The game is on
Spectators are convinced that their antics affect the game in some fashion.
The UAAP season is not yet two weeks old, and the excitement is already building up. The effect of this seasonal madness on a segment of the corporate population (present company included) is that of a full moon on a werewolf. A few grow facial hair and run a bit faster with hands turning into forelegs. The howls may be rhythmic and may sound almost like intelligible incantations. “Hoorah, hoorah, hoorah, rah” are Aramaic words for “there’s a fish bone in my throat.” (The volume varies according to whether the lead is holding up or crumbling.)
The true believer, such as a loyal alumnus, understands that the first three games should not be occasion for gathering kindling for the bonfire. It’s too premature for that event devoutly to be wished. A possible sweep up to this point should not even be in a thought balloon — okay, maybe the first round?
Many alumni are touched by madness.
The prospect of driving to an inconvenient venue which on a Saturday takes as much time as going to a beach resort out of town is a minor consideration. And okay, the seats have narrow leg space, requiring one to turn into a pretzel each time the hot dog vendor or another fan looking for his seat further down the row, holding up his ticket as if this will guide him to the right place. Thankfully, the two venues now have numbered seats and no longer free seating. Sure, the seat numbers are not always legible. (And check the section, even if you think you’re in the right seat — wrong sector, Buddy.)
Seats at a ball game are not intended as regular furniture to rest the weary body, as it is possible to watch an entire game without ever sitting down except when behind by a double-digit lead in the last two minutes. It is then time to stand again a bit
later to sing the school song like a dirge. While other schools use karaoke accompaniment for their feeble renditions of their hymns, we always have the band for that with its unsteady trumpet calling the dead to rise from their graves.
School spirit binds alumni of different schools in this seasonal ritual requiring the ability to scream in cathartic abandon, and heartily boo bad calls (those that benefit the other team). The
Roget’s Thesaurus is handy here for synonyms for low intelligence and uncertain parenthood as applied to referees.
Spectators are convinced that their antics affect the game in some fashion. Somehow, the exhortations for example to “get that ball” magically results in a steal. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence, but maybe not.
The size of the crowd on each side seems in direct proportion to the chances of a team to make it to the top half in the standings. Thus, the diminishing prospect of a team as a season progresses is likely to reduce the number of its supporters showing up at the stadium. My fearless forecast for the team I’m cheering for (no key chains from Baguio for the right guess) is that the crowds will swell, maybe after this coming Sunday.
The introduction of season tickets (priced at least five times the box-office rate) for at least two rival schools to ensures a seat for two of the fourteen games in the regular season where tickets are scarce due to extraordinary demand. Declining alumni interest due to prospects of going to the finals for either of these two teams has economic consequences in ticket sales and ad loads. This is on top of postponed board meetings and hasty decisions due to the bad outcome of a game — please fire any employee who is smiling this morning.
Of course, there are still alumni who have zero interest in college ball, considering this a trivial pursuit. (Aren’t you too old for that?) They expect to go through the 80th season with their Wednesday afternoons open for meetings and assorted trysts. They don’t need to check any schedule of games in their phone calendar before accepting a weekend engagement.
If you ask them if they have been watching “the games,” they are likely to dismiss the question as puerile and unworthy of a reply — what games? You can strike off this heretic from your Christmas gift list.
Still, the werewolves are roaming the corporate hallways. And with the win- loss record, as of this writing, standing at 3- 0 ( am I giving the game away?) more formerly disinterested alums are slowly growing facial hair… and learning to fly.