Sometimes I want to say a little more about something than I can fit into 140 characters. Sometimes there's something I'm thinking about that I think will be put into focus for me if I write it down. Sometimes I just want to hear myself talk. (I am a lawyer, it's a common character flaw.)
This is where I'll be writing those things. I won't be writing on any consistent topic, nor will I be writing with any particular frequency. Hence the blog title. I highly recommend not subscribing to the feed unless you're dying to read everything I have to say, in which case you should probably seek medical help.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Fandom and Letting Go
Late in the game and with Michigan
looking listless on offense, Raymon Taylor made a fantastic interception and
returned it well Minnesota tan territory.
Ah, finally! I thought. This is that moment when the team comes to
life, we score a couple of quick touchdowns, and walk out of Lansing with a win.
Three plays later, Michigan had
taken two sacks, lost 21 yards, and punted the ball back to MSU. The game was effectively over. My friend Paul, sitting on the couch beside
me, yelled in frustration “Of COURSE you would do this to me, Michigan. OF COURSE.” The disgust in the words was so
thick it was nearly visible.
__________
Over the past few years, I’ve spent a substantial amount of time learning about Buddhism. The Buddha taught that life is an imperfect experience: we don’t always get what we want, bad things happen to people we care about, and so on. The cure for this, according to him, is to let go of the things we cling to. If we relinquish our clinging to our physical goods, we won’t be upset if they get damaged or lost. If we relinquish our clinging to our self image, we won’t be harmed when that self image turns out to be different from how everyone else sees us. If we relinquish the idea that “my life will be better if only I can do X”, we won’t be disappointed when X doesn’t happen.
One core teaching to help with relinquishing clinging is anatta, usually translated as “not self”. It’s rather complicated, and from what I can tell is one of the most-discussed and least-understood Buddhist teachings. I won’t pretend to fully understand it. Generally speaking, it's something like this: our consciousness is separable from everything we perceive and experience. I experience hunger, but I exist apart from my hunger. I am an attorney, but I exist apart from my occupation. I feel happiness, but I exist regardless of my happiness.
I am a Michigan fan, but . . . well . . .
I struggle with that one more than with just about any other “selfing” experience. I distinctly remember telling my wife a couple of years ago, when I first started looking into Buddhism, that I didn’t think I could ever really be a Buddhist because there is no way I could let go of Michigan football. My identity as a Michigan fan is such a defining part of my life that I can hardly conceive of any part of myself as distinct from my fandom.
__________
In early April, Michigan was playing in the NCAA basketball national championship game. I was anxiously awaiting tipoff when my friend Alex, who went to a non-major conference school and doesn’t watch sports, asked me “WHY DOES IT MATTER?” (This was over Twitter, and the all caps is sic.) The only response I had, basically, was “how could it not?”
__________
On Saturday, I watched Paul yell at the players on the TV screen because they had wounded him. To hear him talk, they did so in an intentional, calculated way. They located the weakest part in him, and kicked him there until he gave up and left in the fourth quarter of the game. These college kids who were out there getting physically beat up and mentally worn down couldn’t have hurt the fans more deeply if they tried. I know exactly how he felt, because I have been there.
What in the hell is wrong with us?
People become fans of teams for all sorts of reasons, some more rational than others. It was the pro franchise in the nearest big city. I went to college there. My parents were fans. The star player is hot. However we get there, I think the endpoint of fandom, the point where we cross the line from “casual fan” to “hardcore”, is more or less the same for everyone. The team becomes a vicarious extension of ourselves. When my team wins, I win. When they lose, I lose. If one of the players gets in trouble with the law, that reflects poorly on me. My team is an avatar of myself that I have absolutely no control over, yet I celebrate the wins and mourn the losses as deeply as if I guided every action.
Why put ourselves through this? As Paul demonstrated on Saturday, the lows are miserable. Coming into work Monday and taking flak from my Sparty coworkers was awful. But the highs. . . The moments when your team does something truly incredible, those moments are transcendent.
Braylon Edwards against MSU in 2004. Mario Manningham against Penn State in 2005. John Navarre in the throwback screen against Minnesota in 2003. Steve Breaston against Texas in the Rose Bowl. Trey Burke against Kansas in the NCAA tournament. As a Michigan fan, I get shivers just typing those. My team – MY team – can be perfect, even if only momentarily, and by extension so can I.
__________
Ten years ago, five years ago, maybe even two years ago, I would have said – with a resounding Hell Yes – that the wins are worth the losses. After the Appalachian State loss in 2007, I was so depressed that my parents thought I must have broken up with my girlfriend. But it was all redeemed by the victory over Florida in the Citrus Bowl with Coach Carr riding off into the sunset.
