Fandom; or Why I Wear a Cubs Hat

The cricket World Cup is underway, as is the Six Nations Tournament in rugby. England has a very good cricket team and rugby team this year, which I guess is unusual. The poor Welsh team is riddled with injuries and plagued with old age, so their chances were gone before the season began.

Or at least that's what people tell me. I've seen one game, and the aftermath of two more when I was out an about walking (probably to get a delicious Mars bar after getting my 1000 words for the day done). I tried, I really did, to get into it. I read up on some of the stats, which is how I knew the Welsh rugby team was not going to be very good this year; I engaged my friends in conversation about rugby; and I even went to go watch the first game, between England and Wales, looking to get into it. But, honestly, I don't feel that stirring in my chest.

Though, when I heard that the Cubs were on the radio for Spring Training, I immediately wished I could find the game on-line somewhere. You see, for my entire life I have been a Cubs fan. There were times I was more rabid than not, but since I was in grade school I have had a Cubs hat, and probably a t-shirt or two. When I was a wee-little blogger, and the Cubs made it into the playoffs, I remember sitting in my Great Uncle's bedroom watching the game. As the Giants superior pitching tore apart the Cubs, I remember thinking how unfair life seemed. I really wanted them to win - a feeling which has since resurfaced every season since.

Honestly: the Cubs are terrible. If I am being honest with myself, this is one of the worst teams they have fielded in some years. The pitching is broken (mentally so, in Zambrano's case), they traded away everyone that was consistent (Theriot, Lilly and Lee) and are left resting their hopes on a less-than-stellar Fukadome, a blackhole of productivity in Soriano, and the very capable hands of Aramis Ramirez. The offseason has seen the addition of Carlos Pena (an older, less productive version of Lee), and re-re-addition of Kerry Wood, amid the exodus of decent talent. Let's hope that we can get most games in before the Early Bird Special ends at the Old Country Buffet. Otherwise, half the Cubs are going to get cranky.

Okay: sure, Dempster had a decent season last year. Better than decent. But one good season does not a starting pitcher make. Anyone remember Daisuke Matsuzaka or Dontrelle Willis? And of course, the names across the outfield sound familiar, but mostly in that, "Remember when ______ was good?" sort of way. There is a lot of young talent to get excited about, but that is the same tired excuse I hear from Royals fan every year (if I knew anyone who liked the Royals). I'll be excited to see if Randy Wells can normalize on the side of decency, or if Koyie Hill will save our asses when Soto injuries himself again.

All in all, I am braced for disappointment.

One would think that I would be open for new, exciting sporting events like watching a world class rugby club trounce their neighbors, or learning anything about cricket other than it takes five days to play. But I can't get in to it, or the rest of the sports that they have around here. Sure, I get interested when important games come around. I asked about the Arsenal V Barcelona game, but mostly because I was interested in that one match as a phenomenon, not the sport as a whole. Much in the same way that people will watch the Super Bowl and not realize who is playing in it. Soccer, rugby, cricket and so on: interesting in small bits, but I still check in on my Cubs, 3000 miles away, and sucking hard.

It's because the Cubs are my family, or might as well have been. My family used to go and sit in the nose bleed sections to watch cheap games; I try to go at least once in the summer to see my Boys in Blue; it was one of the few conversation topics that was always lively with my Dad; and so forth. I've grown up with the Cubs: I've watched them succeed (a few times) - I was there with Moises Alou when Steve Bartman grabbed the ball, and with Alex Gonzales when the next ball rolled through his legs with their hopes of a World Series. I felt Ron Santo's pain every time he would sigh exasperatedly over the mic, calling games on the radio. My heart swells with every victory and hurts with every loss. This sort of connection cannot be instantaneous, nor could it be pulled from me when I moved.

What Does Everyone Have Against Borth?

From the time I got here, people have talked in less than appealing ways about Borth. The next town to the North was suggested to have nothing for any visitor, and the few attractions that Borth does offer are talked about derisively. Today, at a lecture by Professor Jane Aaron sponsored by the English department, I found out that Borth is the setting for several Gothic Welsh books, usually featuring sin-eaters (more on that in a moment) or zombies (in fact, the only Welsh book about zombies known to the speaker was set in Borth). Malcolm Price, which is a pen-name I believe, writes a series of detective books set in Aberystwyth, and in Don't Cry for Me Aberystwyth, one characters notes that too much time in Borth could lead to rickets.

