Warm Evenings

Fans for most teams have a somewhat begrudging soft spot for the misfortunes of the Chicago Cubs and their “suffering” fans.  Success might not come year in and year out for their team, but they’ve (mostly) smelled the rose of success in recent memory.  And they certainly aren’t bedeviled by a multi-generational curse.  The only exception to this generalization? Yankees fans.  They seem to delight in the misfortune of others and gloat about their inherited success.  Because, like the rich kid in high school, they have had the good fortune to be passed down a silver spoon.  They have all either been born in it, or like a sniveling social climber, have consciously decided to root for the “best” around.

The difference between the fans of these two clubs was put in stark relief during an ESPN Sunday Night Baseball broadcast earlier this summer.  Dan Shulman related a story about a Yankees fan running up to every Cubs fan he saw saying, “I’ve lost my ring, have you seen my ring? Oh, you don’t have any rings, never mind.”  Never more so than that moment did I realize just how bratty the Yankees fans can be.  It was a crystalline example of their inherently rotten smugness.  The fans are like spoiled children, never capable of understanding just how special they are.  There is true waste in that sort of wanton insolence.

Sure, I might be taking this examination a bit too far.  And I might even be smarting a little too much from the way the season has fallen apart once again for the Cubs.  But you can’t, not even for a moment, tell me that the smugness is warranted.  Their contributions to “the team” are negligible and the spirit with which they revel in Yankee success is shameless.

So, yes. I do hate the Yankees.  I envy their success and loathe their smug fan base.  But it’s more than childish sour grapes.  In a weird way, I feel sorry for New York fans.  They lack the capacity for true appreciation.  When the Cubs finally reach that mountain, (god let it be in my lifetime!), the achievement will resonate.  The appreciation will be true and beautiful: a singular moment of euphoric emancipation.

Once upon a time, I was a child.  Once upon a time, I threw left-handed.

Once upon a time, as a well-to-do white boy in Arkansas, I loved listening to hip-hop.  The enjoyment first bloomed with Outkast’s Aquemini.  Hearing those tracks altered my conception of what music could be: there was a limitless world beyond Sgt. Pepper’s and Ben Folds Five.

Aquemini – Outkast

I was never any sort of a connoisseur, nor did the music ever alter my day-to-day life.  I didn’t change my clothes or my persona, I didn’t start thinking of myself in a new light.  I simply enjoyed the word play, the witty poetry.  Though the words often bordered on crassness, that tawdriness also made the experience so enthralling (and if you weren’t certain already, my use of “tawdry” should make clear that I have absolutely no street cred).

From Outkast I branched out to respected acts like A Tribe Called Quest and The Coup, to largely unknown artists like Slimm Calhoun simply due to their association with Outkast/Atlanta.

Wear Clean Draws – The Coup

But at some point in the early 2000s, after leaving the confines of the Natural State for Texas, I ceased to listen to hip-hop in any sort of “serious” manner.  The music was always there, but I never sought it out.  My conception of the music was soured somewhere along the way.  I could still appreciate a track here or an album there (especially Outkast), but something of its appeal was lost.  What was once an integral part of my existence disappeared as my life took on a new shape.

And so I’ve spent much of the past decade in a blissful ignorance as to the comings and goings of hip-hop stylings.  That is until I was passed along a track by the Seattle artist, Macklemore.  Titled “My Oh My,” the song is a tribute to the Seattle Mariners recently deceased announcer Dave Niehaus.  As a lover of baseball, I was immediately drawn to it, listening to it several times over.  But where in the past a hip-hop song has caught my ear and nothing more, Macklemore ignited a new found appetite for the genre.  From there I began listening to Big K.R.I.T. and Kid Cudi, I heard Sir Luscious Left Foot with new ears.  During SXSW I went to see hip-hop shows and was blown away by Zion I & the Grouch (as well as the aforementioned Macklemore) at the Mohawk.

So, to Mr. Macklemore way out there in Seattle and to Mr. Matthew Clark who first shared the track with me, my deepest gratitude is extended.  Without “My Oh My” I would still be stuck in a hip-hop neutral world, living each day in the muted tones of Old Crow Medicine Show or some other shit.

Respected sports journalist, Tim Marchman, recently detailed a few (dire) predictions on the future of baseball here.

Depressing? Sure. Interesting? Definitely.

Depending on what happens from here on out, this might be one of my new favorite blogs.  And yeah, it’s still better than football.