Play One on TV

Over the last two days, temperatures in Oklahoma City have been a bit on the cool side. Surely this is a side effect of hell freezing over. Why? Because I attended a Hornets game last night.

Exhibit 1: A photograph of the buckaroo and myself sitting about eight miles above the arena floor.

Last month, I proudly declared myself free and clear of the influence of organized sports, professional or otherwise. I felt no compulsion to memorize team statistics or follow the in’s and out’s of player trades. My happiness did not depend on whether or not “my boyz” wound up on top. The state of my soul did not require the sacrifice of Monday nights at the altar of Michaels and Madden. My head remained free of licensed logowear.

My parents altered this complacency by giving me their tickets to last night’s game. Three hours of my life were given over to watching the Oklahoma City Hornets beat the living snot out of the Los Angeles Lakers.

And I enjoyed every ball-bouncing, Kobe-trouncing second of it.

Now that a day has passed, I’m somewhat bewildered by my sudden transformation from contemptuous cur into frothing fan. It was as if I and the other 19,000 people in the Ford Center were infected by a fast-acting, highly contagious virus that spread through hot dogs and funnel cakes. And it was a very loud virus. Even up in the cheapest of seats, the noise was deafening; the vibrations kept the funnel cakes dancing long after I had eaten them.

The noise, the lights, and the visceral excitement destroyed any chance of my remaining calm and composed. Simply put, I completely and utterly lost it. I hooted and hollered. I shouted at the referees. I ogled the cheerleaders (but only when the wife wasn’t looking.) I jumped to my feet at all of the politically correct moments. At every foul, my well-being depended on whether or not that last bucket “counted.” I danced to rap music, of all things.

I shouted the word “BOOYAH!” at least once. For the record, I have never used this word while sober, so I suspect that something illegal was slipped into my Diet Pepsi. Under normal circumstances, a slip like this would have me crying to Allah to curse my infidel tongue (if I were Muslim, that is), but last night, it became just another small part of my descent into joyful madness.

How is this possible? How can a Puritan like me fall so easily to a one-night stand with 15 tall men, 22 underdressed cheerleaders, and a guy in a rubber insect outfit? I’m the guy who watches the Superbowl just for the commercials — what the heck am I doing cheering for a team, of all things?

I even booed at Kobe Bryant. I don’t know Kobe Bryant from Anita Bryant. He could bump into me at the Krispy Kreme and I’d probably think nothing of it, aside from rubbing the back of my head where it knocked against his belt buckle. But everyone else was booing at Kobe Bryant, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. So there I was, booing like I was trying out for the part of Casper.

I’m beginning to understand why the powers-that-be in Oklahoma City worked so hard to woo the Hornets to our fair city (although to be honest, the idea of wooing the Hornets from a waterlogged New Orleans is like wooing Hillary Clinton from a Republican fundraiser). The mayor and his people understand the power of mass hysteria controlled under the banner of an NBA-regulated trademark. They don’t have to say “I wish I had a dime for everyone that said we need a big-league team in this city.” They certainly have that dime now, and there’s more where that came from, baby.

At least I’m not alone in my inability to explain my actions. Charles hit this nail firmly on the head with one of his weekly Vents. And Dr. Jan identifies well with this sudden burst of fanaticism, as she explains in a recent blog article:

When we first got to the Ford Center, I was almost angry at myself. How could I have possibly voluntarily gone to a basketball game? I mean, I was the principal of a school with state winning basketball teams; and I didn’t even enjoy going to those! But, soon, we were all cheering and dancing in our seats; and it was incredible. It really was.

Although it would be easy to say that this was just a one-time fling, I know better. I can try to forget the mindless excitement and the heart-thrilling roar of the crowds. I can soothe my soul with Mozart and fill my head with the new Neil Gaiman novel.

But whatever I do, there’s a part of me deep inside that’s still swaying back and forth to Gary Glitter’s Rock and Roll Part 2. And it’s shouting, “HEY!”