Now, granted, I don't know much about Borth. I've walked there once, and walked through town, which was not necessary metropolitan. The train to Birmingham and London goes through Borth, and I have thought that the neighboring village looks a little grey from the train; but, what town isn't a little grey around the train lines? Honestly, as I crested the hill, using the sea front path to get to Borth, I thought it was really pretty, and certainly not too different from Aberystwyth. Yet, the general feeling is that Borth is a festering pit of degenerates, rummies and chronically unemployable people.

There are some good reasons for this. The biggest of which is the natural geography of the town. Really, in retrospect, Borth is built in the wrong place. Tucked between mountains and the second largest bog on the island, the town is the definition of inaccessible. Until some drainage pipes were installed, there was only one way into or out of the isolated little village. Also, due to currents, when people fall off the coastal path to the South, coming from Aberystwyth, they generally wash up on the Borth beach.

Being as isolated and inaccessible as it is, it is a natural selection for Gothic fiction. It's the Welsh equivalent of an abandoned plantation in Georgia. Also, because of it's isolation, Aaron suggested that it tended to stick to the more pagan rituals, separate from the spread of Christianity. So, when looking to "other" what you consider a backward, heathen society, where better to set your fiction than an isolated community with deep ties to paganism? To be fair to these writers, sin-eating was practiced in Borth for some time; people contracted to eat a meal off the coffin of the deceased believed to contain all the sins of the previous person life. The sin-eater, generally someone looked upon with scorn, would then walk the Earth for his remaining years with the sins of those who he was contracted to consume, as well as his own.

Aaron also suggested that this is why Borth was the setting for the only Welsh zombie fiction known to her: it was a way to show how the British did not understand the strange (unique, maybe) ways of the coastal Welsh. See: in the two books by the same author, the zombies rose from the bog after having drunk the black murky water. Interestingly, this water is known to have life-sustaining abilities, having kept some of the plants in the area alive for thousands of years. It has not been shown to do the same with people, yet. In one book, translated to The Bells, an Englishman comes in, drains the bog, and the zombies (all Welsh) happen to die. Aaron suggested there was a sense that the zombies were really representative of the colorful past of the Welsh, and their death at the hands of the English shows how that country has stripped the Welsh of their uniqueness.

I was pretty confused, though, as Aaron read from several books, both older and contemporary, that described Borth using shades of grey (quite literally suggesting that the entire town was grey). It seems to me that the same could be applied to the whole island. Since November, it has rained at some point almost every day. Most days are just a haze of various grays, depending on density of the cloud cover. Between May and early October, the sky opens up and the whole coast is drenched in sun, but for most of the year all of Wales is a sort of gray. Borth, besides the view from the train, hasn't seemed more or less gray.

In fact, the town, mostly comprised of Victorian houses and newer summer homes, was quite colorful. The beaches, especially, are some of the only sandy beaches in the area, especially more North of Borth towards Ynyslas. The beach is surprisingly level as the sea dumps into the bog surrounding Borth. Having the bog and estuary there gives an interesting landscape to the surrounding area. The land runs flat through the bog until abruptly lurching upwards into a series of steep cliffed hills (or mountains if you are generous). Once the drainage system dried the land out, it has become quite a nice place, and I imagine in the Spring and Summer, it's glorious on the beaches. If you like sand; I personally prefer the tiny pebbles because they don't find their way into ever crevice on your body.

There is a sense of hopelessness to Borth. Doomed by isolation, lack of natural resources and bogs filled with zombies, it has served, primarily, as a vacation spot. As vacations have grown shorter, and travel across the world has become easier, less and less people are attracted to Borth. One of the locals said that most of the work in the area involves fishing herring out of the sea (and, in one story that he told, killing ship wrecked Portuguese sailors for their boots). The railway was a blessing in disguise, bringing the hated British into Borth. While the townsfolk liked having money come in, they hated that it was the British bringing it it; the definition of a Catch-22.

