Opinion | The Scarlet Letter: C

Today, red is the color of my shame.

But it’s not lush like wine, although I could use a drink. And it’s not rich like blood, even though I feel like I might be spilling a little of my own. Nor is it rust or rose or crimson or brick.

No, this is vibrant and vivid, everybody-look-at-me, scarlet-as-a-harlot Cincinnati Red. And as a Brewers fan, standing outside of my second home of the blue and yellow faithful at Miller Park, it is just the right shade of wrong.

For anyone who is not a die-hard homer or one-team sports fan, let me assure you this is a level of discomfort reserved for someone brash enough to wear a devil’s costume to an evangelical church service. That’s why representing an opposing team is often the agonizing result of lost bets for sports fans, amongst both friends and enemies. Few things resonate deeper than having to wear the color of treason.

The worst part is, the uneasiness didn’t start when I sat down, or when I cheered for the wrong team, or even when I first walked through the gates. My initial hurdle was just trying to find some semblance of comfort with the idea.

At first, it was novel. A test. An experiment. An experience. But by the time it came to find the gear I would suit up in, I could barely justify spending the money. It was like trying to pick out which single-serving knife I would leave in the back of an old friend. Maybe no one would ever see it happen, but for those of us with integrity, pain is not the fear of discovery, but the endless swelling of guilt from committing such a heinous act.

I found some relief when I finally settled on what I would wear, which was number 30, a shirsey of my childhood hero, Ken Griffey Jr. from his days with the Reds. It was something I thought I could wear without feeling like a complete traitor, that is, until USPS failed to deliver it on time.

Luckily for me, a friend of mine who is a devout follower of baseball and one of few who enjoys rooting for a number of teams, offered up his actual Griffey jersey to wear, upon hearing my predicament. When he dropped it off the day of the game, however, he reminded me of his expertise on the subject of being a rival fan at home stadiums. It seemed there were two radically different outcomes: mild pleasantries with other fans, or generous amounts of harassment.

Bill, the friend I invited to come with me, shared the same sentiment. As a Giants fan, he too knew the simultaneous thrill and unpredictable nature of being behind enemy lines, which, outside of being a good guy and baseball fan, also happened to make him the perfect company. But there is a great difference between rooting for your team at another’s stadium, and rooting for a rival at your own.

This became readily apparent to both of us as we walked up the tree-enveloped sidewalks that meander up to the stadium’s southwest side.

He laughed at me as I shifted around uncomfortably in my too-large jersey, the wind carelessly blowing it around my body like the cape of a superhero who didn’t fit in his suit.

“You look like you’re in pain,” he said with a smile.

“Yeah,” I replied somewhat sarcastically, knowing full well that he was relishing the moment in its entirety for all the times I razzed him about being a Giants fan.

I felt like I wasn’t in my own skin, but more than anything, I was glad we had flanked the hometown hoards that were brimmed to the teeth with beer and sprawled out across the vast parking lot. Normally, I would have been amongst them, regaling a group of friends with humorous anecdotes or bad jokes because I love talking, but at that moment, I had little more to say.

Now, standing in front of the right field gates where I would normally be happy to see lines upon lines of my blue and yellow kin, I’m once again thankful because there is not a single soul filing in this way.

And yet, it hasn’t even really begun.

Just inside the doors I’m flooded by a wave of sound bouncing off the massive framework of concrete and steel. I try to put myself at ease, but not even the warm and sweet smell of roasted nuts can save me from the way the entire Brewers roster stares at me from the team photo the game day staff has just handed me. I know they can’t actually see me, but it makes me feel like a traitor anyway.

We take a stroll around the first level while I try to lessen my discomfort by reminding myself that at least I’m in a Griffey jersey, but with the stares I’m getting, it’s about as tenuously comforting as rowing a sinking dinghy in the Amazon.

Beer one starts to help me relax and the first few sips of the second taste a little bit sweeter because of it. We finally find our seats at the front of the nosebleeds, the box section of the terrace.

