October 16, 2007

I'm bored with the USA
A turncoat gets his karma

Ryan Lowell | contributing columnist
rlowell@smcvt.edu

Eleven score and 11 years ago, General George Washington led our brave countrymen to victory over the monarchy that oppressed them. Our courageous soldiers were fed up with the strict laws of their homeland, so they fought for the freedom they knew they deserved. When they took on the Redcoats, these rebels were fighting for the freedom of not just themselves, but every flag-saluting patriot this country has ever raised. This war paved the way for founding patriots like Benjamin Franklin, and to this day allows even the newest great patriots, like wide-receiver Randy Moss, to thrive.

My forefathers fought and died to give me the right to free speech, the right to vote, and most importantly, the right to watch Clay Buchholz throw a no-no in his second major league start. I have repaid them by packing my bags and booking it for the old country, you can understand why I feel like a traitor right about now can’t you?

As a lifelong New England sports fan, pessimism and complaining have been a staple of my sports viewing experiences ever since my dad watched Bill Buckner let a routine ground ball slip through his legs while I looked on in diapers. But with the Red Sox only an ALCS away from going back to the World Series, and Tom Brady scoring more with Randy Moss than with the supermodels who father his children, I must be a true New Englander to still be finding something to complain about.

Before I came to old England, my perception of what the next three months would entail was somewhat positively skewed. Now, in the country’s defense, I have had lots of mind-expanding, life-enhancing experiences that I couldn’t get anywhere else, and more than my fair share of lively pub conversations in my first month abroad. The problem is, it’s October, and none of those lively conversations centered around Manny Ramirez’s new doo-rag, or what Tony Kornheiser and Mike Wilbon argued about on last night’s episode of PTI.

Last column I wrote about my dreams, but this week I’m having a recurring nightmare where I turn on ESPN at 5:30 and hear “Pardon the interruption, but I’m Tony Blair.” I guess that’s what I get for betraying the land of a million channels.

I can’t say I didn’t see this conflict coming, as when I was packing, I did have the forethought to leave out practical items like rain boots and an umbrella in order to make room for a shiny yellow wiffle ball bat and four brand new balls that bleed red white and blue. Although it isn’t an official sport, a daily game of wiffle ball has helped me cope with the cold hard reality that the Red Sox are in the playoffs and I won’t be seeing a pitch.

There are times when I can lose myself in the joy of the game, temporarily pretending to be the Sox in game seven of the fall classic before I come to and realize that the double I just clobbered wasn’t a fastball from a Rockies’ ace, it was actually just an underhand lob from my scrawny-armed British flatmate who majors in theatre and hits like his bat was replaced with an uncooked Fenway frank. It’s times like this that can lead a man to irrational acts- like buying scalped tickets to a preseason Celtics game.

The Celts recently played an exhibition match in London, and despite the fact that:  a) the game meant nothing and b) I could see a real game for much less money anytime I wanted in the states, my desperation for New England sports was convincingly clouding my judgement. Fortunately, one of my more rational American friends (rational because he is a Philadelphia fan, and the Phillies and Eagles haven’t given him much to miss lately) talked me out of going, but when my scrawny theatre loving flatmate saw a tear roll down my eye on the wiffle ball field that day, he could tell my pain was far more convincing than his best acting would ever be.

Don’t get me wrong, I do love it here so far, and I know the entire theme of this column has been to document my striving to embrace British culture. That being said, British sport is something I don’t feel bad about knocking. Sometimes I get excited when I overhear my mates talking about going to the pub to watch a football match, and then I remember the name football is just an illusion. What has happened with the name discrepancy? Some Brits must have gotten together and said, ‘we don’t have any cool sports, so we’ll just change the name of a lame sport to make it sound cooler. Then we can pretend it’s actually fun!’ I’ll have to remember to enjoy getting punched in the face if a local tells me ‘it’s ok, over here we call that winning the lottery!’

It’s true that the nations’ most popular sports, rugby and soccer are advertised as being unique to British culture, but last time I checked, we have both in America. The only difference is, in America, nobody watches them because we have better things to get excited about. I mean come on, I’m supposed to get psyched about two sports that barely grace Americas’ top 10 most popular list just because you don’t have our top 8?  That’s like going to the supermarket in search of Saturday morning cereal, and trying to get excited because all that’s left on the shelves is fiber flakes. I’m trying to be patient but dammit, I want my Coco Crisp back.