The quest for Packer Pie: To divinity and beyond.

If Walt Disney and Jesus decided to purchase a NFL team and subsequently design and shape a city, they couldn’t have done much better than Green Bay.  Disney would obviously assume the roles of civil planner, brand manager, and merchandising expert.  Jesus would be in charge of developing the creeds of citizens to worship and idolize the organization and its players.  The truth is that the city of Green Bay and the Packers organization are one synonymous brand.   Green Bay’s commerce, culture, and most importantly its national relevancy are derived from the success of the Packers.  Without the organization, Green Bay would be less relevant than Gary Indiana.  The team is able to survive in such a small town because of the fans undying appreciation for their packers.  Football is not a hobby--it is a way of life. Packer fans in Green bay are like little kids at the Epcot Center in Disney World.  Kids (fans) wander around the confines of the park (Green Bay city limits) knowing that the Disney mascot cast is somewhere in the park.  They hope to catch Mickey Mouse signing autographs while waiting in line for Space Mountain (seeing Aaron Rodgers at the hottest club in town), but they get a sufficient level of satisfaction from catching a glimpse of Donald Duck exiting the men’s room (seeing Atari Bigby devour a basket of wings and bottomless margaritas at a Chili’s franchise).  I’ve been apart of this surreal theme park for nearly 23 years.  I worship.  I idolize. I am a Packer’s groupie.   
 

I grew up in the most unique football franchise city, during its return to glory. I became a Packer fan as soon as I was able to identify with the nationalistic colors of green and gold.  I don’t know exactly when I became aware of the Packers omnipresence in Green Bay, but it probably did not begin until sometime after I left my hometown for college. It was not until then that I realized just how ingrained the Packer fanship is in this town. 

          For three years, I went to Vincent T. Lombardi Middle School and earned a valuable education in a building dedicated to the greatest Packer coach of all time.  For years, I drove down the streets of Packerland and Lombardi to work at a local grocery store. En route, I would pass the stadium and homemade shrines located in residential backyards that lined the stadium’s perimeter.  The makeshift monuments included papermâché Lombardi trophies the size of full grown adults, Packer “G” spotlights, and what was famously known as “Steve's Fence.”  Steve was a hardworking resident of Green Bay who gained stardom in the local community by painting his fence directly across from Lambeau every summer
with a slogan or team motto.  When I drove by this week it said "In McCarthy We Trust," which is all too telling of the way the Packers are viewed in my hometown.

The divine presence of the Packers in Green Bay is not only evident with the homemade shrines, street names, and schools named in honor of the organization, but even in actual places of worship.  I distinctly recall my pastor wearing a green and gold robe every Packer Sunday.  He always commenced his sermons with a Packer related pun and asked the almighty to bless the team.  For instance, he once said, "Lord please allow the Packer’s defense to contain and bury (Barry) Sanders.” While he was preaching, he would simultaneously mimic Gilbert Brown’s signature "grave digger" post-tackle celebration.  My pastor may have been the biggest fan in all of Green Bay--yet I doubt he ever had the opportunity to attend a game or even enjoy a tailgate (the ministry is no place for any football fan).  He would hold a Sunday service knowing that the Packers were playing merely 2 blocks away from the chapel.

Being confined in a packed pew with anxious Packer fans while listening to meaningless scripture is the closest I’d like to come purgatory and I am sure my pastor felt the same way.
             It wasn't until he instituted a bit of "clever worshipping” that he was actually able to attend a game.  When the packers started to prosper in the mid- 90's he realized that Sunday worship service attendance was declining, so he enacted the "Saturday night Packer service".  Fans could henceforth spend mornings enjoying every minute of the Packer tailgating experience without evoking the wrath of the big man himself. Sunday services were still offered, but my pastor eventually pawned them all off on associate pastors while he was busy worshipping his new found idol. 

By now, the legend of the Green Bay Packers has been perpetuated into oblivion by the likes of John Madden, mainstream pundits, and big name sports writers passing through town.  Green Bay is known for its hard working people who played a pivotal role in the inception of NFL. Green Bay continues to be such a huge success because of its undying dedication to the organization.  As I’ve aged, I’ve begun to wonder what the consequences of the fan-team relationship really are.  Is it a parasitic or symbiotic relationship?  What do the Packers expect out of their local fans and what do the fans of Green Bay expect out of their Packers? 

For instance, during the early 2000's, the Packers “held Green Bay hostage” by demanding an increase in sales tax in order to pay for a larger, more aesthetically pleasing stadium.  The Packers’ organizations pulled on the emotional strings of their dedicated fan base and were able to get the deal passed because we knew that the team was our ticket to relevancy.  The stadium now looks more like a Vatican fortress; which would probably allow my pastor to easily justify Saturday services (to everyone’s mutual benefit).   The organization holds a great deal of power over the citizens of Green Bay so who benefits from this relationship—the city? The people? The wealthy? Or perhaps everyone?  On the surface the Packers and the city of Green Bay seems like an organic underdog story however, underneath the façade of the legend lays the surreal underbelly of how the Packers function in this town.   



Celebrity Status 

             I began to idolize athletes at a young age. That passion only strengthened as I grew older and became more exposed to them and their lifestyles on a daily basis.  My parents purchased a house in a developing suburb on the skirts of Green Bay during the early 90’s.  My dad, like most citizens, moved here to earn a paycheck from the city’s main economic provider: paper mills.  After the Packers won the Superbowl in 96’, our neighborhood became a hotspot for players and coaches alike to call home.  Brett Favre, Robert Brooks, and Reggie White were the first three players to move into the neighborhood (and were arguably the most threatening QB-WR-DE trio in the league).  
           