As far as Borth's relationship with the English: it was rumored that the Welsh in that area, while fighting the Southern Welsh, reached out to the Saxon kings to help with the fight. Traitors to their own people, Borth is now forced to subsist on eating sins and English holiday money.

And then there is the Animalarium (the letter 'z' is missing from the Welsh alphabet; in case you find yourself looking for the Welsh word for zebra, it is sebra; sw is Welsh for zoo). As a tiny village, it really doesn't have the funds to run a proper zoo. The Animalarium was populated by sick animals from other zoos, and animals that are native to people's backyard (like a doll's house they populated with rats). Recently, upon discovering that the Animalarium doesn't have an exotic animal license, all the big cats and fun animals were sent to other zoos. Now, it stands as a poorly populated exhibit of local wildlife and farm animals. Sadly, that doesn't draw the same crowd.

It would be fair to say that Borth is a lacking the urban commodities that make bigger cities a draw to tourist, but I don't see why people, especially people in Aberystwyth, look down their noses at the tiny seafront community. In an interview Samantha Bee did for the Daily Show, she spoke to some secessionist living in Long Island, hoping that the appendage hanging off New York might become the 51st state. Clearly picking the bottom of Long Island's barrel, she asked the less than aware Long Islanders who they would invade first if they were granted Statehood. Without skipping a beat, one of the tanned and gelled gentleman said New Jersey. Samantha Bee waited a moment to let the absurdity of one state invading another pass before she asked, "Wouldn't that be sort of like fighting your conjoined twin?" The same question might be applicable here.

Snookered

There is a simple elegance to nine-ball. You take turns shooting at the lowest numbered ball on the table, and the first to sink the highest numbered ball on the table wins (either directly or by hitting a lower ball into the nine, thus sinking the nine). There is more to it - like the ball in hand scratch - but for the most part, the game lends itself to aggressive offensive play. Playing a safety shot is as likely to lead to a fluked nine-ball by the opponent as it will extend your chances of winning.

Simple, elegant, aggressive: exactly why nine-ball is so popular in America.

Compare that to snooker, the billiards game dominated by the British. There are fifteen red balls and six other-colored balls that vary in value, between two and seven points. During your turn, you shoot first at a red ball, and having potted that, you can shoot at one of the colored balls. If pocketed, the colored ball returns to the table in the original position. You can continue to shoot until you fail to put a ball in the pocket. The highest possible score without a foul is a 147: sink all fifteen reds in conjunction with the black, and then pot all the colors, once the reds are gone.

That's offense. There is then a defensive side. If potting a ball is unlikely, the player need only connect with the object ball. Smart players will try to place the ball in such a place that the next player can't hit the object ball directly; this is called a snooker. If a player is snooker and fails to hit the object ball (usually a red), the opponent can make the snookered player re-attempt the shot until he gets it right. If ever an object ball is missed, it gives the opponent four points.

If you're smart, and assuming you are because you are reading this, it becomes obvious that this game is for bastards. It literally rewards you for putting your opponent in an uncomfortable situation - for effin' him in the A. Not only that, but you can continue to force your opponent to play through said effin' repeated times, until you are satisfied with the outcome.

There is a sense that snooker is a gentleman's game. This might be because the uniform for professional snooker players is a vest and bow-tie. It's hard to find someone prickish when he or she wears a snappy vest. Couple the snazzy outfits with the hushed reverence surrounding the game, and the tuxedoed referees buffing the balls with white gloves before they put the ball back on the table; it all leads one to believe that this is a game for royalty. Civility and gentlemanly behavior lording itself large in the arena.

In actuality, snooker players have to be jerks to be good at the game. Its more than just screwing over the guy that comes after you; you need to do it in such a way that it is profitable for you. That sort of deviant thinking doesn't come naturally to me, having been raised playing American pool. I have always gone for the aggressive win, rather than the passive win-by-screwing-over-the-next-guy approach.

