Boom, boom, fan culture is dying Stateside
If you felt grunting ruined Wimbledon, spare a thought for those who have to
sit through sports marred by plastic, pre-packaged razzmatazz.
Steven Wells
July 11, 2007 12:44 PM
Paul and Carol - an autumnal, sports-mad couple living in south-east England - say they'll never watch Wimbledon again. "We've watched it for years, but from now we're boycotting it," says Carol. "It's the screaming. And the grunting. I don't understand why they have to grunt. Rod Laver never grunted."
Of course, it's all a matter of perspective.
New York Times columnist Harvey Araton has declared Wimbledon an "intimate, unpretentious but still intense" oasis of peace, quiet and sanity in a sports world rocketing to noise-hell in an extremely squeaky-wheeled handcart.
Araton acknowledged the "shrieks, grunts and motivational cries" but still managed to nod off: "Something that couldn't have happened at Yankee Stadium or Madison Square Garden without wearing a pair of noise-cancelling headphones or downing half a bottle of NyQuil."
Refreshed, he then bashed out an article comparing Wimbledon's "cherished clatter-free zone" with the "cacophonous" artificial noise-polluted nightmare of sports back home, with its "exploding scoreboards and ear-splitting music ... the clown mascots, the busty cheerleaders and the wanton juvenility". And the rest of the "nonsense that makes it impossible to hear yourself think from the moment you step inside an American arena".
He's right. US sports are ruined by attention-span-wrecking, tacky, plastic, pre-packaged razzmatazz. A while back I went to watch the Philadelphia 76ers. Within a few minutes I was starting to get a feel for the rhythm of live basketball, noting how a little chap called Allen Iverson repeatedly used his brain as much as his body to outfox players who loomed over him. I was thinking what a great soccer midfielder he'd make. A Maradona with hands. Then, suddenly, I wasn't thinking anything at all. I was watching dancing girls.
This set the pattern for the rest of evening. A few minutes of basketball sandwiched between go-go dancers, a Frisbee-catching dog, time-outs, free T-shirts, irritatingly short blasts of music, distracting scoreboard graphics and Hip Hop the Rabbit's amazing guys-in-fat-suits sumo wrestling competition.
The audience, for the most part, sat still and listless. The few fans that did chant were drowned out by the PA system. It was if there was a morbid fear that - if allowed to actually watch the sport - the audience might become bored.
And no, it's not just using the "natural breaks" in the games to sell stuff. It's way beyond that. Canned noise is crammed into every available nook and cranny.
This moronic circus has all but killed fan culture. What's amazing is that it hasn't killed the sports themselves. Watching a game is like watching a great Shakespearean drama dumbed down to the soundbites. The great moments that emerge from fluid, open play and the interplay of fatigue, instinct and technique are lost. And the near-hypnotic state of focused concentration that defines the truly great fan experience is denied the American fan.
It's not a coincidence that Araton describes his Wimbledon epiphany as "Zenlike". "Increasingly, authentic noise and artificial noise are indistinguishable," writes Araton, "ultimately numbing. Too often lost are the subtleties of drama."
But the greatest horror is that, after decades of being treated like sugar-stoned two-year-olds, entire generations of fans have grown up thinking this brain-frying farce is normal.
"Listen, we've got fan culture," an angry NFL fan told me recently. "Every franchise has got its own song."
But I caricature. Lots of US fans do get it. And a rebellion of sorts is under way. Major League Soccer fans have been fighting the Disneyfied McFan experience for years. And this season the MLS buckled to their demands, sending a memo to clubs telling them to turn the PA off and let the fans make the noise.
And, yes, I know. I've been away too long. When I do go home I'm going to be like Marky Mark at the end of the remake of Planet of the Apes, horrified to discover that monkey culture has gotten there first.
Remember Paul, that chap from the first paragraph, who is going to stop watching Wimbledon because of the shrieking and the grunting? He sent his Harlequins rugby union season ticket back last year. Too many dancing girls, he says. Too much insulting gibbering. Too much patronising razzmatazz.
Hell in a handcart, I tell you. Hell in a handcart.
