More reasons we’re not down with Bean Town.
Dane Cook
Remember when this smug, preening golden boy of Boston’s overrated stand-up comedy scene used to be hysterical? Neither do we.
Dunkin’ Donuts
Far be it from us to belittle that most noble of breakfast pastries, but Boston’s devotion to Dunkin’s makes us want to Bear Claw our eyes out.
Faneuil Hall
Thanks to this faux-historical market, every second-tier city in America now has a retro-Colonial red brick mall. Nice ahh-citecture, a-holes.
Preppy College Kids
How smart can students at Harvard, Boston College, Boston University, and UMass be to go to school in a town where the bars close at one?
The T
When you have to brag about your city’s mass transit system—which stops running at friggin’ midnight—it only proves your life is empty and sad.
Boston Pop
What is there to say about a city whose biggest contributions to popular music are Aerosmith, Boston, and the New Kids on the Block?
|
|
 The accent, that’s where it all begins. Pahk da cah. Look at the stahs. Nomah was great, but Rogah’s not. Man, I loathe that accent. And what about the so-called superstars? Tom Brady, who struts around as if he manufactures gold nuggets within the confines of his anus. David Ortiz, who as a Minnesota Twin couldn’t hit an off-speed pitch were it tossed to him underhanded. Kevin Garnett, just another overpriced carpetbagger brought in for a ring (see: Moss, Randy; Allen, Ray; Beckett, Josh).
And don’t get me started on the coaches. Terry Francona—who was Frank Lucchesi II with the Phillies—is reborn a genius? Doc Rivers, a mediocre NBA point guard who was run out of Orlando, receives two All-Stars for Christmas and morphs into the next Red Auerbach? And Bill Belichick…Well, what’s left to say? Cheater, fraud, liar—the list goes on and on.
Most of all, though, what many of us hate—truly, truly hate—about Boston are the fans. What was once a city composed of pathetic yet lovable losers conditioned to accept failure has, within a relatively short span of time, turned into a collection of the loudest, most obnoxious, most ornery fans in America. By the time the overconfident Patriots rolled into the Super Bowl, the rest of us had had enough. It’s bad enough that the Red Sox are going into opening day as defending World Series champions (again!) and that the Pats have appeared in four of the past seven Super Bowls (and won three of them). But now, not only do the Garnett, Ray Allen, Paul Pierce Celtics appear
primed for a deep playoff push after years of ineptitude, but Boston College’s football team spent much of the past season undefeated and ranked No. 2 in the nation. Hell, even the Bruins don’t completely suck.
“There’s an undeniable metamorphosis—the fans here have become front-running bastards,” says Leigh Montville, a former Boston Globe columnist and the author of the best-selling Ted Williams: The Biography of an American Hero. “Boston fans traditionally sat around and lamented and hoped for brighter days. Now that those days have come, I’m not so sure we’re better off as a people.”
As a native New Yorker (albeit as a Mets fan), I’ve long disliked Boston sports—it’s a birthright. Yes, throughout my boyhood Bean Town’s teams were scrappy and hard-nosed, but at the end of the day they held the significance of yesterday’s meat loaf. The Red Sox would fold. The Patriots would fold. The Bruins would fold. The Celtics (we’re talking the Rick Fox, Pervis Ellison, Todd Mundt era here) would fold. Then the fans would silently slink off into the darkness, heads down, mouths shut, anxious to chug a beer (or seven) to numb the ritualistic pain...
Ah, the good ol’ days.
Now everyone in this great nation of ours has joined together in a visceral dislike of Boston—with good reason. When it was just the Yankees and Red Sox, non–East Coast denizens could praise Bean Eaters as good ol’ fashioned giant killers. (Was there a greater sport unifier than the image of George Steinbrenner on a dartboard?) The last few months, however, have marked a tipping point. First there was Spygate; then the Sox waltzing into the Fall Classic like another title was a foregone conclusion; then it was the Pats going out of their way not merely to beat but to humiliate opposing teams from across the map. Even after their epic Super Bowl upset loss to the Giants, Pats fans insisted they were robbed. Whatever the moment, the city has become Public Enemy
No. 1. Why, in an ESPN poll taken shortly before Super Bowl XLII, fans of the 30 other teams were asked whether they were rooting for the Giants or the Patriots. Without fail, every single fan base admitted to pulling for New York.
Now flash back to Sunday, February 3. Approximately 20 rows up, in Section 137 of the University of Phoenix Stadium—an area dominated by New York fans—four large men with thick Boston accents spotted the scoreboard displaying a highlight reel from the Giants’ regular season. For the ensuing five minutes, one of the lugs stood and repeatedly screamed, “What-ev-ah! What-ev-ah! What-ev-ah!” When the Giants trotted onto the field, another of the men turned toward a gaggle of New York die-hards and, without solicitation, barked, “Giants fans, your weekend is ovah! O-V-E-AH! O-V-E-AH! O-V-E-AH! O-V-E-AH!”
It wasn’t so much the absurdity of the scene (two of the men literally appeared to be rejects from the Mr. Clean: The Movie casting call) or even the dramatic misfire of the prediction. No, the most irksome thing about the whole situation was how it perfectly represented what Boston’s sports fans have become.
In a word: assholes.
Yes, you read that last line correctly. Boston’s sports fans have turned into assholes. Just listen to WEEI, the local sports talk radio station, where one caller after another still praises Belichick—the Dick Cheney of football coaches—for his genius and integrity. Just check out the alarming number of local fenders adorned with bumper stickers that read, I'd rather my daughter work in a whorehouse than my son play for the New York Yankees. Just listen to the talk of a Sox dynasty, of a Celtics dynasty, of a Pats dynasty, of a 2009 season that will surely feature Brady throwing for 800 touchdowns and 700,000 yards, joining the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, and leading a NASA mission to the molten inner core of Mercury. On the heels of the Super Bowl, and with both the Sox and Yankees reloaded with young guns (the Joba Chamberlain, Clay Buchholz debates are already raging), the age-old New York, Boston rivalry may well be approaching uncharted new heights—only now the Massholes have the upper hand.
|