 A group of neighborhood kids and I would crowd onto my front yard at 5:30 pm everyday just to get a glimpse of Favre and Brooks driving home after practice.  I made sure to always have a football in my hands when they passed (just in case they wanted to oblige us with a game of tackle football).   Favre drove a massive truck and always had a piece of hefty chaw in his mouth after a presumably stressful practice.  He would usually acknowledge our group with a grin.  Although Favre was quickly becoming the city’s golden boy, Brooks was definitely the envy of the younger generation.  He would always drive by in what seemed like a brand new car every week.  If it was not his black Prowler, or original Hummer, it was his drop top Lamborghini (useable about 6 weeks of the year in GB’s wicked winters).  Brooks collected cars like Jay Leno. He actually ended up selling his house to Gilbert Brown after a couple of years because his garage was not large enough to harness his insatiable car fetish.

Brooks/Brown's House.  They lived right next to Farve.
Brooks ran routes, Favre slung passes, and gilbert
provide a simulated pass rush in the front yard.

            Reggie White (RIP), on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as accessible as the other two Packer players in my neighborhood.  He lived in a house near my grade school, Martin Luther King Elementary (the school board must have run out of Packer names and decided to defer to a civil rights activist).  A wooden fence separated his backyard and my school’s kickball courts.  Everyday during recess the kids on the playground were more interested in peering through the slits in the fence in hopes of seeing Reggie and his children playing in the backyard than they were with their own recreation.  I did calf raises like crazy those couple of years in hopes of building an adequate level of leg strength so I could kick a ball over White’s fence and get a chance to ring his door bell and see him in person. 

 It wasn’t until Tyrone Williams (my boyhood idol after his one-handed interception during the NFC championship game in 96’) moved his family into town that I had an opportunity to be exposed to the Packers from the inside rather than from Favre’s rearview mirror or the fence slits on my grade school playground.  Tyrone had two sons that were about my age, and they instantly became the center of adoration within the neighborhood.  To no surprise, they loved football and were always trying to get a backyard game together.  These two guys became good friends of mine during grade school and because of them, I was exposed to a bunch of players/coaches and their families. 

            One specific football game I can remember (a truly “holy shit moment”) happened while we were in the Williams’ front yard.  The game included a bunch of neighborhood kids like me but also the likes of Brittany Favre, Ray Sherman Jr., Tommy Donatell, (soon to be the nastiest safety the Big Ten has ever seen), Mike Sherman’s two sons, and Tyrone Williams as the full-time quarterback (Favre apparently was not available).  At the time this occurrence seemed so normal to me but I now realize the bizarre nature of it all.   

            The Packer’s kin were troubled with an awkward situation where they wondered if they were liked, whether it was because of their dads or was truly based on the merits of their personalities.  The Packers themselves were on an untouchable level in the small city of Green Bay, but their children essentially became a tangible branch of their parent’s celebrity that everyone my age wanted to be around.  A friend of mine dated Favre’s daughter during grade school and has told me how she once handed him a note that said, “do you like me because of me, or because of Brett?”

              How is an 11 year old citizen of Green Bay supposed to answer that question candidly when the culture of this city raised him to idolize Brett Favre? The relationship didn’t last long, but my friend’s proudest moment (and the closest he ever got to exchanging words with Brett), was when he emerged from playing basketball in Favre’s basement at about 10:30 at night only to catch Favre himself enjoying a bowl of fruity pebbles in nothing but his underwear.  To this day, my friend will work into conversation the fact that he dated Favre’s daughter and witnessed him doing something so pedestrian.  To no surprise, armed with this story, he continues to reel constant residual ass from female Packer fans, like a B-list 90’s sitcom star, all because of how close he came to becoming an immortal part of Green Bay’s elite. 

            The relationships that I developed with these kids over the years exposed me to see how idolized and worshipped their dads were within this town.  It would be hypocritical of me to say that I did not buy right into it. I wanted to feel like I belonged.  I wanted a piece of the Packer pie.

Tangible/Intangible Paradox

         Ingrained in the mystique of Green Bay is the idea of how the city owns the team.  Walk into any dedicated packers fan’s living room and sure enough, there will be a “Packer Stock Certificate” proudly framed and hung on the wall to be showcased like a Master’s degree.  This idea of team “ownership” is a recurring theme in Green Bay.  I have a friend who (like many) paid twenty dollars for a piece of Lambeau’s destroyed turf when the organization replaced the field during the late 90’s (known as ”the frozen tundra”).

My buddy plans to pay for his children's college education
with this artifact. 

       This friend is in college now, and every time he moves to a new apartment, he makes sure his turf is the first thing he grabs from the freezer.  He has literally held on to a piece of decaying sod for 13+ years to prove his fanship and proverbial “ownership” of the Packer pie.   The truth is, my friend is not an outlier by any means--this is the norm in Green Bay. 

            Since Green Bay is such a small town and the people of the Midwest historically come from a collective society, we feel as if we are more than just fans. Rather we think we are actually part of the Packer’s organization.  This perceived closeness causes some awkward situations between players and fans. 