There could be other reasons why I am not yet an amazing snooker player. The table is about as big a soccer field. The table is so big that there are a variety of rests designed for helping people reach balls that would otherwise require one to mount the table to get the shot. And then, of course, there are extensions: There is a three foot plastic bit that can be slid onto most cues, extensions that can be screwed on to the back of standard cues, or just thin branches that are about the length of the table. The table often succeeds in snookering you when your opponent fails.

Why have the British taken to this game? I can see why Americans don't get it/like it: our concentration levels have been ruined by Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers. At most, Americans can sit through a game of eight-ball. But having to sink 36 ball to win seems gratuitous. I often find myself losing interest in the game about half way through.

And the strategy. Generally my strategy in pool is simple: sink more balls than the guy I'm playing. There are times in a snooker game when it is actually a bad idea to sink the balls, which is the very definition of counterintuitive. Say, for instance, the blue, pink and black balls remain and you are down by 19 points. If you sink the remaining balls on the table, you'll only make 18 points, losing by one despite having pocketed the last balls. Instead, you'll want to try and snooker the other player, hoping to wrack up some sweet, sweet snooker points. Again: this game rewards you being an asshole.

But the British seem to love this game. The snooker hall is often filled, though never often to capacity. There nine snooker tables at the local hall, and on average half of them are filled at any given time. On Wednesdays, when the tables are half priced for students, there is sometimes a wait. There seems to be something hardwired into the British to enjoy cerebral games that reward selfish maliciousness.

And this is not the only point in my life here where I witness the British quietly screwing over those around them. This past election, Plaid Cymru were looking to have their candidate win. Being a seat of Welshyness, there was some talk that he might. So people who didn't want Plaid Cymru to be their delegate voted for the second most popular person, regardless of who they actually wanted to win. Defensive voting.

Or take soccer: if a team is tied up going into the end of the game, and this tie doesn't hurt that team in any particular way, the team will lock down on defense and take the tie. That is what the fans paid for, after all, to watch their team concede to a tie because winning was too dangerous. Remember that sports movie where the one team decided not losing was about as good as winning, and just played out the end of the game to keep the status quo? No. Of course not.

All that said, I have found snooker growing on me. Maybe it's that I have been here too long, or maybe having grown up in a large family, I can understand the need to screw over others to get ahead in life. Only someone raised with five brothers and sisters would understand eating everyone else's favorite donuts, leaving yours (which no one likes) for the end so that you got more donuts than everyone else. Snooker brings out the obstructionist in me that has been hibernating since I found out you could just buy more donuts.

Where I'm From

I love the movie Up in the Air, starring George Clooney, Vera Farminga and Ann Kendrick. Besides being a well written, well acted and clever movie, there is quite a bit that speaks to me personally, especially in my current situation.

Without giving too much away, George Clooney plays Ryan Bingham, a man who is contracted to help layoff massive amounts of people. His job keeps him travelling quite a bit, and contrary to most stereotypes of air travel, Ryan has come to love it; so much so that he is really only comfortable living in hotels and flying in planes. He knows the layouts of airports, can wax philosophic about car rental kiosks and often has to shuffle through several key cards for old hotels stranded in his suit pockets. He has attached himself to the transient life style, never staying anywhere too long, and staying detached. To hammer the point home even further, Alex gives inspirational talks that suggest people should cut their attachments from their lives, living more freely.

Through the course of the movie, he has to show up start Natalie Keener (played by Anna Kendrick) how his job works, teaching her the subtleties of firing people. Natalie wants to streamline the process, using computer terminals connected to agents in one centrally located facility. Obviously, Ryan is against this. While out on the road, he spends his time defending his life style choices and having romantic trysts with Alex (played by Vera Firminga).

At one point, he is having a conversation with American Airlines chief pilot Maynard Finch (played by the always bad ass Sam Elliot), and Maynard asks Ryan where he's from. At this point in the movie, Ryan is fairly pensive and says, "I'm from here," meaning the plane.

