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 on my couch with the same sense of detachment that I had while sitting on press row in 2002 or 2005. Sure, it was nerve-racking, 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, and Sunday’s loss only added one more to the list. With a goal in hand and 29 minutes separating the Revs from sweet redemption, it seemed as if an 11-year (and 12-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 dreadlocked Canadian 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 five times over the last six years. The culmination of your 12-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 you’ve been hurt in ways that would make Alberto Gonzales queasy.
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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, six years of vastly improved play besmirched by unimaginably cruel fate.
I don’t work for Elias Sports Bureau, 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 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 video, 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 most recent heartbreaker didn’t need extra time (mercifully, I suppose), but it still cut deep. One uncharacteristic moment of defensive chaos, one flash of brilliance from MLS’ version of David Ortiz, and one bullet of a header that somehow stayed out of the net -- and another year’s work went to waste.
The Revs didn’t necessarily deserve victory in all of those matches, but it was there for the taking in each. And every 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 six seasons, and they have nothing to show for it. Instead, they join the Bills, Minnesota Vikings, Denver Broncos, Detroit Tigers and Brooklyn Dodgers as the only franchises in North America’s five major leagues to lose in their first four trips to the championship round.
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After last year’s loss, it seemed as if the window of opportunity had closed. But only Clint Dempsey flew the coop, and even though the organization opted to sit on its share of the transfer fee (perhaps a fatal mistake, given the lack of depth), the team returned in 2007 nearly intact. They put in the work, took care of business and earned themselves yet another opportunity to break through on the American game’s biggest stage.
Once again, they failed.
Continuity and stability have long been considered the Revolution’s strength. However, four Cup final defeats, as close as they may have been, suggest that significant changes might be in order. I’m not sure what the MLS equivalent of trading for Schilling or acquiring Moss, Stallworth and Welker might be, but the Beckham Rule makes it more possible than ever to make a major splash. Plugging in a rookie here and there every season might keep you in the mix for a championship, but it hasn’t produced a league title here. The status quo isn’t working.
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 yet another devastating day.
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, one or more of the best players (Michael Parkhurst, leave while you can!) on this team might 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 Fulham. 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.
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