So I stopped being a Marlins fan this week. That lasted about 15 minutes. I’m actually pretty proud of myself for not caving in sooner, since my previous record for most minutes as a non-fan was 9 1/2. I call this progress. The way I figure–if things keep going the way they’re going–by the time I’m 107 I may be able to retire from Marlins fanhood for an entire day.
I am the Roger Clemens of Fish fanatics. I just keep coming back.
At least Roger has millions of crisp, green reasons to return. Me? I’ve got a team minus its franchise players, a 50% increase in the cost of parking, a 15% increase in ticket prices, a bunch of jerseys that mean precisely jack as of Tuesday, and the promise that the torture will continue until Selig caves and lets the Marlins skip town for greener pastures. When you add it all up, my loyalty makes around zero sense.
I can’t even count the number of times I have sworn off of this franchise in the last ten years. The latest blow to the team is always going to be the last straw–the one that breaks the proverbial camel’s back. And it always is…until ten minutes later, when it isn’t.
Unfortunately (and boy, do I mean unfortunately), I am hooked.
So here I sit, fully intending to be in the stands next season, rooting my heart out for what’s left of the Fish. I’ll do it knowing full well that in a few years I will probably be tearing my hair out over Hanley Ramirez. Then Andrew Miller. Then Cameron Maybin. Then whoever else the organization dangles in front of us just long enough to get us emotionally invested, before tearing them away in some heinous trade.
This is what being a Marlins fan is all about. Or not, but that’s the only thing I can come up with when I think about the last ten years.