Last week, in the Egyptian Theatre lobby, a short and chubby white
man, clad in typical Seattle lefty wear (sandals with wool socks, REI
pants, barn jacket), approached me, shook my hand, and said, “I’ve been
reading your Death Watch columns and I want to thank you. I love the
Sonics so much and I’ve just been so embarrassed to tell anybody.”
The man looked as forlorn as a first-timer at an AA meeting. I was
furious and sad. Why should this man feel ashamed of his love? Of
course, men are often taught to be ashamed of their emotions,
especially the ones that make them dependent, hungry, and
childlike.
We live in a liberal city supposedly filled with sensitive
21st-century males, but most of my hate mail these days is from local
guys who accuse me of being sentimental, florid, immature, and (yikes!)
emo.
But my fans and supporters often seem just as stereotypically male.
On the blogs, in the newspapers, and on the streets, these fans can
only show their Sonics love—their vulnerability—by
expressing their hatred for David Stern, Howard Schultz, and Clay
Bennett.
Jesus, we’re all a bunch of schoolyard romantics, chasing down what
we love only to slug it in the arm.