For the past couple years, Seattle-based Pemco Insurance has run an ad campaign featuring the “Northwest Profiles” of stereotypical localites. The catchy commercials have depicted a handful of different personalities that populate this corner of the nation (Sandals and Socks Guys, 50 Degrees Shirt’s Off Guy, Green Lake Power Walker, to name three), but haven’t done much to justify your average Seattle sports fan. Which is where we come in.
Playing off of Pemco’s idea, we’ve come up with 11 new Northwest Profiles which all relate to sports, and more specifically, local sports fans. If you read between the lines, you might find yourself among this group of quirky athletic spectators.
Northwest Profile #11: Spiky-Haired Female Seattle Storm Fan
A denizen of what we will non-judgmentally refer to as alternative life choices, you are the WNBA’s biggest fanatic and your favorite team happens to be the Emerald City’s own Seattle Storm, nay Bing, nay Storm.
Wearing acid-washed stretch jeans, a baggy earth-tone t-shirt, and a Sue Bird jersey, you romp and roll your way through forty minutes of rowdy rambunctiousness, cheering your brains out for the one team in Seattle that doesn’t get the respect it sorely deserves.
Outside this venue, you’re looked at as different, what with your early-’90s Arnold Schwarzenegger crop-top hairdo and affinity to curb makeup for musk and whatnot. But amongst these basketball-loving peers of yours, you blend right in, in spite of the fact that you’re still unique in your own special way.
Spiky-Haired Female Seattle Storm Fan, you’re one of us. And without you, the Storm would be sorely lacking in attendance. So keep it up. For their sake.
Northwest Profile #10: Fat White Guy in the Ichiro Jersey
In complete denial over your beer belly, your age, your ethnicity, and your inability to sprout a carefully-manicured five o’clock shadow, you valiantly forge ahead with your decision to don the uniform of your favorite player to each and every ballgame.
Never mind that your favorite player weighs but a mere 170 pounds, while you nearly double that.
Never mind that he is faster than a gazelle, while you are only fast enough to consume three Dick’s Deluxes on your lunch break.
Never mind that he practices his batting stroke, while you just stroke…well, we won’t go there.
Fat White Guy in the Ichiro Jersey, you’re one of us. And while you take a minute to ponder your wardrobe dysfunction, we’ll begin our search for a thin Japanese guy in a Bucky Jacobsen shirt.
Northwest Profile #9: Leaves The Game Early To Beat Traffic Guy
With the seventh-inning stretch or the start of the fourth quarter to trigger your internal alarm, you leap from your seat and make a mad dash for the exits in an attempt to win the day and conquer that almighty equalizer, traffic.
Never one to waste precious gas mileage, you’re more content to watch seventy-five-percent of every ballgame you attend rather than spend an extra couple minutes in your Toyota Prius.
So what if you squandered half a year’s salary on season tickets? This is America, and as an American you have every right to leave each contest whenever you desire. You might never see the outcome of such a contest, but at least you can say you were there. More or less.
Leaves The Game Early To Beat Traffic Guy, you’re one of us. And as you plan your day around getting home as fast as possible, we’ll sit here and flounder our way through life in your stead.
Faced with the toughest of decisions — drop $6 for garlic fries, or make a ridiculous sign that will present you with a slim-to-none chance of getting those garlic fries for free — you always make the right choice.
All of which explains why on this cold, blustery Tuesday night, you’re standing with your shirt off in the right field bleachers of Safeco Field holding a piece of tagboard that says, “Hey Blowers! I Will Totally Blow You For Some Rally Fries!”
Dignity aside, you’ll do whatever it takes to save a few bucks and still be able to disgust all your coworkers with that day-old aroma of stagnant garlic. Yum.
And even though Blowers probably won’t take you up on your offer, at least you’ve proven in block lettering and colorful print that you are absolutely willing to do whatever it takes to win this contest. Up to and possibly including the act of fellatio with an ex-third baseman. That is dedication.
Rally Fry Sign-Holder, you’re one of us. And that’s, uh, great.
Northwest Profile #7: Misguided Chick Who Attends Mariner Games Because She Honestly Thinks She Has A Chance To Bang Franklin Gutierrez
You know he’s married, right?
Not that a vow of fidelity or a lifetime commitment to one’s soulmate would stop you from trying, or anything. Which is why we applaud your persistence, while simultaneously condemning your brazen desire to wreck this man’s wonderful home.
So you doll up for a baseball game of all things, sporting six inch heels, painted-on pants, and a low-cut top that allows every warm-blooded male a clear view of that cavernous valley that sits between your mountainous peaks.
You endure catcalls from jealous beyotches who don’t know style when they see it.
You withstand advances from drunken slobs who wouldn’t know what to do with that ass if you stuck a spout on your undergarments and told them to tap that.
You’ve had breakfast, lunch, and dinner but what you’re really craving is some imported Venezuelan sausage.
Your mission resides in Safeco Field’s no-fly zone. He stands six-feet, two-inches tall. He weighs one-hundred-and-ninety pounds. He’s half-man, half-amazing, and all yours. Or so you choose to believe.