There are only a finite number of outlets where players can dine, indulge in culture, and live in the city.  This limited domain often enables fans to know where players hangout and live.  I can’t even recall the amount of times I have been playing in my front yard as a child and a car would pull-up at suspiciously slow speed into my driveway.  The drivers were decked out in Packer gear and they always wanted the same thing -- “where does Brett Favre live?”   At the time, I thought nothing of it, but now I fully understand the ridiculousness of such a request and the violation of privacy. However, I think it exemplifies just how close fans feel to the players.  Favre eventually hired a full time security guard who parked at the end of the cul-de-sac he lived on to prevent people from pulling into his driveway and taking photos of his house.

Favre's Kingdom--where he feasted, fornicated, and found
his way in Green Bay.

            On the surface, the Packer players seem so accessible because they can be seen in public and fans feel that they have a level of ownership over them, but often, they cross a line of reasonableness.  The paradox is that players seem so accessible because they are everywhere yet they are intangible because they operate in a social class way above the rest of the Green Bay citizens.  (It’s not like Favre accepted invites to happy hour from his middle class neighbors.)    
           

When Tyrone Williams first moved into town I asked my parents if it would be appropriate to wear my Williams jersey over to their house to play football with his kids.  My parents, being tax payers of the new stadium, encouraged me to wear the jersey over to his house and said he would probably be flattered and give me an autograph. I never received an autograph, and I hate myself to the day for believing that I ever deserved one while coming off like a fan boy. 

I’m not trying to argue that some Packer players are pricks. But I do feel that there is this unreal expectation of them because the fans feel like the players and organization owes them something.   I once witnessed my friend’s dad stick his coaching resume in Mike Sherman’s mailbox after an abysmal special teams performance vs. the Vikings (as if getting chosen for a Packers coaching gig would be a viable option).  I’m sure he could have coached that team better (hell anyone could have) but that type of expectation is only something that could happen in this town. 

            

Cultural Shift
           

 Green Bay is a predominately white Catholic town that lacks a level of cultural diversity that is surely evident in all other NFL towns.  Honestly, one positive thing that the presence of Packers in this town has done over the last 20 years is provide a unique level of cultural exposure which leads to cultural tolerance.

            Robert Brooks and Leroy Butler did a good job of introducing this community to aspects of black culture.  They were flashy dressers, they drove exotic cars, and they listened to rap music.  Traditionally, all of these attributes are foreign to the citizens of Green Bay, but Brooks and Butler introduced their culture by being our “ambassadors of swag.”  Together, Butler and Brooks developed the Lambeau leap and raised the bar for touchdown celebrations forever.  Screw the Ickey shuffle.  This celebration led to the much underrated rap career of Brooks with his debut (and only) single “Jump Into the Stands.”  The citizens of Green Bay will defend that song to death and will question the authenticity of a fan based on the amount of words they know.  Robert used to drive through my neighborhood blasting his one-hit wonder, and on rare occasions, he would stop to pass out signed CDs to kids.

His CD is selling on amazon.com for 2.99


           

I perhaps assign the pioneering of Green Bay’s cultural shift to Robert and Leroy because they were the dominant black Packer players when I was growing up and beginning to realize the absence of my own cultural awareness.  I remember being invited to a Packer game with the Williams brothers when I was 12 and I got the unique chance to go to the post-Packer game party.  The party was like nothing I had ever seen before; Packer wives could put any plain Jane in Green Bay to shame.  As players filed out of the locker room, the Williams brothers would make comments about each player’s style and clothing.  At one point, Bill Schroeder walked out wearing a pair of fitted jeans and a polo. 

The Williams brothers instantly started laying into him for his lack of style, but one brother redeemed him by saying, “but he is straight with those Air Force Ones.”  I responded without really thinking, “what? You thought he was gay?”

  They both laughed hysterically for the remainder of the party at my cultural ignorance.  I now know that “straight” is a synonym for cool and I will never forget how I limped into figuring this out. 

            Now the traditional “cheese and white bread culture” of Green Bay and its transition into a more culturally aware and diverse town have not come without failure.  Nick Barnett tried to open an upscale bar called “Club 5-6” sometime in the early 2000’s.

Barnett's upscale club

  The club attempted to raise the level of culture in this town by requiring a dress code and a general big-city-club-feel.  Barnett pleaded with the city of Green Bay for months to grant him a liquor license.  Within a couple of months after opening, the club closed down.  The marquee from the bar remains on the corner of Dousman and Broadway st., almost acting as a monument of a failed cultural experiment.  Barnett needs to be given credit for trying to advance the culture. It is no surprise that establishments like Brett Favre’s Streak House and Fuzzy Thurston’s bar continue to thrive.

            But it’s not to say that the city hasn’t made steps towards cultural improvement during my lifetime.  For instance, after the Packers won their first Superbowl in 96’ a bevy of dedicated Packer fans released parody songs.  Most of these songs involved crass drinking humor and over exaggerated “wisconnnnnson” accents, none of which gained much national attention (except for maybe the CWA, Cheeseheads-with-Attitude or God forbid—The Packer-rena).

Easy-E is is rolling in his grave

However, this past year when the Packers won the Superbowl, Lil’ Wayne released his hit “Green ‘n Yellow,” which was a tribute song about being a self-proclaimed Packer fan for a life.  Weezy’s song provided this city with a new tier of national publicity because it illustrated this famous black man’s validation of our culture.  I thought maybe this obsession would only manifest itself in my generation, but I recently asked my elementary school teacher mother if she had heard “Green ‘n Yellow” and she responded, “Heard of it? My entire school sung it during an assembly dedicated to the Pack after they won!”  I’ll assume it was the edited version, but regardless, that’s a scene that never would have been embraced 15 years ago. Green Bay has the Packers to thank for that.

