So before I got started on writing some current material, I figured that I'd post one of my past pieces on here first. This was actually an assignment I did for a class at Pitt about a year ago, but I've since updated it and revised it a touch.
Premise: I'm a huge Pittsburgh Pirates fan, and I, like many other dedicated Bucco faithful, have had to endure 19, THAT'S RIGHT. NINETEEN, losing seasons. With each spring training comes the hope that this team will undergo some kind of dramatic revitalization and produce a winning record, make a playoffs, or, dare I say, win the World Series. Yet they consistently disappoint for whatever reason. This is basically me explaining what us Pirates fans have gone through and what we hope to achieve via our team. So, with that said, happy reading.
We’ll get ‘em next year. If someone asked me or any other Pittsburgh Pirates fans to calculate how many times we’ve heard that hopeful declaration, we’d respond dejectedly with the number 19. 19 consecutive times the Buccos have broken- or further pulverized- the hearts of fans who continue to support the team that has supplanted the Buffalo Bills as the forerunners of failure. Each year, a team that seems to be fielded by the collective rejected of the rest of Major League Baseball takes swing, after swing, after swing, a process that provides opposing pitchers with a performance akin to a gorilla repeatedly waving around a banana to satisfy paying customers at the Pittsburgh Zoo.
Is that too harsh? Oh, don’t get me wrong. I know my team is incredibly awful, but I stick with them each year with the naïve hope that they will at least surpass a .500 record or- don't go into cardiac arrest here- make the playoffs, a feat which hasn’t occurred since 1992. Such repeated punishment, without the promise of entry into some eternal and divine resting place, tends to boggle the minds of fans whose teams have been able to perform successfully over the course of the past two decades. The question then arises: why?
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As of 2012, PNC Park stands as one of the newer parks in the MLB. With a picturesque view of the Allegheny River available from almost every seat in the stadium and a spectacular skyline composed of the blood and sweat of countless steelworkers, the Pirates’ home is regarded by many upper-echelon baseball gurus as one of the best ballparks in America. With a large number of restaurants and a veritable endless supply of Bucs’ merchandise, the park possesses a certain charm and irresistibility that can satiate even the most sour of fans.
As my father and I walk over the Roberto Clemente Bridge, named in honor of the former Pirates Hall of Famer and 3000 Hit Club member, I take note of the sun, a low bright orange orb, which has propagated the azure sky with streaks of gold and has just now begun its descent behind Mount Washington. I avert my eyes from the spectacle and realize that my feet have been constantly propelling me forward this entire time. I look up just in time to avoid stumbling into a gigantic bronze statue of Clemente, who is depicted as watching a ball he had just launched into the outfield bleachers. My father gazes upward at shiny metallic face, a face that triggers powerful memories of his boyhood idol and all-time favorite player.
After regaining composure of our senses, we present our tickets to man behind a turn style. “Welcome!” he says in a boisterous voice. “Enjoy the game today, gentlemen!” We take our ticket stubs and saunter into the ballpark. I navigate a path under the bleachers out in left-center field and make way to seats slightly behind and to the left of home plate. My dad and I walk down the aisle dodging a five year-old precariously balancing a bag of popcorn in his left hand. After finally locating our row, we sit back and relax in two of PNC Park’s 38,362 seats. I look out into the playing field, and my eyes search for names of players that I recognize, players that might actually make a contribution like other teams’ players do. Maybe they’ll have a chance of hitting a home run, turning a double play, or making a spectacular game-saving catch out in center field. I quickly locate the tell-tale dreadlocks of Andrew McCutchen, my current favorite player and one of the team’s actual bright spots. Aside from "Cutch" and second-baseman Neil Walker, the Pirates' lineup is bereft of much "big-name" talent, though the addition of veteran A.J. Burnett seems to have had an immediate impact on the success of the currently lights-out pitching staff the team has put together. Whether or not they will hold up the rest of the season remains to be seen.
I, like practically every other Pittsburgh fan, witness budding Pirates stars’ seemingly chronic teleportation from the squad to another, which will pay that athlete an amount that greatly surpasses any salary that the Bucs could offer. Sluggers such as Brian Giles, Jason Bay, Freddy Sanchez, Nate McLouth and longtime fan favorite Jack Wilson, have all seen their days as a Pirate eliminated as more successful and more wealthy teams snatched them up. When compared to the booming $202,689,028 payroll of the New York Yankees, the Pirates’ miniscule payroll of $45,047,000 does not facilitate the process of luring the most talented players in the MLB to the steel city.
However, although many fans have given up, capitulated in the face of chronic failure, that hasn’t stopped us. My dad and I have gone to at least two Pirates games a year since before I can remember. He dusts off his old glove, a glove he used back in the good ol’ days, the days when the Pirates could actually compete and win the World Series, actually make the playoffs, and actually possess a winning record. I watch as he walks down the steps to the third base line during batting practice. I see him lean over the railing and pound his fist repeatedly into his glove, eagerly awaiting the chance to snatch up a line drive, just as he did years ago when he jostled for position against a few 20-somethings just to grab a ball for his son, to show him how fun a Pirates game could be. I lean back and rest my arms on my seat. I watch the fans slowly file in. They are drawn to this place, to this team, a team that has been the laughing stock of the MLB for nearly two decades. But to me, winning is not the only requirement to warrant the love of and loyalty to a city’s sports team. The entire game is encapsulated by its individual components, by the aroma of hot dogs and burgers being grilled for hungry patrons, by a father taking his son to a ballgame, and the seat itself. If I have that seat, in my eyes the Pittsburgh Pirates will never die.
-Matt
