FanPost

Wild Kingdom S1 E2

Clad in scarlet garb, they pack the remaining items into the trunk of the automobile. Before herding the pups inside, they admire the regalia lining the vehicle one last time with pride. The large, lovingly applied bumper stickers, the miniature flags flapping gallantly in the gentle breeze, all featuring birds of red.

The father raises his hand to his brow and gazes stoically into the oncoming clouds of grey, an ominous harbinger of sinister things to come. Yet, he sighs and enters the vehicle despite this warning, defiantly thrusting the automobile into reverse, pulling away from the pack’s picturesque suburban domicile. They know no fear, for they must support their team at all costs. They believe themselves to be the chosen ones, blessed by the divine touch of Óðinn himself, fans of the almighty St. Louis Cardinals. We have just taken a peek into the habits of the Best Fans in Baseball. Join us as we explore further.

The pilgrimage begun, the pack engages in a round of Ozzie Smith, a trivia game native to these parts in which one must come up with a question to which the answer is inevitably "Ozzie Smith." Then, as mother is posing a question about opening day backflips, the behemoth is suddenly upon them. All go quiet as they approach the sacred structure. The temple. They have arrived at Busch Stadium.

They pull into the parking lot, a sea of red sprawled in every direction into infinity. After they pull into a narrow opening and unpack, father waves at the occupants of the adjacent spot. "Mind if we join you?" The man stares back, an uncertain look in his eyes.

"What high school’d you go to?" The father of our pack hesitates for a moment, the first of many tests to prove his value to the other Best Fans in Baseball, or BFIB, has been presented.

"St. Charles." A lump forms in his throat, as he awaits the verdict, the fate of his family’s tailgate in the balance.

"Alright," he says, nodding, his mood brightening. "It’s an older code, but it checks out. Here, have you a brewsky." He grabs a Bud Light Lime from the cooler and hands it to the father in a sign of friendship. This shall prove to be a pleasant gathering after all.

The pregame ritual reaches a fever pitch as game time nears. Rows of charcoal grills are set aflame, each one heating either pans of toasted ravioli or an Imo’s "pizza," a bizarre dish consisting of a Velveeta-like substance melted on a large round Saltine cracker. After the feast, the BFIB all flock towards the great sanctuary which serves as home to their revered Cardinals ball club. Once inside, our pack take their seats, looking around to see if there are any patrons wearing clothing representative of the opposition. Ah, a man and his young son two rows down are donning black and yellow caps, an indication they favor the visiting Pittsburgh Pirates. Let’s watch the reaction of the BFIB.

"Hey, Pirates fans!" the father says. The man turns around, his son stuffing his face with cotton candy, oblivious to the interaction about to take place. "Welcome to Busch Stadium," he says in the friendliest manner he can muster.

"Thank you."

"You know I respect the Pirates. I really admire the way they keep at it year in and year out, even when things look completely hopeless," he says with an unusually large smile on his face. "It must be difficult not having won a championship in such a long time though. Hey, I feel your pain. That gap between ’82 and ’06 for the Cards was brutal. Just hang in there." Now, the key here is for the BFIB to be as condescending as possible, while masking its true intent with a veneer of pleasant Midwestern folksiness. In this manner, the BFIB can maintain its self-image as the nicest fans in baseball whilst reinforcing its superiority over the opposing fan.

Soon enough the game begins, and the BFIB settle in their seats, watching attentively. They exhibit counter intuitive behavior such as clapping for providing the visiting team with outs, a practice known as the sacrifice bunt. They display a fondness for small, unathletic Caucasian players with poor slugging percentages who dive headfirst into first base. They apply such intangible and nonsensical attributes to these players as "scrappy" and "gritty."

