Something About Sports
My brother and I are complete opposites…for the most part. The biggest difference between the two of us is that I am obsessed with drama, and he is obsessed with sports. Ever since he was nine months old, Ryan was swinging plastic golf clubs, watching college football games with our dad, and root root rooting for a team that, until recent history, was dubbed the Last-ros (AKA, the 2017 World Series’ Champions, the Houston Astros). Because my brother was so passionate about sports and I was so passionate about being next to him for every waking moment of my childhood, I became an unwilling spectator for many of these games.
And I just didn’t get it. Why are so many people passionate about live sports while so few are (it seems to me) passionate about live theatre?
Because unlike theatrical spectators, sports’ spectators know the game: they’ve seen it played countless times before. An audience for a (new) play has never seen the show before and, therefore, has no way of knowing anything about the course of events or possible outcomes. Sports’ fans, on the other hand, know the plays, know the fouls, know how to win and how to lose. They expect certain outcomes before they’re even put into play. A team putting a pitcher into a game with an ERA of 10, for example, will very possibly end up in that team surrendering more runs to their offensive counterpart, all because of mediocre pitching. In plays, you can say, “the ex-husband enters," and absolutely anything could happen next: the ex-husband could murder his ex-spouse, he could get back together with his ex-spouse, he could happen upon his ex-spouse engaged in another romantic fling with someone, he could simply be stopping by to pick up something he forgot long ago in their once-shared home. The list goes on and on, and the possibilities are endless in the eyes of any good playwright. In sports, the outcomes are more definite. There is a science to it. There are a set number of things that could happen, but there are far more things that could not possibly happen.
There are rules in sports. The rules are clear, and if you disrupt thesA< rules, then there are consequences.
There are “rules” in theatre. The rules are more or less clear, and if you disrupt the rules, then there is a disruption in the form. Sometimes the disruption sticks, but more often than not, the disruption flits away, and we return to our original mold.
Perhaps this says something about our high regard for the “rules.” And for what reason? Is it born out of religious/ecclesiastical roots? A natural, evolutionary mechanism we used to maintain homeostasis, balance, and control?
I never understood why my brother would stay until the very end of an Astros’ game, even if it was the bottom of the 8th and our team was down 14-2. Ever since the team’s rise to success, however, I began to understand. My brother, like every other fan out there, has a narrative in his head. A history. A story. It’s a story we all know. It’s the hero’s journey: an unwilling underdog finds themselves thrust into a position they can no longer escape. They must go on this journey, and, in the end, they not only survive, but thrive. The Houston Astros. The Good Guys. The worst team in the National League, but the Good Guys. Then they make the drastic switch to the American League. They re-brand. New mascot. New uniforms. New line ups. New management. And slowly, but surely, they become one of the best teams in the MLB. Maybe not right now, but maybe that’s what keeps me watching every night. I know how this game is played. I know these characters well. I’ve been following them my whole life. And I know, from history, they have run into the same problem time and time again. And yet, in the end, they somehow triumph in an impossible, yet wildly entertaining, way.
How will they do it this time?