Community Protection
            For Packer players there is no such thing as anonymity in Green Bay.  As I talked with friends about writing a reflection on the Packers everyone had a unique story about past/present players partaking in scandalous activities (more than I could ever write about or back with empirical evidence).  I found this phenomenon unique because the wrap on every Packer player is essentially known--not publicly, but within the fabric of the locals.  When a story about one of our players gains national attention, it is not “shocking” but rather an embarrassment to our city and our brand.  The media, the police, and the community as whole make an effort (be it conscious or unconscious) to protect the Packer player’s images because it reflects on the integrity of our city.

            Last summer Deadspin broke the “Favre Dick Shot” story.  The national media was outraged and infatuated with the fact that the NFL’s Gun Sling’n Golden Boy was really just a pubescent pervert deep down.  Green Bay’s local media covered the story only briefly because it was an embarrassment to our brand.  Also, the story didn’t have the same lurid appeal that it did on a national level because we all knew that Favre was a derivative of his contrived ESPN persona.

            The local media covers the hell out the Packers—year round.  Stories are usually canned products that run like advertisements for the upcoming season rather than hard journalistic news.  Reporters and journalists alike know that they must respect the Packers and the access that they are granted or they run the risk of becoming alienated by the city.  The lead anchor for the top local news channel in Green Bay is also known as the “voice of the Packers”.  He is the one who is paid to sit in a box during games and say “first and ten for GB from their own 34 yard line” over the loud speaker.  It all comes back to this concept that everyone wants a piece of the Packer Pie and the Packer’s organization is more than willing to give it to people who can best protect their image.  The news station would be hard pressed to report on anything that portrays the Packers negatively because their lead anchor is on the Packer’s payroll.  These types of conflicting interests for the sake of protection are evident throughout this town. 

In my lifetime, no Packer player that I can recall has ever faced any legal trouble that stemmed out of an arrest in Green Bay.  The most high profile players being busted for illegal activities in my years as a fan include Mark Churma’s arrest in Milwaukee for lusting after an underage girl (do yourself a favor and google (“you call this a prom party”), Favre’s Dick story, and Johnny Jolly sipping on purple drank in Texas. 
              The Green Bay Police force was recently issued the option to wear badges that have the Packer “G” logo and “Superbowl XLV Champions” inscribed on them (the Packer’s brand initiatives are about as shameless as Donald Trump’s).

I can look over the fact that a private company is branding a taxpayers service but what about the identity crisis that police officers in Green Bay must face.  On one hand, they are paid to “protect and serve” but they are also HUGE Packer fans just like the rest of us.  I’m not saying it is mandated by the city that they protect players from legal trouble but rather it comes from the internal fear of the being the officer who arrests Favre for a DUI (hypothetically).  That officer would not be able show his face at work, at a bar, or hell even a Packer game ever again.  

             The protection of players goes far beyond those who are employed by the police or the media because the community as a whole aims to protect its players.  We know that what is good for the team is good for the city.  It is one brand.  I’ve been in countless conversations with friends and fans about a player’s scandalous exploits but the conversation always ends the same—“Ehh screw it. He’s a hell of a football player”, and how can anyone argue with that? 

Conclusion

When the Packers won Superbowl 45 I was 3.5 hours away from Green Bay at college.  I don’t remember much about the night besides a city in a complete state of happiness.  At one point I stumbled into a bar reeking of a good time only to see my old neighbor Gilbert Brown (he coaches the arena football team in town) pouring a pitcher of beer from the bar’s 2^nd floor balcony into a sea of sexy college girl’s mouths.  Gilbert was sporting his massive 96’ Superbowl ring--and he was celebrating like he had just won another.  I knew at that moment that I needed to get back to GB to welcome home the Packers.

            The next morning I woke up with zero intention of going to class and started the pilgrimage back to Green Bay.    The city was in a state of euphoric ecstasy.  Businesses and schools closed down for days so that citizens could participate in the never ending Packer celebration.  Tickets for the “Welcome Home Ceremony” sold out before I could get my hands on them so I paid 30 dollars (25 above face value) to sit in sub-zero temperatures with all the other diehard fans hoping to get a glimpse of our boys. 50,000 Fans young and old emerged from the bowels of Wisconsin to show their appreciation for their Packers.  The energy and vibe glowing from the stadium was poetically beautiful and pathetic all at the same time.

Like any religious following or cult, we are aware of the faults that this dependency creates but we are willing to overlook them because somehow it validates and provides meaning to our lives.  There is something special about this town because it is an outlier.  Fanship really isn’t an option--we need extreme fanaticism from nearly all 102,000 citizens of Green Bay in order for this thing to work.  We pour so much effort into eight Sundays every year because the money finances the whole show.  The revenue keeps bars, hotels, and the restaurants running at capacity and more importantly it keeps the citizens of Green Bay motivated and willing to work.  The Packer-Fan relationship has several conflicting parasitic/symbiotic functions but I don’t regret growing up in this town because of the existential value I obtained by being here.  Fuckit—thank god there is a season, this town needs it more than any.  Cheers football fans.  

