Without
dynasties, what fun would sports be? Who
would we root against, which may be as important as the team we root for?
Growing up, I
learned to hate the Yankees. Then came
the Packers, and, after them, the Lakers.
For other fans in other places and other times, there were Celtics and
the Canadiens and, no doubt, the Bulls (though never the Knicks, despite what
Spike Lee and Woody Allen might be deluded to think). Presently, the Patriots do nicely as a
despised dynasty and, off of last night’s dispatch of the Cavaliers, the
Warriors. Kevin Durant, meet Tom Brady meet Whitey Ford.
A dynasty
embodies the quintessential “other” to the point of perfection: Mickey Mantle,
Michael Jordan, Bill Russell. The
dynasty comes to town, and it’s always David vs. Goliath, which is good for
ticket sales, if not won-loss records.
On paper, your team doesn’t stack up, doesn’t stand a chance, but maybe,
just maybe, this time with this starting pitcher or quarterback will be
different.
And when the
dynasty shows otherwise, we hate them all the more while identifying ever more
strongly with our team. Because of the
Yankees no less than my father, I am a White Sox fan. Because of the Yankees no less than her
father, so is Clare, I think.
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