It’s Hard to Be a Fan of a Few Types of Athletic Supporters

Some national nut company is sponsoring a contest to select America’s No. 1 sports fan, and it’s about time. What better way to show our collective appreciation for the kinds of people who turn every arena and ballpark into a chamber of horrors?

I don’t know exactly how the winner will be selected, but I’m pretty sure he or she will be a member of one of the major types of fan. Not every fan fits neatly into one subspecies, of course, since there is a lot of cross-breeding. But there are some definite types you might want to keep your eye out for next time you’re at the game, in case you want to submit the person’s name for consideration in this worthwhile contest.

Sid Ceegar. Just because he can’t afford the finest cigars is no reason Sid should deprive himself and his seatmates of the pleasure a 25-cent El Chernobyl every inning or so. His cigars look like smoldering cucumbers and smell like roofing tar. Your clothing will carry the aroma for weeks, through several washings.

Sid also uses his cigar as a prop, for emphasis when gesturing. If you’re sitting nearby, Kareem-type goggles and flame-retardant clothing are recommended.

Sid’s buddy, Mike Meerschaum, figures he’s doing everyone a favor by spicing up the air with his private tobacco blend, Funky Dungeon. As an antidote, bring your own orchard smudge pot.

John McGraw. A legendary baseball manager in his previous life, this guy is bitter because he now directs the action from somewhere in the cheap seats. A brilliant tactician, he has yet to meet a player or manager who comes up to his exacting personal performance standards.

Typical tirade: “They’ve got to bring Lefty in to pitch to this guy!”

Your kindly reminder: “Pipe down. They traded Lefty to the Warthogs back in ’84.”

His rejoinder: “What a stupid trade!”

Old Toxic Dump Mouth. Has a foghorn voice, eye patch and peg leg. Screams vile obscenities at players and sprinkles his casual conversation with language you wouldn’t use at a basement poker game. Loves the sound of his own voice. You figure he probably swears in the shower.

This guy--or gal--wouldn’t be so objectionable except that the only time he sits next to you is when you’ve come to the game with your daughter’s Brownie troop.

Adonis. This is your lucky day, or night. Mr. Adonis, in the next seat, is feeling pretty loose, so he’s going to whip off his shirt and sweat on you for nine innings.

Frankly, it’s more flesh than you were hoping to see. If it’s hot, he’ll smear himself with rancid-coconut tanning lotion. If it’s cold, he’ll go to the bear grease. Either way, you pray for Sid Ceegar to light up soon.

Shirley Temple. Dad and mom have brought their lovely child, who turns out to be a sugar-crazed wildling in kid clothing. There’s no escaping this mini-terrorist, who is bored with the game by the time the national anthem is half over and spends the rest of the night making paper airplanes with dart-like tips and aiming them at your head.

The Gourmet. He (or she) kicks off with a sauerkraut dog with onions, nachos with peppers, pizza with anchovies and mustard-covered bonbons. Try to avoid conversation, since the gourmet’s breath will crinkle the bill of your baseball cap.

He makes frequent trips to the snack bar until he gets too deep in his own peanut shells and other trash to move, then he relies on vendors.

Try not to sit between the gourmet and the aisle, since you will become part of his supply line. You will miss the entire game while passing hot dogs and money back and forth, remember, so it is appropriate to keep 10% of any cash, or to take a bite of any food as a service charge.

The gourmet will eat anything in sight. Don’t leave small pets unattended.

Max Statroom. In a nasally voice, this talking computer, an incredible simulation of a human being, spews out a constant stream of batting averages on grass and ersatz turf, Mexican League slugging percentages, shoe sizes, and GNPs of each player’s corporate dynasty.

Max is an enjoyable sidelight to the game, until you grow melancholy realizing that you’ve wasted your life reading books and studying world events when you could have been memorizing birthplaces of utility infielders.

Mr. Suds. It’s his night out with the boys, and his wife made Mr. Suds swear he wouldn’t drink more than his own body weight in beer. He tends to travel in packs of 70 or 80.

The pack will gradually thin, however, as some are arrested for running onto the field to shake hands with Pete Rose, some leave early for last call at the topless joint down the street, and some fall over the railing into the seating area below.

Mr. Suds has amazing powers of recovery. Too wobbly to walk up the aisle at the end of the game, he nevertheless makes it to his car and will be seeing you--double, no doubt--on the freeway.

The winner of the aforementioned contest will be, I’m sure, someone who had his gall bladder operation at home plate, or who attended 10 straight L.A. Clipper games, or who has a warehouse full of Dave Kingman memorabilia. That’s nice, but you and I know who the real fans are.