My Summer of Tennis: The evolution of a recreational player into a pretentious poser

                   I’ve always enjoyed a rigorous level of physical competition because it’s the truest way to test strength and power:man v. man. Up until this summer, I only assigned this idea to physical sports like football and basketball because it seemed more “manly.” But this summer, I tried something entirely new: tennis. In high school, I played football mainly because I liked running into people at full speed in effort to knock them on their asses. My perception of tennis players was of dainty athletes stricken with fragile frames because their evolutionary ancestors weren’t attractive enough to mate with the alpha males. I can soundly say after three intense months of playing tennis this summer, I completely refute this notion and despise myself for ever believing it to be true.
                  Tennis is a game of physical chess. A game that relies on the mind much more than the body. Football, admittedly, requires some level of intellect, but mostly, the quickest guy with the most creatine saturated muscles wins out. At the beginning of the summer, I was merely a recreational player, but today I stand before you as a pretentious poser.
                  I don’t remember how I become so infatuated with tennis, but I know it began with a friend of mine (let’s call him Marco for identity sake) pushing the idea on me. I obliged because I had grown tired of my rapidly declining basketball ability and I was looking for a way to highlight my athletic will and competitive appetite.
                  Marco and I rolled up to the tennis court in my 2002 Camry that night, blaring a little rap music, both smoking cigarettes with the windows down. We looked up at the tennis courts to see a group of players varying in talent and style while we choked down what remained of our cancer sticks. We were in the middle of discussing the merits of smoking before partaking in an athletic spar, agreeing that nicotine calms the nerves and therefore increases ability. Pseudo science at its finest. A 60-year-old toad of a tennis player who stopped his game and turned to us in the parking lot abruptly interrupted our conversation. He started barking at us with an acrimonious tone, but we couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying. I figured he was upset about the inordinate amount of decibels my system was pumping out so I turned the music down. After exiting the vehicle, he continued to make indignant gestures towards our presence. Was it the music? Was it the fact that Marco and I were smoking cigs in a public place? No - the headlights on my car, which automatically turn on after a certain level of darkness is detected, were affecting his ability to serve properly. We offered up a very sarcastic apology and proceeded to the court furthest away from this righteous tennis asshole. I already had a preconceived notion about tennis being a sport for elitist pricks and this old gee solemnly confirmed my notion. My enthusiasm for the sport was already eroding at the core, but after a few days on the court, it didn’t take long for me to empathize and fully understand why the old man was so upset.

Equipment
                During the first four weeks of my tennis career, Marco and I were playing with identical youth rackets from the early 90’s. The steel frame made for a choppy swing. And the strings, though presumably once taught as a drum, were sagging after years of use and storage abuse. My shots were guaranteed for as much precision as a Nerf gun. In addition, the balls we were using had seen better days. They had been purchased around the same time as the rackets and had a noticeable amount of family dog slobber on the once neon green (now a pale gray) tennis ball fabric. These balls had a more pathetic apex than a pogo stick that had been destroyed by an insistent overweight childhood friend. Regardless, the equipment limitations were not enough to stifle our obsession with the game, as we played up to 5 times a week over the first month. As our games progressed, we decided it was worth the investment to purchase some new racquets and some fresh balls. In effort to keep the competition as level as possible, Marco and I purchased identical Wilson racquets from Target. The packaging had a picture of Rodger Federer and touted specs that included “V-matrix” technology for a larger sweet spot, an enlarged head for greater power, and a convincing tag line that claimed the racket was ONLY FOR SERIOUS PLAYERS! I couldn’t charge that racket on my credit card fast enough. We also bought a couple of canisters of fresh Wilson tennis balls. I think I might be addicted to the sound the can makes when it is cracked and the rush of sulfur hexafluoride fumes that pollute my brain with a temporary euphoric ecstasy. These investments became the core catalyst in my evolution as a player. At this point, I figured tennis is as much about looking adequately equipped as it is about actually having talent. Now that I had my flashy racquet and a surplus of balls which I treated like Nelly treats his Air Force Ones (rock em’ once and leave em’ behind for the savages), my confidence began to swell.

Attire
                 On the first day of my tennis experience I showed up wearing a pair of basketball shoes, shorts that could have doubled as a pair of pants at the right outing, and a sleeveless Orlando Magic t-shirt. The shirt did not stay on my back for long because the hell-like heat of summer forced me to free my hairy torso to the public tennis community. Marco liked to play shirtless as well, so in every way, we were more suited for a game of pickup hoops than a tennis match. The other tennis players weren’t noticeably offended by our presence, but with a quick glance over the remaining courts, it was obvious to see that bare-chested tennis playing was not the status quo. (Unfortunately for everyone else I enjoy bronzing while swinging the racquet.) After our equipment upgrade, we began to change the way we dressed on the court. The standard uniform became modest shorts that were firmly stationed one inch above the kneecap, pristine white tennis shoes that were tended to on a nightly basis with a spare toothbrush, and a white collared polo shirt. The old adage for success in the business world is “Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.” We applied this concept to our tennis game, and although we were playing at public course, our combination of class and flash stood out like players who were worthy of a country club invite. (Almost all of the points that have been scored on me this summer have come from the result of my incessant day dream in which a person of nobility notices my apparent knack for tennis fashion and calls me a “helluva ball striker,” which subsequently leads to a invite to his country club where I am treated to dinner and offered a large sum of money and/or a job.)