Everything is going according to plan, the BFIB thoroughly enjoying their experience, until something disrupts the habitat in the top of the fifth inning. A Pirates batsman strikes the ball with tremendous force, sending it hurling into the outfield seating area. The batsman, perhaps unaware of the consecrated ground upon which he stands, gives the blat a slight flip of the wrist. The crowd gasps in disbelief, as the bat dances in the air for a moment and then thuds to the grass. Immediate grumbles of disapproval and boos are rained down upon the unfortunate victim. "No, no, I don’t like that at all," says the mother of our pack, being sure her words are loud enough for the Pirates fans below to hear. "That’s poor sportsmanship. That’s not playing the game the right way." Ah, and there it is. We have just observed the signature phrase of the BFIB, as "play the game the right way" so perfectly captures a heaping portion of the aforementioned passive-aggressive condescension in only six words.

Later in the game, the Cardinals make what is called a double switch, a simple procedure of replacing players in the lineup so as to minimize the likelihood of the pitcher batting. "That was brilliant," the father explains to his pup. "They play such a cerebral game in the National League. There’s so much more going on, and - now listen up, son, because this is important – the pitcher bats. That’s as pure as this game gets. Who cares if his OBP is below .200? The important thing is that he stands in the batter’s box a couple of times, thus preserving the integrity of the game. I know it sounds silly, but that phony bologna American League actually created a position for a guy to bat in place of the pitcher! Just imagine! But guess what, when those teams come to Busch Stadium, they have to play by our rules," he says beaming. The pup only stares back blankly.

In the concluding frames of the game, the ill omen from earlier in the day finally comes to fruition. In a matter of moments, the sky has darkened, and the heavens open, unleashing a torrent of rain upon the Cardinals faithful. The players head to the dugouts, and the groundcrew covers the infield with a massive tarp. The proceedings have been foiled by the dreaded rain delay. Common sense would dictate one remove oneself from such a downpour, but our subjects remain seated. In their minds, the Best Fans in Baseball should stick it out in order to show loyalty. Leaving their seats to stay dry would show cracks in their unwavering resolve to support the team, the stakes be damned.

As time passes, our pack begins looking around nervously at its fellow BFIB, waiting for a signal indicating it is appropriate to step out of the rain. Their warped sense of reality is now on full display. "Perhaps we should head to the concourse beneath the overhang until this rain clears up," suggests the father. "The pups might catch a cold."

"Well," the mother hesitates, also wanting to find a reason to seek shelter, but recognizing the logical fallacy inherent in the suggestion of her mate. "The common cold is caused by a virus, not exposure to the elements. However," she exclaims, an idea popping into her head as she views the weather application on her intelligent communication device. "The temperature has dropped exactly two degrees since I last checked, and if this trend continues, hypothermia could set in." The two look at each other with knowing recognition.

"Hypothermia," the father echoes. "I won’t risk it. Come, younglings, we shall take shelter.

"Can we just go home?" one of the pups moans.

"Ha-ha!" the mother laughs nervously, looking around at her fellow BFIB. "Why, aren’t you the jokester, young lady! We shall take a small break, so as to avoid any negative mortal consequences of hypothermia, and then we will be back to cheer on our beloved Cards."

Soon, a curious thing happens, and all of the fans in their section begin mumbling to one another. A single word, "hypothermia," begins to ripple through the stadium, as an almost unanimous decision appears to be made. Slowly herds of BFIB begin filing towards shelter, to evade the downpour. As our pack reaches a vacant area near a stadium exit, the father whispers, "let’s get the hell out of here." The mother nods. They look around, heads swiveling for any sign of their kind. When no other BFIB are spotted, they grab the hands of the pups and quickly make their way out the door.

Time passes, and as the rain continues, pack upon pack of BFIB begin to mysteriously disappear from the grounds. Nobody ever sees anyone else leave, and the few who do spot defectors, turn their heads, complicit in the act, so as to perpetuate the collective delusion of the BFIB. Soon enough, only a handful of inebriated creatures remain. Many BFIB consider these to be unruly brutes, maintaining that they are not real fans. Ironically when the rain dissipates, and the game resumes, the only ones who see the game through to its finality in person are these wild-eyed, rain and booze drenched outcasts, howling into the night.

This FanPost was written by a member of the Royals Review community. It does not necessarily reflect the views of the editors and writers of this site.