You poor, miserable bastards.
When I started covering the Revolution in 1999, my days as a supporter instantly ended – they have to when you’re a journalist, and the process is quicker and more painless than you might think.
Now that I’m no longer on the beat, I wondered if I’d subconsciously revert to the old days, when standing in the Fort, singing a drunken rendition of “Super Revolution” and informing the opposing keeper of his undeniable suckitude was ritual.
Alas, once you go hack, you never go back, and I found myself watching Sunday’s MLS Cup final in my office with the same sense of detachment that I had while sitting on press row in 2002 or 2005. Sure, it was nerve-racking (it was a pretty damn exciting match, after all), but once it was over, all that remained was faint disappointment … and pity for you folks.
You supporters have had to suffer through some excruciating moments over the years, but Sunday surely ranked at the top of the list. With a goal in hand and seven minutes separating the Revs from sweet redemption, it seemed as if a 10-year (and 11-season) quest for glory had finally reached its conclusion. After so many heartbreaking defeats, at last, you’d have your catharsis, your festive release.
And then a Hawaiian guy in a Creamsicle outfit stuck a shiv in your back.
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It’s not easy being a fan of any MLS team. You devote as much time and passion (and in some cases, money) as do supporters of more popular sports, but your countrymen tend to laugh at the effort. The jokes at the office never change (“What was the over/under in that game, 1?”), the bartenders roll their eyes when you ask them to switch just one TV to soccer, and you long ago learned not to even bother with the sports radio guys.
Had the Revs won the MLS Cup, you wouldn’t have been able to share the type of communal joy that swept this region four times over the last four years. The culmination of your 11-year passion would have barely registered among a populace which thinks Sunsing is a Korean electronics brand. The Revs might have held a small rally somewhere, they’d have been introduced at halftime of a Pats game, and then the overwhelming majority of New Englanders would have forgotten about them. I watched as the 2005 Revs filed into the Logan Airport baggage claim following their defeat to the Galaxy; not a soul was there to greet them or, as far as I could tell, acknowledge their existence.
But if I may channel Lt. Frank Drebin: It’s a crazy world, and maybe the problems of an MLS supporter don’t add to a hill of beans, but this is your hill, and these are your beans. Your devotion is as fervent as that of a fan in any other sport, your desire for victory as powerful, your pain in defeat as intense.
And man, you got dicked over something fierce on Sunday.
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This franchise’s history has rather neatly divided itself into two phases: first, six years of incompetence, in which finishing fourth in a five- or six-team conference rated as progress; and then, five years of vastly improved play besmirched by unimaginably cruel fate.
I don’t work for Elias Sports Bureau (although I did live on the same dorm floor with Steve Hirdt’s kid), but I can’t imagine that any professional team, anywhere, in any sport, has been ever eliminated from its league’s primary championship in overtime and/or penalty kicks for five straight years.
These are the worst types of losses, the ones that leave an aficionado re-watching the videotape or Tivo at 1 in the morning, wondering, “What if Griffiths’ shot dipped a little lower? What if Ihemelu hadn’t stuck his head out? What if Ching’s header had gone wide?”
In fact, I suspect you could study the tape, do the calculations and determine that those critical moments had come down to no more than a few feet combined. And they all went against the Revs, setting the stage for other moments that left you hollow inside:
Ruiz’s golden goal. Armas’ golden goal. Dempsey’s scuffed PK. Pando (Friggin’) Ramirez’s laser beam. A slow roller from Jay Heaps, landing ever so safely in the arms of Pat Onstad.
The Revs didn’t necessarily deserve victory in all of those matches, but it was there for the taking in each. And each time, it ended in agonizing fashion. At least the Buffalo Bills were blown out in three of those four Super Bowls; clearly, they were out of their league. Your Revs might have been the most talented team in their league over the last five seasons, and they have nothing to show for it.
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And now, the band is breaking up. Dempsey and Joseph have to leave, have to strike while the iron is hot. Twellman will surely try his luck in Europe, as well, and maybe this playoff performance will convince a gaffer somewhere to give the guy a shot.
They’ll not leave behind an empty cupboard, but don’t kid yourself. You don’t instantly overcome the loss of three of the league’s most valuable players. Yeah, maybe Miguel Gonzalez, Willie Sims and Luis Figo (Beckham Rule, baby!) step right in and lead the Revs to the MLS Cup 2007 crown. In a league where the Galaxy can sandwich a title between vast stretches of ghastly Total Sampson Football, I suppose anything’s possible.
But in all likelihood, the window of opportunity has closed, and the trophy case remains empty.
As I said at the start, it’s no longer my problem. But I know enough of you guys that it’s impossible not to sympathize. You’ve waited long enough, endured more than your share of anguish (the sports fan’s version, not the real thing, of course) and paid your dues. Sunday should have been your day to rejoice. Instead, it turned into the most devastating day in franchise history.
And the thing about franchises (at least, the ones that last, and I suspect the Revs will) is that the fans live with the devastation longer than anyone else. In a few months’ time, some of the best players on this team will be competing in different kits, in different leagues, in different nations. Their time in New England will be irrelevant, ancient history; it has to be, because those are the realities of their profession.
The supporters, meanwhile, don’t leave on a multimillion-dollar transfer to Celtic or Benfica. They stay, and they reassemble their hopes and dreams behind whomever management signs. To be a fan is to submit to powerlessness. You don’t pick the manager, you don’t pick the players, you don’t pick the tactics. All you can do is watch, sing, scream, weep. And perhaps, someday, celebrate.