Etiquette
       Tennis is a simple game on the surface, but underneath lies an abyss of dynamic ethical codes and eloquent etiquette. It’s not like a game of bowling, where the only rules you need to know are don’t wear your street shoes on the alley and don’t ash your cigarettes in the finger holes of your opponent’s ball. No, tennis is much more complex. It can take decades, even a lifetime to fully understanding the ins and outs.
What I have learned
1) Its not appropriate to return a serve that is close to being out and then calling “OUT” after seeing how poor your return was.
2) Say the score after each point, always. Scoring discrepancies may start with an inordinate amount of quippy Frasier humor but they always escalate to fist fights.
3) There is no place on the tennis court for trash-talking or even playful banter. The only appropriate exchange between two players is a congratulatory statement after a nice shot when the ball is no longer in play.
4) Profanity does not belong on the tennis court. It took me a while to get over this because I like to release my frustration with a loud “Fuuuck” followed by smashing my racket repeatedly into the concrete and chain-link fence.
5) Keep the ball in your court by any means necessary. There is nothing worse than having a distant player’s ball roll onto your court in the middle of a serious volley. An awkward exchange always follows were the culprit tries to apologize and the victim is forced to hide their anger with a bevy of niceties.
6) It is not appropriate to yell out “Deuce Deuces Gleaming” when the game reaches its end-point tie. Most players will find you ignorant and miss the obvious reference to rap culture’s obsession with 22-inch rims.
7) Bending over to pick up a tennis ball is a tell sign of an amateur tennis player. In order to be taken seriously you must master the “foot scoop” , which involves pinching the tennis ball between your racquet, and the arch of your foot, and swiftly popping it up into your palm in a fluid motion. The foot scoop takes a level of dedication and hand-eye-foot coordination but the dividend you will receive in the form of respect from seasoned players is uncanny.

             Not only did I enforce these rules within my own game, but I also found myself becoming wildly frustrated whenever someone on a different court was not following them. I hated when I pulled my racquet back in effort to deliver an ace of a serve and a ball rolled into my court, or a car alarm would go off in the parking lot, or (god forbid) the slightest glimmer of sunlight blinded my concentration. I remember a time (actually the last time) that I played golf with my grandpa when he flipped out on me for moving during his back swing. (I was a pubescent 12-year old and I had a perpetually itchy crotch.) But frivolous excuses do not matter to someone who has already invested their life into the prestige and etiquette of a sport. I now fully understand why that old man was upset at me for leaving my headlights on while he was trying to serve. To him, I was an amateur punk who had no respect for the years he had put into his game mastering his cross-shot, his drop shot, his look, and even his ability to hide the presence of immense perspiration under his flesh cavities. I know I have only been playing tennis for three months, but I now embody much of what that man stands for. I wanted people to respect my need to maintain the games’ prestige. Tennis has no place for punks. Come ready to play the way tennis is supposed to be played: with class and dignity.

Poser:
              But I now stand before you (or write before you) as a changed man. Not only has my idea of tennis as sport drastically changed, but also has my lifestyle. It didn’t take long for me to buy into the vanity of the sport and for me to become complacent with myself as a player both in appearance and ability. This all changed the other day, however, when I realized I was nothing more than a poser giving the appearance that I had any real skill. Marco and I were approached the other day by a shirtless tattoo riddled individual named Victor. He looked and dressed like I had only three months earlier and I instantly disregarded his dedication and respect for the sport. He came onto the courts alone and asked to play with us. We obliged out of common courtesy (and curiosity for that matter) and attempted to play him 2 vs. 1. Simply put, Victor destroyed us, and he did it with flash rather than class. The array of shots he was able to hit was unbelievable. At one point he returned a deeply placed forehand shot with a between-the-legs hit that had velocity and precision. I was in awe of the way he could hit the ball with a breadth of spin and speed. He beat us 6-2, with the only points scored on him coming from the result of double faults while he was literally trying to knock the cover off of the ball.
                      I stood there feeling absolutely defeated. Victor exposed me a for what I was: a tennis player who looked the part, but had no real talent (reminiscent of my 12-year old skate board posing self when I attempted to 50-50 grind a 3-inch pipe in my driveway after being challenged by a group of serious SK8ers. I racked my back, my sack, and my dreams of being a talented border all in matter of seconds. It didn’t matter that I had a pair of red Chad Muska skate shoes with a stash pocket in the tongues, or that I had a 200 dollar board/barring/truck set, I was a poser and in that moment I was exposed as a fraud.)
                      I fully expected Victor to treat me with disgust and with a thug-like mentality after he robbed me of my confidence momentum and complacent attitude (A heist on par with when the World Wildlife Fund stole the WWF acronym, thus depleting the seemingly unstoppable entertainment mogul Vince Mcmahon from defining the 21st century with a wrestling zeitgeist. If it wasn’t for Harry Truman we’d all be speaking German or Japanese right now, and if wasn’t for the World Wildlife Fund we’d all be piling into retro-fitted football stadiums to watch our favorite “athletes” tackle, grope, and fondle each other while wearing lycra g-strings.) But he could not have been more kind in his post-game chatter. He told me that he had been playing for a long time and that he thought I was good. He said I had a lot of potential if I just kept at it, benevolent words of encouragement from the man who just shattered my dreams. I realized tennis is not about etiquette and vanity, but rather it is about having fun and doing so however you deem necessary. The next time I came to the court I ripped off my shirt (collars are nooses), cussed like a Kid Rock song (before he turned into a CUNTry singer), and had the time of my life.

The Absurdity of Youth Fundraising

In my life,  the biggest regret in my attempt to achieve coolness is the self-worth I derived from fundraising back when I was in middle school.  My school may have been atypical, but where I’m from, a level of status was guaranteed with your ability to fundraise.  But fundraising, unlike other factors that determine a person’s coolness, is not a product of the obtuse minds of 12 year olds, but rather an enslaving activity forced upon us by adults. 

