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A couple of weeks ago, I read the book The Man Who Liked Slow Tomatoes by K.C. Constantine. Overrall, it was really good (although the swearing hurt my eyes!) and one of the things that I liked most about it was that it had these random deep conversations (well, deep-ish). So one such conversation was between Mario Balzic, the main character, and this bar-owner named Ripulsky:
"Hey, I been watching the Steelers since they were using the single wing. I had season tickets since 1947. I ain't on no bandwagon. I watched the Steelers lose football games every way you could think of and I never b****ed. And I ain't no gambler neither. Never bet a penny on a footaball game. I just used to go to old Forbes Field every Sunday when the Steelers were home and it just brought out a lot of emotion in me I couldn't get rid of no other way.
"Those aren't high school kids down there; those are men. Giants. And they're down there strugglin' and sweatin' and bleedin' and doin' a little war right there between those chalk stripes on the grass and I just found out I could whoop and holler my guts out and nobody would think I was nuts. It didn't make no difference to anybody else what I was really hollering about. People around me were all hollering too. I mean, it really helps you, brother, to reach down to your toes and pull out a yell you been keepin' bottled up inside you for Christ knows how long.
"And I'm telling you the truth, that's why I started going'," Ripulsky said. "Just do holler my a** off. And then a funny thing happened. I started to really like the game. And the less I needed to whoop and holler, the more I liked the game. And nobody here believes me when I tell 'em, but I don't give a sh** who wins. I only cared about that when I first started goin', cause then the Steelers couldn't win for losin' and I really liked to go watch guys struggle their a**es off and still get whipped--which is what they used to do then. All the time. I felt like one of 'em. Like one of the g*****n linemen, nobody knows their names, they'd work their a** off and no matter what they did they'd still get beat and, oh, I used to holler. I used to scream and a lotta people thought I was screamin' at them. But I wasn't. I was screamin' for how they must've felt 'cause that's how I felt."
"You still scream and holler when you go to the games?"
"Oh yeah, every once in a while I reach down and bring one up, but now it's just 'cause yellin' makes me feel so good. I tell you, yellin' is almost as good for you as laughin'--there's nothin' as good for you as that, no sir, laughin's the real elixir, but hollerin' comes close."
"I never heard it explained like this before," Balzic said.
"Oh, it's no big deal. I just sat down and figured why the h*** I was payin' good money to watch twenty-two guys knock at each other a** over elbows, and that was it. But when you get around the so-called fans, why, you have to talk all the bull**** about statistics and point spreads and how come the Steelers did this on third down and how come they didn't do that, and if you're goin' to get along with the people that sit around you, you have to go along with 'em and go through the words. I never understood that, but then I figured they were talking all tat strategy for the same reason I was yellin'. It was something they had to do--it makes 'em feel something that they don't feel every day in what they do.
"But, s***, all I watch is the struggle down there in the pits. Those f***in' elephants down there with no names. H***, half the time I don't even know what happened to the ball. I just watch 'em bullin' up their necks and takin' off at one antoher...Boy, I really been beatin' your ears about this, huh?" Ripulsky said, blushing.
"That's all right. I understand," Balzic said. "Besides, I never heard anybody talk about football that way."
Constantine, K.C. The Man Who Liked Slow Tomatoes. Boston: Davind R. Godine, Inc. 1983. pp. 89-91.
When I finished reading that, I just sat back in my chair and thought, "Wow!" I mean, I had never heard anybody talk about football in that way either! But mostly, I felt that that Ripulsky had just discovered the reason why I love NASCAR so much.
I love the fans. I love the teams. I love the commentators. I love the drivers (most). I love standing in front of the TV or track with Steph, screaming at the top of our lungs on qualifying("GREEN, KASEY!" "RED, ROBBY!" "IS THAT A TURTLE ON THE TRACK OR IS IT JEFF GORDON?") and on race day ("KASEY GET AWAY FROM THE WALL!"). And the screaming is therapeutic.
But, like Ripulsky, it's all about the struggle. I mean, we watch all the behind-the-scenes NASCAR shows, and we watch all the interviews, and we get to know these guys. We get to know what they like, what they don't like, what makes them laugh, what sets them off....and what kinds of weird things they say/do on a regular basis (ex: Michael Waltrip's entire life). And then you see them on race day, knowing all the stuff that they are going through, and all you can do is will them to win.
There they are; sweating, straining, swearing (tsk, tsk), and shouting; just trying to make it to the end alive. They sneak by on the bottom, they blow by on the top. Their pit stops are too slow, their speed on pit row is too fast. They are over-agressive, they're being too meek. They don't just have one thing on their mind--the win--but everything from where they need to finish to get enough points to make the chase, who they need to be helping out on the track, what sounds their car is making, and what they can do at their next pit stop to make everything run its best.
I'm cheering for Kasey; I'm cheering for Michael. I'm cheering for Mark, who has just this one last chance to become the Nextel Series Champ; and I'm cheering for Ward, who isn't even on the track because no one will give him a ride. I'm cheering for Robby Gordon, that he crashes; and I'm cheering for Jeff Gordon, that he gets near Robby so he is taken out in the crash that Robby causes. I'm cheering for Kenny, who is ecstatic to have even qualified for this year's Daytona; and for Dale Junior, who is just trying to live up to his father's legend. I cheer for DJ, for Vickers, for Jimmie, for Elliott, for Tony (yes, even Tony...who saw that one coming?) for Kevin (when he's not being an idiot), for Rusty, for Sterling, for Carl the back-flipper and Kurt the Keelber Elf, for Bobby and Jeremy and Gaymie McMary, for Ryan and Ricky, for Boris and Brother Schmears. I'm cheering for 40 out of the 43 drivers down there on that track, willing all of them to have the best run of their career and finish in the top ten.
When any one of my drivers blows a tire or heads into the garage, I'm not sad for me; I'm sad for him. It's not my dream that just went up in smoke and debris; it's his.
He can't hear my screams; he can't see his face on my shirt bouncing up and down as I put all of my energy into my cheers. Maybe, if I'm lucky, some of that energy will float through the screen or down the stands into his engine, and my thoughts will race down and surround and protect his car.
I scream for both of our dreams to come true.
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