Live from Buckhorn, where the real football expert is and nobody asked.
During the World Cup, I wrote about a peculiar species of sports fan: the individual who feels compelled to provide a running commentary on a game everyone else is already watching.
Apparently, the phenomenon isn’t confined to soccer.
Sunday afternoon, I was watching the Dallas Cowboys versus the Arizona Cardinals on one of the big screen TVs at my local hangout when Captain Obvious reported for duty.
“Dallas just called a timeout.”
Thank you. I thought the support staff ran onto the field to experience the sensation of artificial turf beneath their feet.
Later, Arizona missed a convert following a late touchdown.
“They missed the field goal!”
“It’s a convert,” I said.
“Same thing.”
Uh, no. A kicked convert is worth one point, follows a touchdown and is attempted from a prescribed spot. A field goal is worth three points and can be attempted from various locations on the field.
But why let the rules interfere with an expert opinion?
The entire game was like that. Every play, every stoppage, every development already described by the professional commentators on television required a second announcement from 10 feet away.
Our eyes work. They even see in color.
Then came the coaching analysis.
Dallas should have run the ball. Dallas should have passed. The defence was terrible. The coaches were making mistakes.
Remarkably, every error was identified immediately after it happened.
The Cowboys employ professional coaches, coordinators and analysts on the sidelines and “upstairs” who spend countless hours before, during, and after games doing their job. Apparently, they’ve overlooked their greatest resource: a man sitting on a barstool in Buckhorn, Ontario, Canada.
And now, let’s go live to our special all-knowing analyst up in Canada.
“Jim, what should Dallas have done differently?”
“Well, they should have scored.”
“Brilliant. And what about their defence?”
“They shouldn’t let the other team score.”
“Extraordinary insight, Jim. Have you considered applying for the head coaching position?”
“No. I’m pretty busy here but I should have considered it when I was younger.”
Then came the declaration of credentials.
“I’ve been a Cowboys fan for 55 years!”
Well, congratulations. And how many beers have you had today?
I’m considering commissioning a sculptor to create a commemorative plaque honoring 55 years of dedicated service to the Dallas Cowboys.
Perhaps Jerry Jones could attend the unveiling.
Of course, 55 years of watching football doesn’t automatically qualify someone to coach it. I’ve been eating food for decades. That doesn’t make me a Michelin-starred chef.
And naturally, our expert is on a first-name basis with every Cowboy.
“Come on, Dak!”
“What’s CeeDee doing?”
“Attaboy, George!”
You’d think they all got together for dinner on Tuesday evenings.
The game eventually went into overtime, following that missed “field goal,” err, convert. The Cowboys lost the coin toss, which naturally required an announcement.
Thank you. I thought they did five warm-up tosses before the real thing.
By now, the crowd in the bar had thinned considerably.
There were only a couple of us left watching the game. I had my head buried in my phone because while I wanted to watch the games, I didn’t want to pay attention to the expert local commentary. In fact, nobody left was responding to the running commentary.
But it continued.
Observations. Predictions. Criticism. More observations.
Occasionally, he’d look around the room, seemingly searching for someone to confirm his latest brilliant assessment.
Silence.
Another observation.
More silence.
It was like a radio station broadcasting to an abandoned shopping mall.
And that’s what makes this particular species of sports fan so exhausting.
It’s not the enthusiasm. I enjoy sports and discussing them with other people. A little cheering, groaning and occasional analysis and second-guessing plays are part of watching a game together.
But there’s a difference between having a conversation and commandeering an entire room as your personal broadcast studio.
Nobody appointed you the color commentator. Nobody handed you a headset. And nobody requested an explanation of everything that happened directly in front of our faces.
Most importantly, nobody is obligated to validate every thought that enters your head.
As the commentary continued, I was sorely tempted to ask one simple question.
“Who are you talking to, and why?”
But I didn’t.
The last thing I wanted was to encourage him.
