Boo who? Us – and here’s why

By Jeff Glauser
The Phanatic Magazine

It’s a sound that’s become - fairly or not - synonymous with the culture of Philadelphia sports.

It’s a longstanding tradition, evolving from the days of yore, reverberating from the ghosts of the Vet past to the Bank of present day. Stories are legendary, growing more extraordinary as the years pass, as folklore often does.

So I wanted to set the record straight because there’s a very good chance that the once-local demigod J-Roll is going to hear his least favorite sound upon his return to town tomorrow, one that has defined us as a fan base for quite some time, and one that, for those who are not from here, struggle at times to comprehend.

And one that especially seems to hurt the feelings of poor millionaire athletes who’ve been coddled and caressed for so long that they are appalled at even the thought of being criticized en masse.

Boo!

Did I scare you? Because it seems to scare them.

But for those who can’t comprehend why on earth this nastiness would be directed at them – the hometown players, the good guys, for gosh sakes! – please allow me to explain:

We boo because there is no tolerance for complacency or underachievers in this hard-working, blue-collar town.

We boo because we’re incredulous that some people find it so difficult to hustle 90 feet to first every time and show up to play a game on time.

We boo because we’re incredulous that your teammates aren’t as incredulous as we are about this.

We boo because, although simply switching allegiances may be easier, it’s not an option.

(And do you know why it’s not an option, Mr. Rollins? Because we’re not “frontrunners.” Frontrunners have no pride. We have plenty - perhaps too much - of it.)

We boo for retribution for the ghosts of our past: for the collapse of ‘64, Black Friday and Mitch Williams’ meatballs placed in front of Joe Carter.

(And yes, Jimmy, we realize you weren’t here for any of that. But if you can’t realize that history means something in sports, you were obviously never a true fan yourself.)

We boo because, after 10,000 losses, it’s still easier (and manlier) than crying.

We boo because first place teams with two MVPs and a potential one shouldn’t be batting a collective .253 on the year.

We boo because politely cheering for “almost” getting it done won’t send the message that “almost” is no longer acceptable.

(Plus, showing gratitude for failing is just plain silly. If you were our children with fragile egos, that’s understandable. But just acting like you are isn’t.)

We boo because people like Schilling, Rolen and Drew shouldn’t have rings.

We boo because people like Ferguson Jenkins and Ryne Sandberg should have had their Hall of Fame careers here.

We boo because people like Adam Eaton, Wes Helms, Freddy Garcia and countless others should have never had careers here.

We boo because minor league hockey, arena football and lacrosse aren't good enough.

We boo because it's safer than, ahem, throwing snowballs or batteries.

We boo in fear. Fear that this nightmare may never end.

Admittedly, we boo out of jealousy, too. Most of us can’t even dream big enough to fathom your salaries. And even if we could, we’re too busy busting our asses in our 50-plus hour a week jobs trying to pay the mortgage and put food on the table.

Yes, we’re worried about making it in life. You’re worried about your feelings getting hurt.

Simply enough, we boo because we care.

And we boo because you deserve it.