Last year, I applied to give a presentation at the San Diego Comic-Con; the biggest convention of comic book nerds on the planet. This was a great opportunity to meet people, get the latest news, and just revel in my nerdery. They had an unprecedented number of applicants this year, so I knew I needed to make my abstract stand out. Each abstract was to be accompanied by a brief bio, and here is where I saw my chance to stand apart: I made myself look British. Now, I know this is dirty pool, but I never lied. This is what I wrote:

"Keegan Lannon has begun work on his PhD at Aberystwyth University in Wales in an attempt to read comic books professionally. His dissertation topic focuses on comic books and narrative theory."

Sneaky, but not a lie. With a name like Keegan, a small University on the coast of Wales, it was likely that the reader would assume I was Welsh, or at least British. It's not my fault that I didn't dissuade them from this assumption; after all, it benefit me. I was accepted and gave a great presentation.

Tomorrow is the Superbowl, and my British friends have been peppering me with questions about who is playing, who I am rooting for, and so on. This is fine; I like being an expert in something simply because I am the only person to have seen in live. My friend Jamie was talking about how the previous year he had a party for the Superbowl and our mutual friend Aaron, from Ohio (I know, right, but trust me...he's not that big an asshole), was "the guy who knew what the hell was going on." And this year, I was going to be that guy.

My housemate Bernie is from Pembrokeshire, a town just south of here, and has the thickest accent I have encountered to date. Couple that with the colloquialisms he riddles his speech with and I often times find myself very confused. "Aw man, crack on then. I'm going to roll some 'baccy then catch you up." See: as words, I can understand most of those, but as a sentence arranged as such, I have no clue what he means (It means that we should keep going, because he's going to roll a cigarette; he'll then come and find us at the final location). He speak the same language, but there is still a language disconnect grounded firmly in our different cultural experiences.

When I was home for my Grandma's funeral, I ran into my sister's best-friend, Sarah. I've known Sarah since I was 16 (0r so). You could expect that she would be able to recognize me. However, for a brief second, she looked at me not as the brother of her best friend, but as some stranger that was approaching her. "I didn't recognize you," she said, "you look so European..." This has been a bit of theme whenever I go home: my family and friends noticing how British/European I have become. From the way words like "chips" (for french fries), "bloody" and "take away" have entered my vocabulary, to my sitting posture, to my new tea drinking habits, I am apparently not the person I was a year ago.

You can see where this is going...

This change probably answers for why I both look forward to and cringe from going home this summer. For one, Aberystwyth is glorious during the summer. The air is warm, with cooling breezes off the ocean. I spent most of May on the beach last year, barbecueing, reading, and basically enjoying the glorious weather. But secondly, I have started to feel like this is where I belong. Or maybe this is where I want to belong. I have a purpose here, I have a direction, and I have a reason for being here. When I am at home, I spend my time thinking about all the things I should be doing, like reading and writing.

But, sometimes when I am here, I get really lonely. I was raised in a different environment with different shared cultural moments. Though the Internet and ubiquity of American television has allowed most of my British friends to have some passing understanding of what life is like in America, it would be nice to not have to contextualize stories about my junior high school experience. And while I really life walking everywhere, I sometimes miss having a car. Though, truthfully, I don't think I would drive anywhere. I hated living in the city with people that wanted to drive everywhere; there is a reason why the city put in public transportation, and tried to provide what you would need within walking distance.

Returning to Up in the Air, like Ryan, I don't feel I fit anywhere. Because I am now a commingling of experiences that no one set of people are ever going to be able to relate to, I am destined to be an "other" for the rest of my life. Next time you fill in a form that asks for personal information, you will be asked about your ethnicity: white, black, Latino, etc. There is always that one box labelled "other" for people who don't fit into to any predetermined descriptor. I had to check that box for the first time while over here, and I can see why social critics find it so stigmatizing. This form didn't expect me (if it did, it would have had a box for me to check). I am on the fringes, with fringe habits. When I am in America, people are going to wonder about my Britishness (as little as there is); when I am here, I am American (or sometimes Canadian if someone can't place the accent).

In the end, though, I'm fine with that. The experience of living in a foriegn country has broadened my horizons, and I feel made me a better person. I have a different perspective on America now that I have seen how other people see it; which has made me both love and hate my motherland. In the end, I hope to be more well-rounded an individual. Having to constantly explain what the C on my hat stands for is a small price to pay.