It is time to draw a line in the sand. Or, at minimum, kick up some dirt around the third-base bag.
The Broncos begin their season today, and I couldn’t care less. It’s not simply that I can’t stand the new coach, Son of Hoodie, or that when Broncos fans were booing Jay Cutler the other night, they managed to set a new standard for missing the point. I mean, they were basically booing the birthright that had been stolen from them when it was the, uh, thieves — the owner and coach — they should have been booing. Joe Wilson couldn’t have gotten it more wrong or as loudly.
But for me, the real point is that we, in Denver, are in the midst of a baseball pennant race — a thing as rare as a Bennet- Romanoff Sunday brunch, as unexpected as every Rockies ninth-inning comeback. How does a mere football game compare?
This is something entirely new. Yes, I remember the Rockies of Rocktober, way back in 2007 when they went to the World Series. But that wasn’t about baseball as much as it was about magic. It was completely unexpected, a storm that came undetected and blew this place away.
It was great fun — but it wasn’t, somehow, earned. This time it’s different. The beauty of baseball is in its 162-game season, with each game unfolding like a chapter in a Russian novel, except with easier names to pronounce. But it has the same richness, the same depth and, as a bonus, you get to know the various characters’ on-base percentages.
And, of course, there’s the rooting interest. When I was a sportswriter in my long-ago youth, I learned not to be a fan. My main rooting interest was for the story — and, much later, for finding an outlet for the computer. I could no longer embrace the illogic that is essential for the true fan.
Just think of the moral relativism. You boo Manny Ramirez for having been a steroids abuser — and you cheer Jason Giambi when he becomes your team’s official former steroids abuser. No one questions whether it makes any sense.
I love all the rules fans set for themselves. Of where you can sit and where you can’t. Of how you can wear your hat and how you can’t. Of how, if you leave the game early, you have violated a code of honor. Of how — OK, this is my rule — fantasy baseball is to real baseball as disco is to rock ‘n’ roll.
What’s clear is that Rockies fans are already paying attention. And we haven’t even gotten anywhere near Rocktober.
In fact, we’re trying to get through the drama of Rocktember that followed Rock-august (Raugust?). This was the season that began disastrously. The manager was fired, and the new manager, Jim Tracy, became a faith healer. Among the healed were Todd Helton and Troy Tulowitzki. Meanwhile, Ubaldo Jimenez came of age, Jason Marquis became the marquee pitcher, I laugh each time I see the Spilly-Dinger staring-contest commercial, and the Rockies somehow morphed into the hottest team in baseball.
There are many ways you can come to being a baseball fan. I was born to it, in the way you’re born to a religion. Careful readers of this column may remember I was born a Dodgers fan. My first dog’s name was, yes, Dodger, followed by Duke and Campy and Sandy. I can’t — and wouldn’t — deny my heritage, which can be complicated when the Dodgers and Rockies are competing in the National League West and may play, on the last weekend of the season, for the division title.
It’s definitely wrong — here’s another rule — to have competing rooting interests. But no one said being a fan was easy. As I began this column Friday, I knew I was facing a long night: Rockies at San Diego, Dodgers at San Francisco. I watched the Rockies on TV, the Dodgers through the miracle of the computer.
I’m not complaining about the late hour. In fact, one thing I miss about living on the East Coast is that West Coast games would end there at 1 a.m. or later. There’s a certain competitiveness about being a fan — and the less important the competition, the better. In this one, he who stays up to the end wins. Let’s just say that if you have a job like mine, you have a real edge.
It’s how you take one for the team, even if the team has no idea you’re doing it. For me, there was tradition. As a kid, I would take the transistor radio to bed, listening to the game with the kind of pre-Walkman- technology ear piece that left you feeling like Evander Holyfield after a fight with Mike Tyson. That’s how you learn about sacrifice.
It’s Saturday as I finish this, the day after Yorvit Torrealba hit his bases-loaded double for the latest stunning Rockies comeback. The Rockies have moved far enough ahead of the Giants in the wild-card race that losing would now be a full-blown disaster. That’s the fate any real fan faces.
I know that out there in the real world, tea partyers have invaded Washington, and liberals, meanwhile, are worried about the health of the health care public option. I know I should be paying attention. But, hey, I’ve got another long night ahead of me.
Mike Littwin writes Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Reach him at 303-954-5428 or mlittwin@denverpost.com.
