We have all read the signs at ballgames or heard the familiar lament from players, fans, and even coaches: "wait 'till next year." While your typical obsessive fan takes losing about as well as they take a prostate exam, those all-too-familiar words seemingly ease the pain as they remind us all that as bad as it may get this time around, things start over anew in less than 12 short months and that next time, anything can happen.
Why is it that those four words soften the blow of impending failure so effectively? Why do we, the supportive fan base for a given franchise in a given sport, accept such trivialization of the very outcome we long for and expect season in, season out? Shouldn't we demand more? Shouldn't "next year" be "this year" every single year?
In a word, no.
Waiting until next year has become part of the fun, part of the experience. Think of it in terms of your job; from the moment you start working, if you have any semblance of motivation and drive, you long for a promotion. Once you get that first promotion, you strive for another, and then another, and so on until you have reached the penultimate position within your given discipline. Once in that secondary position, you patiently wait "your turn" as you pickup the skills and tendencies of the current number one on the food chain.
Then it happens — the day you've waited what seems like an eternity for — you're the Top Dog. The congratulations pour in, the celebration lasts all weekend long, you are finally "the man" and everyone knows it.
After two short weeks, the honeymoon is over. You realize that being Top Dog isn't what you thought it was. All those little mistakes that were made far down the corporate ladder now seem to matter much more. Those board members that used to seem so friendly and so accommodating now treat you with a cold and cutting directness that you can't help but get rattled by. The enjoyment that you used to get from your job slowly fades as hopes and dreams are replaced with expectations and stress. You are left with an empty void where your dreams used to reside, where the anticipation of the future used to be found, from where your passion and drive were born.
Such is the lot for your typical professional baseball franchise. For years and years, frustrated Red Sox fans went about their business of whining, crying, and hoping for the best while knowing that their team's best would never be quite good enough. Nowadays, your typical Sox fan is tied tighter than one of the Steinbrenner's Windsor knots; the expectation of winning weighs far heavier on a person than does the anticipation of losing. Sure, the ride to that championship seemed as rewarding a sports fan experience as one could have; the years of coming up just short, the excruciating near misses, the laughable failings so many suffered through finally being replaced with the jubilation of being the best.
But once it happens, then what? Now you're expected to win. This is fine, as long as you keep winning, but eventually, inevitably, you will fall short. The disappointment has to start over again, the emotional pain and mental anguish you've dedicated to the team becomes little more than a historical footnote, and the identity you used to find solace in is no more.
Look at the New York Yankees. Pretty much a universally detested franchise, the Yankees have been doomed by their consistent success. Why are they so hated? The answer really is quite simple. The team and its ownership is forced to approach the game with a rigidity that belies the very spirit of the game — anything less than absolute success is considered absolute failure — what fun is there in that? This business-like approach to sport turns most sports fans off; who wants to root for a bunch of guys that won't be happy with a mere win if it doesn't result in a championship? Who wants to cheer for the inevitable?
Yankee fans have no identity, no way to relate to the masses who have long found satisfaction in "almost." It is no coincidence that the once-bitter rivalry between Red Sox and Yankee fans has lessoned since the Sox have won their titles. Don't believe me? Watch one of their games now and then a tape or highlight reel of one from a few years back. The tension and the anticipation which used to create such high drama is all but invisible, creating little more than just another game between two dynastic franchises.
This is just one example and one scenario. Another would take into consideration those teams that mortgage their future in an effort to get that title of World Champion, if even for just a single season.
The ownership of the Florida Marlins has twice sold the soul of the team so that they could realize "next year" far before they were "due." Ironically, the team had a thriving fan base during their first championship run, which is quite obviously one of a franchise's most valued assets. This is ironic because shortly after their first championship — days after, as a matter of fact — this fan based ran from the franchise like Marion Jones runs to the pharmacy. This fan base was built on the anticipation many had for a new team to spring onto the scene and succeed against all odds.
What was ultimately left post-title was a team with no identity and a big trophy, so fans had little to root for and even less to look forward to. The disappointment cut so deep that even as the young franchise moved towards a second title, the bandwagon was slow to fill as the fans anticipated and were given a very similar "fire sale" sort of approach to the post-championship squad. Was it a net gain for the Marlins? I would be willing to bet that if you came across a die-hard Marlin backer that he or she would gladly trade either of those titles for one of those "oh my god" heart-breaking moments that they could share with hundreds of thousands of other Marlin fans. Unfortunately, there are and never will be hundreds of thousands of true Marlin fans and that is by and large a direct result of the team's approach to skipping ahead in line to get their title before their time.
The cost of winning is often underrated by the brain trust of a given franchise. Yes, having a title is a huge plus, and I'm not one to belittle the importance of such grandiose accomplishments; however, it often greatly affects a team's relevance in the years immediately following those championship years. The Bulls in basketball were nearly forgotten after Michael Jordan left and remain in a state of flux to this day. The enormous fan base they had were passionate not simply because they had the greatest player on the planet in uniform, but rather because they watched that great player climb the mountain, repeatedly slide down its façade, and then ultimately overcome his fears, failures, and challenges in reaching the summit. That is where the love came and that is what made the result so very special: the anticipation, the crushed dreams, the "wait until next year."
For all the "wait until next year" frustration that many fans complain about year in and year out, it beats the heck out of the alternative. As a loyal Cub fan for the better part of my life, I can certainly relate. Leon Durham's inability to make a simple play in the field, Brant Brown's dropped fly ball, the curse of the Billy Goat, Steve Bartman's play immediately followed by Alex Gonzalez's critical error ... these improbable events have helped build within me a passion for Cubs baseball that cannot be understood or even put into an appropriate context. A championship for my beloved Cubbies would quite literally make me bawl like an infant; even thinking about it makes me well up with emotion. Those years when the Cubs are absolutely horrible don't make a bit of difference to me, because there is always "next year," so I always watch.
With my team looking very much like a group on the precipice (at least for now), every now and then for a moment I can't help but wonder if this may finally be "next year."
In the next moment, I can't help but wonder if I really want it to be.
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