Fundraising is the most asinine activity that adults could ever make their children or students do. Take away all of the promises of parties and hover-craft rides and  all that remains is an institution enslaving an underage work force to generate revenues under the guise of it being “cool.”.   It’s almost as if our educators stole a trick from the opening chapter in Mark Twain’s “Tom Sawyer.”
             Follow this logic:
Painting fences is work.  Work sucks. Kids look up to those who have more “coolness” than them. Have someone “cool” convince a child that painting fences is cool and those who are not painting fences are therefore un-cool.  Suddenly the masses want to do the WORK for free (and get the alleged status bump) while those perceived as “cool” sit back and reap the benefits. Replace painting with fundraising and let that sink in.

As a twelve-year-old, someone who was older (and therefore cooler) could have convinced me to do anything.  So in order for fundraising to gain legitimacy, the idea and the encouragement needs to come from someone.   Someone older (but not too old).   Someone daring.  Someone who could be perceived more like an older brother than an adult or a teacher. Enter: the Fundraising Ringleader.

            Every great fundraising initiative has a seasoned sales person to sell the idea of “cool” to the kids.  I'll refer to this person as the "Ringleader" from now on because he really was a master of showmanship, rather than just a salesmen.  The prototypical ringleader is a male with a rad birth name (or a hoaxy stage name) like Chaz, Taz, or Barkley; he needs to have dark hair, preferably a substantial amount of non-pedophile-esque facial hair, skin that is bronzed to the likening of an iced black-tea diluted from the sun’s sweltering heat, chest hair that protrudes from his strategically unbuttoned dress shirt, a thick lather of product in his hair, and of course, a pair of Ray Band shades. His personality needs to have the enthusiasm of a Regis Philbin but also the subdued smoothness of a MarkWhalberg.  Essentially, the Ringleader needs to be a modern day “music man.”  Riding in on a golden chariot, causing an insatiable buzz around a group of highly motivated yet misguided teens with the promises of money, novelties, and above all else, elite “coolness.” Through my years as a member of sports teams, youth groups, and as a student, I have seen many of these salesmen, all of which are eerily alike in too many ways.  I first encountered this type of person as a bright-eyed 6^th grader in my middle school Gymnasium.  The spectacle the Ringleader put on for the crowd was like a cross between a circus and the halftime show at an arena football game; there was music, demonstrations, and bizarre stunts, all that was missing was a t-shirt cannon and a near naked "danceteam".  They always seemed to have a glare in their eyes suggesting that they were more of a one-faceted personality than a true person.  They never humanized themselves to the crowd by only talking about life in the abstract,  throwing around words like “team” “family” and “camaraderie” like a youth-league t-ball coach trying to rally the morale of a depressed, winless team.   However, this person who feasts on the ability of the young to peddle magazine subscriptions, wrapping paper, and novelty candies in order to make a living cannot be compared to a well-minded coach.  But his ploy works.  Twelve-year-olds are easily convinced with promises of vanity items, a status bump, and ludicrousincentives.  These incentives were purposely constructed to be unobtainable, but the striking Ringleader made it all seem so feasible.  The epitome of these hyperbolic incentives was called the Money Pit.

MONEY PIT
            The Ringleader’s pitch on the logistics of actually selling the products is always concise and ambiguous because in order to entertain an ADD infected youth the spectacle must be simple, loud and aesthetically pleasing.  Now, I do not remember exactly how many magazine subscriptions I needed to sell in order to get inside the money pit but it was my proudest goal as a ripe teen. During every fundraising presentation, usually in the final ten minutes, the Ringleader would signal to his stagehand to roll out the money pit.  The money pit really was just a glorified transparent trash bag with breathing holes and a leaf blower attached to circulate a mass of George Washingtons, but it was a show worth seeing.  I had aspirations of one day skydiving, winning a Superbowl, and even curing cancer before my 30^th birthday, but those weren’t on the top of my to-do list at 12 years old.  Getting the reward of grabbing cash in the money pit was something I could achieve now; I decided that it was imperative to attack aggressively. The money pit seemed like the most obtainable surreal experience of the moment.  It is difficult to have foresight at a young age (I once swapped my Game Boy Color for a bag of War-Head sour candies), but I knew my future would be brighter if I could just get in that money pit. As soon as the Ringleader would roll out the pit the crowd would begin to thunder, flexible limbs would reach for the ceiling, pubescent chanting and screaming always ensued, anything to draw attention to one ’s self in hopes of being selected as the oneluckycandidate to get a chance to walk home with some cash.  But money was not nearly the biggest part of the equation.  The real appeal was that if you were selected as the one amongst 400, you were instantly catapulted to the rank of school celebrity and became the envy of every student in the room.   Unfortunately, I was never selected in my three years of middle school, but still it was always entertaining to watch someone else partake.  Everyone watched in amazement as the lucky individual danced for his/her dollars.  Everyone in the crowd instantly became a critic, cringing at every strategy flaw and dollar bill that slipped through the participant’s fingertips.   (I suspect that the origins of mostwomen whobecame strippers can be traced back to Money Pit fundraising demonstrations in middle school.) 

 For the Ringleader, it was a simple ploy to turn hopes and dreams into a perceived possibility.  By demonstrating the glitz and glamour one can have by selling a certain amount of worthless trinkets, he essentially was able to generate everyone’s interest to GET OUT AND SELL! And we did, willingly. 

