Happiness pt. 2

Growing up (don't shoot, hear me out), I wasn't exactly around sports. My father had some curling brooms in the garage and a trophy on the mantle that he never talked about -- that was the extent of my childhood athletic exposure. When my brother got into hockey cards in the 2nd grade, I followed suit; I'd like to say because I looked up to him, but the more likely truth is I did it because I thought I could beat him. At card collecting. Jesus.

He beat me in that regard, but since I collected more comics I figure we're about even.

That's how I developed competetiveness. That, the Nintendo Entertainment System, girls (I always lost), and, to a far lesser degree, academics. Poor, wayward, second son.

When the call of the wild -- AKA favorite sports teams selections for children -- began, I showed up late. Big brother had a monopoly on two of the four major sports' franchises: the Bears and the Celtics. He also had the Leafs, but since they were stuck in the Harold Ballard era -- and I was adopted from a South American family (the only way I can conceivably explain why I didn't like hockey the moment I espied a black and orange puck) -- I'm calling it a draw. Ditto for the Blue Jays, because I firmly believe that no one under twelve can appreciate baseball (although the first time I learned about sex was when I was eight, in a Burger King, and Ernie Witt was prominently involved -- so at least I can appreciate that).

Some years later, I would fall asleep every night listening to Samantha Fox and Chicago on Buffalo's KISS 93.5, and wake up in the morning greeted with the maxim SQUISH THE FISH blaring like a siren. Who were these Miami Dolphins? Easy, they were the enemy. I was convinced that Dan Marino was the antichrist, and, in retrospect, I wasn't exactly wrong. The year was 1990, and the Buffalo Bills were on their way to the first of four consecutive Super Bowl appearances.

[fuck]Of course they lost each one.[/fuck]

Like many in my generation, I got into basketball because of Michael Jordan, and late spring of the same year that the Bills/Scott Norwood lost Superbowl XXV I followed the Chicago Bulls during their championship run. But there was no joy in Mudville on that occasion, because part of the experience of being a sports fan is struggling with a team through its highs and lows, and although Game 1 of the Finals was a heartbreaker, I was riding the Bulls' bandwagon without baggage. Of course I was -- I was 13 years old. Perhaps if Norwood's kick hadn't

(gone WIDE RIGHT!)

missed, I'd feel the same way about the Bills. Who's to say? Anyway, MJ and Co. beat the Lakers, sparked a dynasty, and got me hooked on professional basketball.

But -- and here's where maybe, just maybe, Hockey Heritage plays a part -- I couldn't vibe with Chicago's blend of savvy marksmanship and killer instinct, preferring instead to admire the gritty bullying of the New York Knicks. Those motherfuckers had ice grills! Ewing, Charles Oakley, Anthony Mason (later), and Pat Riley stalking the sidelines like an amalgamation of Don Corleone and Gordon Gecko...put a hurt on 'em, son!

Mostly, though, I fell in thug love with the Knicks because of one man: John Starks.

No disrespect to Ghostface, but if anyone who ever resided in NY deserves the title of Ironman, it's Starks -- not only because dude's surname almost matches the Marvel Comics hero's PKA, but because of Starks's heart. Early on in the comics, Tony had to wear the Ironman suit to protect his ticker. I am convinced that John Starks had to protect his own with Madison Square Garden. Two of the saddest days in my life were when Starks dropped a brick bomb on me in Game 7 of the '94 Finals and watching him play for Golden State in the first game of the Warriors' 98/99 season.

Heart and soul. Fuck Babe Ruth and Boston, I'm convinced the biggest curse in sports occurred when John Starks left NY.

When John Starks left New York, a little piece of me died, too. Fuck that, a big piece.

The Toronto Blue Jays won the World Series in 1991 and 1992, and although it was exciting at the time, looking back I can't feel proud about it. I didn't earn it.

The Miami Heat won the NBA Championship in 2006, and, yeah, I earned that one, despite sports bigamy (peep the archives, Bruce). But it's 2007, and what have I done for the Heat lately? [Cedric Daniels's Voice]Not a goddamn thing.[/Cedric Daniels's Voice]

(I'ma make good, I promise, lieutenant.)

---

I once told a good -- nay, a great -- man that people generally get what they deserve. I still believe that. If the Buffalo Bills never hoist the Vince Lombardi Trophy in my lifetime, I can handle it. Perhaps I don't deserve it. If the Knicks DO hoist the Larry O'Brien in same lifetime, I'll handle it, too, well aware that I'm a traitor, yet proud nonetheless.

Word to Professor X (RIP), there are 9 innings in a baseball game; and there can be no victory sweeter than winning the game of life. Sweeter still when you do so away from home.

Word to Victory.