The game starts half way through beer two, and the first Reds batter strikes out. I want to clap, but I’m composed. I’m playing the role. I let it go. The third batter, Joey Votto, gets under one and rips it out into right field. I’m excited to have my first chance to play the devil in church, so I yell “Hey Jo-EE!” in a poor Italian accent.

Bill laughs because I know he knows I’m trying. But it feels empty. I get a few awkward stares which makes me feel like a bad salesman and I wonder if they believe my charade. I wonder if I should sell it harder, but my thoughts are cut short as the next batter grounds out.

The Brewers first inning starts quickly, as the second batter pulls a single, then steals second base shortly after. By the time the next batter walks, I can feel something building inside me. With two men on, Domingo Santana burns one up the third base line and an uncontrollable shiver of excitement races up my spine in an identical fashion. I thrust my arms into the armrests to push myself up, but I stop myself from being too obvious.

The crowd goes crazy as one, then another runner crosses home plate. I want to stand. I want to yell. I want to celebrate. But committed to my role, I sit quietly and sulk, which I pull off genuinely. I swallow a good portion of beer as consolation.

The second inning goes smoothly, but in the third, Cincinnati plates three, including a home run, putting them up 3-2. I cheer and clap but the harder I try, the more hollow I feel. I get a double dose of disappointment when the Brewers tie it up in the third and jump ahead on a home run in the fourth.

By now, I’m utterly defeated. I can’t cheer for who I want to, yet I can’t convince myself to break from the role. For the sake of thoroughness, I want to see it through, painful as it is. I finish my beer and convince Bill to go get another. As we walk around, I start to feel like a clown. Like I’m wearing a costume. As I look around at all the fans cheering on their teams, I feel like a foreigner in my own home.

A stranger. A traitor. A fake.

I almost want to see the misery tangible. Physical. Right in front of me. Just so I can prove it’s not all in my head. I hear Santana take a two-run shot out of the park and I start staring at Brewers fans to see if they’ll taunt me. But they don’t. Most people have smiles on their faces and anyone who doesn’t, looks like a last place marathon runner, determined to finish with dignity. Tired, but composed, content.

By the time I get my last beer, somewhere around the 6th inning, it starts to dawn on me. As Bill and I talk casually, the game takes a back seat mentally. I’m still there, still watching most every moment, but I realize that without a real horse in the race, it has lost all meaning. This is what it must be like to be forced to watch baseball if you’re not a fan — watching the ball sail around all day while everyone nearby hoots and hollers and cheers while you can find no real purpose for it. It sounds awful, really.

In the larger scope though, I think that says a hell of a lot about passion and even more about why many of us follow sports and players and teams. We are endlessly devoted to the motions in the best way possible. We all find a piece of ourselves in the game because so much of what happens on the field parallels our lives. It helps us find an identity. It helps us see with an outsider’s perspective.

Whether it is our hard-working nature, those spectacular once in a lifetime moments, or simply riding out the yearly highs and lows, we can simultaneously experience something both within us and beyond us. That’s the beauty of the collective experience. At the end of the day, no matter what happens, we get a second chance to have something to believe in, and we get to share it with everyone else who believes in it too.

I think that’s why I found it so difficult to continue the pageantry. At first, I thought the hardest part would be getting heckled by my own baseball family without the chance for explanation, something I had actually prepared for. What I didn’t foresee was the complexity of coming to terms with trying to stand behind something I didn’t believe in. It wasn’t about being at a stadium as a foreigner to the home field fans, it was about feeling like a foreigner to myself. So much so, that I couldn’t seek genuine enjoyment from one of my all time favorite activities.

That’s the funny thing about loyalty. You think you know what it means until you truly challenge it. When you turn it on its heels, you can actually feel it, and hard. Like a loveless affair, it just leaves you longing for the purpose and meaning you once had. It’s strange to think that it coincides so closely with identity, but I realize now that it does.

We left in the eighth inning, when the game was still tied. I didn’t need to see who won. I got what I came for. When I arrived back at my apartment, I stripped off the jersey and slipped into a crisp, clean blue t-shirt. It never felt more like home.