The Fredösphere

My previous post described a visit to an indoor soccer match.  Today I'd like to look more closely at some of the extra-soccer activities.

Before the players are introduced, the crowd is warmed up with an announcer, a woman with a screechy voice designed to prevent you from ignoring it.  (That it, like every other sonic event of the night, is pumped out at 110 decibels only adds to its inexorableness.)  The troupe of dancers/cheerleaders/actresses/models/whatevers run out and hop around.  Let's not linger by examining the psychology that permits a young woman to adopt that role; nor let us think too hard about the self-esteem of the gentlemen who dons the habit of the team mascot, in this case a anthropomorphized spark plug called Scorch.  Instead, consider merely the team owner's belief that such things, as well as the clouds of mist and the exaggerated hype surrounding the announcement of the players' names, are all a net economic positive, contributing to the organization's bottom line.

Yes, the cheer leaders, the mascot, the throbbing rock music, the announcer that seems to think he is describing the lineup for the battle of Armageddon:  all these are necessary accouterments for a modern pro sporting event.  And pray tell, why?  Because, for the average spectator, there is not sufficient interest in the sport qua sport to attract a crowd.

That's right, people.  Sport in its pure form cannot survive as a commercial venture.  It must be gussied up.  It must include appeals to the average person's vulgarity.  This is a sign of desperation, pure and simple.  It is clear to me, based on this one Friday night experience, that the long-term prospects for pro sports is bleak.  Bluntly, it ain't gonna survive.

Oh, there will always be the reliable core, those faithful fans of the pure game, who will turn out no matter what.  You see them at games, sitting there in the front row at the 50 yard line or at mid-court.  They can be identified by their formal evening wear, and by the way they shush those around them who chant "we will, we will ROCK YOU!" because they want to savor the subtle nuance in every sound of the ball striking human flesh, or racket, or wooden bat.  They can divine from such sounds, to a degree that we vulgar people cannot, important information about the players and their skill.

Such hard core fans will never be enough to justify financially a pro team, however.  They are, at best, only 2 or 3 percent of the population.  The other, ordinary fans are notoriously fickle, and will soon wander off to other diversions.  For now, the dancing girls and the comic relief of the goofy mascots will slow the hemorrhaging, but already the temptations mount; there are symphonic concerts to attend and mp3s of choral music to download.

Alas, Babylon.

Labels: Culture