But now . . . I don’t know. I have a son to play with. I have a house that takes upkeep. Ann Arbor is a lovely place in the fall. It seems a waste to spend a full day moping after every Michigan loss (which are much more frequent these days). The wins are still fun, but with my attention being drawn elsewhere during the game I’m less invested in the outcome, which detracts somewhat from the whole experience.
I look at Paul’s reaction to that MSU game, and realize that I don’t quite feel the same way anymore. I am a Michigan fan, but I exist apart from my fandom. I think I’m getting closer to letting go.
__________
Over the past few years, I’ve spent a substantial amount of time learning about Buddhism. The Buddha taught that life is an imperfect experience: we don’t always get what we want, bad things happen to people we care about, and so on. The cure for this, according to him, is to let go of the things we cling to. If we relinquish our clinging to our physical goods, we won’t be upset if they get damaged or lost. If we relinquish our clinging to our self image, we won’t be harmed when that self image turns out to be different from how everyone else sees us. If we relinquish the idea that “my life will be better if only I can do X”, we won’t be disappointed when X doesn’t happen.
One core teaching to help with relinquishing clinging is anatta, usually translated as “not self”. It’s rather complicated, and from what I can tell is one of the most-discussed and least-understood Buddhist teachings. I won’t pretend to fully understand it. Generally speaking, it's something like this: our consciousness is separable from everything we perceive and experience. I experience hunger, but I exist apart from my hunger. I am an attorney, but I exist apart from my occupation. I feel happiness, but I exist regardless of my happiness.
I am a Michigan fan, but . . . well . . .
I struggle with that one more than with just about any other “selfing” experience. I distinctly remember telling my wife a couple of years ago, when I first started looking into Buddhism, that I didn’t think I could ever really be a Buddhist because there is no way I could let go of Michigan football. My identity as a Michigan fan is such a defining part of my life that I can hardly conceive of any part of myself as distinct from my fandom.
__________
In early April, Michigan was playing in the NCAA basketball national championship game. I was anxiously awaiting tipoff when my friend Alex, who went to a non-major conference school and doesn’t watch sports, asked me “WHY DOES IT MATTER?” (This was over Twitter, and the all caps is sic.) The only response I had, basically, was “how could it not?”
__________
On Saturday, I watched Paul yell at the players on the TV screen because they had wounded him. To hear him talk, they did so in an intentional, calculated way. They located the weakest part in him, and kicked him there until he gave up and left in the fourth quarter of the game. These college kids who were out there getting physically beat up and mentally worn down couldn’t have hurt the fans more deeply if they tried. I know exactly how he felt, because I have been there.
What in the hell is wrong with us?
People become fans of teams for all sorts of reasons, some more rational than others. It was the pro franchise in the nearest big city. I went to college there. My parents were fans. The star player is hot. However we get there, I think the endpoint of fandom, the point where we cross the line from “casual fan” to “hardcore”, is more or less the same for everyone. The team becomes a vicarious extension of ourselves. When my team wins, I win. When they lose, I lose. If one of the players gets in trouble with the law, that reflects poorly on me. My team is an avatar of myself that I have absolutely no control over, yet I celebrate the wins and mourn the losses as deeply as if I guided every action.
Why put ourselves through this? As Paul demonstrated on Saturday, the lows are miserable. Coming into work Monday and taking flak from my Sparty coworkers was awful. But the highs. . . The moments when your team does something truly incredible, those moments are transcendent.
Braylon Edwards against MSU in 2004. Mario Manningham against Penn State in 2005. John Navarre in the throwback screen against Minnesota in 2003. Steve Breaston against Texas in the Rose Bowl. Trey Burke against Kansas in the NCAA tournament. As a Michigan fan, I get shivers just typing those. My team – MY team – can be perfect, even if only momentarily, and by extension so can I.
__________
Ten years ago, five years ago, maybe even two years ago, I would have said – with a resounding Hell Yes – that the wins are worth the losses. After the Appalachian State loss in 2007, I was so depressed that my parents thought I must have broken up with my girlfriend. But it was all redeemed by the victory over Florida in the Citrus Bowl with Coach Carr riding off into the sunset.
But now . . . I don’t know. I have a son to play with. I have a house that takes upkeep. Ann Arbor is a lovely place in the fall. It seems a waste to spend a full day moping after every Michigan loss (which are much more frequent these days). The wins are still fun, but with my attention being drawn elsewhere during the game I’m less invested in the outcome, which detracts somewhat from the whole experience.
I look at Paul’s reaction to that MSU game, and realize that I don’t quite feel the same way anymore. I am a Michigan fan, but I exist apart from my fandom. I think I’m getting closer to letting go.
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