If you felt grunting ruined Wimbledon, spare a thought for those who have to
sit through sports marred by plastic, pre-packaged razzmatazz.
Steven Wells
July 11, 2007 12:44 PM
Paul and Carol - an autumnal, sports-mad couple living in south-east England - say they'll never watch Wimbledon again. "We've watched it for years, but from now we're boycotting it," says Carol. "It's the screaming. And the grunting. I don't understand why they have to grunt. Rod Laver never grunted."
Of course, it's all a matter of perspective.
New York Times columnist Harvey Araton has declared Wimbledon an "intimate, unpretentious but still intense" oasis of peace, quiet and sanity in a sports world rocketing to noise-hell in an extremely squeaky-wheeled handcart.
Araton acknowledged the "shrieks, grunts and motivational cries" but still managed to nod off: "Something that couldn't have happened at Yankee Stadium or Madison Square Garden without wearing a pair of noise-cancelling headphones or downing half a bottle of NyQuil."
Refreshed, he then bashed out an article comparing Wimbledon's "cherished clatter-free zone" with the "cacophonous" artificial noise-polluted nightmare of sports back home, with its "exploding scoreboards and ear-splitting music ... the clown mascots, the busty cheerleaders and the wanton juvenility". And the rest of the "nonsense that makes it impossible to hear yourself think from the moment you step inside an American arena".
He's right. US sports are ruined by attention-span-wrecking, tacky, plastic, pre-packaged razzmatazz. A while back I went to watch the Philadelphia 76ers. Within a few minutes I was starting to get a feel for the rhythm of live basketball, noting how a little chap called Allen Iverson repeatedly used his brain as much as his body to outfox players who loomed over him. I was thinking what a great soccer midfielder he'd make. A Maradona with hands. Then, suddenly, I wasn't thinking anything at all. I was watching dancing girls.
This set the pattern for the rest of evening. A few minutes of basketball sandwiched between go-go dancers, a Frisbee-catching dog, time-outs, free T-shirts, irritatingly short blasts of music, distracting scoreboard graphics and Hip Hop the Rabbit's amazing guys-in-fat-suits sumo wrestling competition.
The audience, for the most part, sat still and listless. The few fans that did chant were drowned out by the PA system. It was if there was a morbid fear that - if allowed to actually watch the sport - the audience might become bored.
And no, it's not just using the "natural breaks" in the games to sell stuff. It's way beyond that. Canned noise is crammed into every available nook and cranny.
This moronic circus has all but killed fan culture. What's amazing is that it hasn't killed the sports themselves. Watching a game is like watching a great Shakespearean drama dumbed down to the soundbites. The great moments that emerge from fluid, open play and the interplay of fatigue, instinct and technique are lost. And the near-hypnotic state of focused concentration that defines the truly great fan experience is denied the American fan.
It's not a coincidence that Araton describes his Wimbledon epiphany as "Zenlike". "Increasingly, authentic noise and artificial noise are indistinguishable," writes Araton, "ultimately numbing. Too often lost are the subtleties of drama."
But the greatest horror is that, after decades of being treated like sugar-stoned two-year-olds, entire generations of fans have grown up thinking this brain-frying farce is normal.
"Listen, we've got fan culture," an angry NFL fan told me recently. "Every franchise has got its own song."
But I caricature. Lots of US fans do get it. And a rebellion of sorts is under way. Major League Soccer fans have been fighting the Disneyfied McFan experience for years. And this season the MLS buckled to their demands, sending a memo to clubs telling them to turn the PA off and let the fans make the noise.
And, yes, I know. I've been away too long. When I do go home I'm going to be like Marky Mark at the end of the remake of Planet of the Apes, horrified to discover that monkey culture has gotten there first.
Remember Paul, that chap from the first paragraph, who is going to stop watching Wimbledon because of the shrieking and the grunting? He sent his Harlequins rugby union season ticket back last year. Too many dancing girls, he says. Too much insulting gibbering. Too much patronising razzmatazz.
Hell in a handcart, I tell you. Hell in a handcart.