Incentives

            The incentives offered by the salesmen progressively became more outrageous as the years passed.  These prizes ranged from twenty dollar carnival games to limo rides and the money pit;  I swear one year they offered a customized VW Bug shaped to look like Pikachu.  But, of course, anyone who has actually tried to unload hundreds of dollars of crap on friends and family knows the incentives are made to be unreachable…for most.  The biggest fundamental problem I have with forcing kids to fundraise is that it reiterates a socio-economic class system that is already in place, but most young-adults are too involved with the innocence of youth to comprehend its evil presence.  Fundraising brings this idea to the surface because kids from less fortunate families do not have a surplus of rich adults to sell to.  The network of a 12 year old is only as strong as his/her parents.  The Ringleader always made a point of saying “never sell to strangers,” when in actuality, that was the only way someone from less means and a broken network would ever have chance to dance in the money pit or take their friends on a wild ride in a stretch Hummer after school.  On the other side of the coin, the rich kids begin experiencing their birth right entitlement in the world with little to no work.  This is where the fundamental problem lies: in order for the poor students to reap the same benefits as the rich, they must work ten times harder.  This is a sad revelation for the youth because the reality of this becomes more evident in everyday life after this point.  A network of connected people with buying power/influence will always lead to the path of success in fundraising, applying for colleges, finding employment, and life in general.

            After the selling ended, revenues were tallied and prizes were divvied up.  Most of the incentives took place at the “Mega-Party,” the lowest incentive which required only fifty dollars in sales.  Though I never stepped foot inside one of these parties (my extended family is tiny and my parents have never had any wealthy friends, which means I never even got close to the fundraising goals), it has been described to me as the12 year old equivalent of a Playboy Mansion outing.  So essentially, think Chucky-Cheese meets the Discovery Zone with unlimited Mountain Dew Code Red, Meat-lovers pizza, and ice cream.  The party always took place during the last who hours on a Friday afternoonin the same gymnasium where the Ringleader first made his pitch.  Those who did not make the minimum amount of sales were forced to sit in study hall rooms blankly staring at the wall, reading three-day old horoscopes and trying to figure out what the hell “sudoku” means.  Those who did not comply with the above stated options were forced to copy words and definitions out of the dictionary.  Some daring souls tried to sneak out of the study hall room and work their way into the mega-party but the parents of the top sellers heavily guarded the gym doors. There is no way the elite would allow that type of injustice and social welfare.  Outside the room, you could hear the screams of elated young adults bathing in their affirmed coolness and position in the class system.

Sports Teams
            School fundraising was only one facet of exposure and a type that you could avoid with limited consequences besides exiling yourself from an elite club of cool.  Fundraising for sports teams was a whole other machine to grind with.  Sport teams required participants to fundraise in order to pay for equipment and (most importantly) to secure a relic of your game jersey with your name on the back at the end of the year.  Admittedly, Seroogy’s Bars (a locally produced version of Hershey’s chocolate bars) always seemed to be the easiest product to push because they were cheap and delicious. However, during the early oughts there was a growing concern for a health conscience population that led to the direct demise of candy bar sales and thedepletion of self-esteem for youth athletes around the country.  In the world of middle school sports, your fundraising revenue was somehow directly related to your playing time and your perceived commitment to the team.  Skipping practice, missing games due to academic misconduct, and even having a meltdown on the mound in front of your coaches and fans were all secondary to the consequences of not meeting your fundraising quota.  How can you expect a kid to perform on the athletic field or even the classroom when they know that the candy bar money is due to tomorrow and they still have seven dark chocolate almond crunches to unload?  Nobody likes almonds; no one is buying that candy bar.  The child is fucked.   

            If you didn't sell all of your candy bars in time, you had to come up with the money somehow.  This obligation obviously fell on the parents of the athlete.  (A feat that would bring family shame equivalent to a third generation male baring the same name as his father and grandfather from a strict catholic family coming out of the closet at Thanksgiving.)  I ended up taking advantage of my parents as much as possible by forcing them to buy all of my candy bars. Thankfully, they recognized my general apathy (laziness) towards everything and agreed to take care of it.  My brother, however, was a very pragmatic individual who liked achallenge.  Every year in the summer, he set out to sell as many candy bars as possible.  He fared decently well until one summer when our neighborhood became saturated with Seroogy’s Bar sellers from the same league/team as my brother and he could not meet his quota. In an act of desperation, I witnessed my brother line up his remaining thirty candy bars and run them over with his 95’ blaze-orange Schwinn.  He came running home and told my parents that he had fallen off of his bike and destroyed his supply.  My parents saw through his obvious lie and told him he needed to try to recoup the losses by selling the candy bars at half price.  A lot of crying and destructive activities ensued.  My parents were stuck with thebill and a child whose self-esteem had been completely ruined by fundraising.  I can still remember that my brother’s slugging percentage dropped over 200 points during the dog days of summer that year.  His personality, and especially his baseball prowess, was never the same after that. 

Youth fundraising needs to stop, but how? CALL YOUR CONGRESSMAN. Well, we all know that doesn't yield anything valuable these days.  I personally vow to never purchase a coupon book, a frozen pizza, a roll of wrapping paper, or whatever else Ringleaders around the country dream up during my lifetime (unless we are talking girl scout cookies).  I refuse to put a child through what I went through; a false sense that my fundraising revenues somehow made me a better person in society.  Someday when I have children, I will make sure that they never are forced to sell anything for any reason.  That is, if the stress and gut busting ulcers caused by fundraising during my formative years haven't render my semen impotent.....Cheers.