I blame myself
Believe it or not, the 49ers didn’t win on Sunday because
lifelong superfan Randy Kowlarky of Daly City was wearing his
ketchup-stained Joe Montana jersey. Or because hardcore Niners’ fan
Larry Bochamp of Walnut Creek shotgunned a beer after every San
Francisco first down. Or because Sam Wickenshine of Palo Alto sat
in the same position on the couch all game and didn’t move a
muscle.
I blame myself
Believe it or not, the 49ers didn’t win on Sunday because lifelong superfan Randy Kowlarky of Daly City was wearing his ketchup-stained Joe Montana jersey. Or because hardcore Niners’ fan Larry Bochamp of Walnut Creek shotgunned a beer after every San Francisco first down. Or because Sam Wickenshine of Palo Alto sat in the same position on the couch all game and didn’t move a muscle.
And yet, if you ask the average sports fan, this is how we contribute to the team: By wearing ketchup-stained shirts, shotgunning beers and sitting in the same position from the coin toss to the final whistle.
If you ask them, this is how and why the 49ers won on Sunday. It was not because of Joe Nedney’s field goal. It was because Paul Richterstein of San Mateo avoided all contact with other human beings for four hours on Sunday afternoon.
Not a word or a phone call. No eye contact or texting.
Simple.
While the names are made up – couldn’t you tell? – the silly superstitions that follow are all painfully true. My brother was the ketchup stain, my college friend was the beer guzzler, and I was the couch sitter, too afraid to move, too afraid to watch Drew Bledsoe throw yet another interception.
And it’s all very sad, really; grown men thinking they have some sort of a positive influence on a sports team based on what they do, say or wear.
But even today I find myself coming up with superstitions that will my team to victory. At least I think they’re being willed.
I once stood for an entire football game after the opening kickoff was returned for a touchdown and I hadn’t had the chance to sit down yet. I once did some weird circular pacing routine around my room during the late innings of a close baseball game.
I haven’t really proclaimed my allegiance to the stinky, stain-riddled T-shirt superstition just yet, but there’s still time.
My latest belief is simple. Born and raised in Massachusetts, I still hold an affinity to Boston sports teams. And whenever they play in the Bay Area, I’m most likely there.
But I’m convinced my presence is the reason why they seem to be always losing here.
I attended last Friday’s Celtics-Warriors match-up at Oracle Arena – a gimme by every definition of the word for the visiting C’s. Boston was 27-3 and coming off a loss to the Lakers, which ended a 19-game winning streak. Golden State was 8-22 and boasting the NBA’s worst defense.
But not even a ketchup-stained jumpsuit would have saved the Celtics on Friday.
The Warriors couldn’t miss a shot and proceeded to dismantle the Celtics in the fourth quarter en route to a 99-89 victory.
It was almost as if someone told Rajon Rondo that the Warriors don’t play defense, so he decided to go one-on-one with Ronny Turiaf – who actually plays defense – every time down the floor.
It was almost as if no one told Marco Belinelli that Skip Risotto of Worcester, Mass., was wearing his lucky “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” apron, therefore propelling the Celtics to an automatic victory.
It was the very first sporting event I ever left early, and it may just be the last Boston-related Bay Area event I attend. To date, I’ve seen six – SIX! – sporting events as a fan and not as a writer. All losses.
My presence, and my presence only, is killing my teams.
But I guess it’s all very sad really, a grown man who thinks his presence has any influence on the teams he roots for. But the next time the Celtics are in town, I will be at home, sitting on the couch, not moving a muscle.
