penalties — they pull color-coded cards from their shirt pockets and wave them wildly in the air while running in circles mid-field. Are you kidding me?!? I think what I enjoy most about sports though is not so much the actual sporting event but rather the antics of the fan base; specifically rabid fans. You know who you are, you lovable snot-slinging, red-in-the-face-screaming, spittle-spewing, foam-fingered-wearing wonder of wonders.  A vocal bunch you are too, prone to blurting out the most bizarre and curious pronouncements with little or no sense of timing. Don’t you just love it when some knuckle-dragging professional golf fan screams, “GET IN THE HOLE!” — the split second the ball leaves the tee? Right, that’s gonna happen on a par 5, 475′ yd, dog leg to the left, water on the right, bunkers all over the place, drive. And who isn’t totally entertained by the, its-so-easy-even-a-caveman-can-do-it guy bellowing, “REF, REF, Look at the foul count man, foul count, are you freaking blind??!!!” Or the guy in section JJJ row 314, seat 9, double-fisted jamming popcorn in his pie-hole, megaphone-loud bitching about balls and strikes he couldn’t see even if he had unfettered access to the Hubble telescope. Then there are the really hardcore fans who dream of organizing enough like-minded friends willing to strip naked to the waist and attempt to spell something on their chests, like Go-TEAM. Their real challenge? Lining everyone in the right order so as not to spell, Go-MEAT. Ya gotta love those fans. I guess they don’t call it March Madness for nothin’ ….

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