Misguided Chick Who Attends Mariner Games Because She Honestly Thinks She Has A Chance To Bang Franklin Gutierrez, you’re one of us. And frankly, you kind of creep me out.
Northwest Profile #6: Super-Casual Seahawks Fan
Don’t think we don’t see you over there, hanging out at the mall with your wife on those Sunday afternoons when the football team you claim to support happens to be playing a home game. You can’t hide behind the curved brim of your made-to-look-worn-but-actually-brand-new denim blue Seahawks cap. We know who you are, and we almost kinda sorta understand your predicament. Sorta. Kinda.
We get it. You’re the good husband who happened to choose the wrong woman. These things happen. She’s needy, you’re weak, and hence you end up spending half your weekend searching for lacy things with clasps and straps and pads that utterly bore you. And still you hold the pink shopping bag like a trooper. Or a real wuss. But we’re not here to hate on you like that.
You tell the boys at the office that you’re a Hawks fan. You bleed blue and green…or grey…or silver, or whatever their colors are. You saw that fourth-quarter comeback drive that led to a last-second touchdown pass from Hasselbeck to Houshmanblahblah. You saw it! You know exactly what Bill from accounting is talking about! You know! You swear you know! He totally busted that two-deep coverage! Hell yeah, the new chick in reception is hot! You would totally hit that, too! You so would! From the back, just like Bill said! The back door is totally your favorite door! Drinks after work?! Ah, wait, no, ah, no, you see, you can’t, ah, because it’s book club night and you, ah, you make the pina coladas for the group, so uh, no.
It’s okay. Because let me tell you something Super-Casual Seahawks Fan. You, my friend, are one of us. And while we may not fully support your life choices, we wholeheartedly support the fact that you’re trying. And trying, at the very least, is a step in the right direction.
Northwest Profile #5: Old Guy Who Doesn’t Realize That Willie Bloomquist Is Gone
Dammit. You have tried thirty-seven times this evening to get on the Mariners’ postgame radio show, but that damn producer won’t let you on the airwaves. You do not understand what the problem is. In years past, you’ve been a frequent call-in guest, and you have always discussed your all-time favorite subject, who also happens to be your all-time favorite athlete, who also happens to be the great-grand-nephew of your neighbor down the street who you play bridge with on Wednesdays: Willie Bloomquist.
Why don’t they give him a chance? Why won’t that Wakamitsubishi guy play him? You know, he could be an all-star if he just got to play every day. You’ve been around the game for sixty-some-odd years and that Bloomquist fella is one of the greatest players you have ever laid eyes on. And you saw Mays in his heyday.
You just don’t understand their ignorance on the matter. They’re playing Mexicans and Orientals and — dammit, now they’re hanging up on you again. And so you redial, but that takes too long because you can’t spin the numbers on your rotary phone that well anymore. And before long you’re asleep. And you wake up and there’s drool on your shoulder, and when on earth did you fall asleep? What time is it? Midnight? Crap.
Old Guy Who Doesn’t Realize That Willie Bloomquist Is Gone, you’re one of us. And even though your neighbor’s great-grand-nephew might not be a Seattle icon anymore, we’re still here for you and we don’t plan on leaving.
You have a scarf. With that scarf comes the divine right to consider yourself more knowledgeable, more informed, and more out and out cool than the scarf-less.
Your scarf says, “Hey man, I’m a real sports fan, so what does that make you? Huh? Where’s your scarf, bro? Where’s your scarf? What’s that? You don’t have one? What are you doing here wearing that Sounders shirt if you don’t have a scarf? What’s the deal? Get a scarf, poser, or take that shirt off.” Hell yeah.
You might not really know soccer, or even sports for that matter, but that’s completely irrelevant. The fact is, you belong to something. You are part of the group, the in-crowd, the clique. You belong to a fraternity. A fraternity of people who have scarves.
Holier-Than-Thou, Scarf-Wielding Sounders Fan, you’re one of us. Which kind of makes us douchebags for picking on people without scarves. But that’s how it goes, I guess. Eh.
Northwest Profile #3: Batsh*t Crazy Dawg Pack Member
With calf muscles the size of small villages in Eastern Europe, enough energy to kick the Energizer bunny’s cotton-tailed ass, and vocal chords strong enough to emit a droning “AAAAAAHHHHHHH!” for two hours straight, you are the ultimate college basketball fanatic.
You bring your tent to school each day, just in case anyone else wants to camp out a week early for the next home game. Which is funny, since you don’t even have class during winter quarter. Because you had the foresight to take an entire quarter off. Knowing your life would be consumed by the only thing that matters: University of Washington basketball. So instead you come to campus each day just for the hell of it. With your tent. Dressed in purple shorts and an Isaiah Thomas replica jersey. You also wear a purple headband. People don’t seem to mind.
Everything there is to know about each and every opposing Pac-10 school, you know. You even check Seattle Sportsnet before each game to read Dawg Pack Dirt (heh), just in case you missed something.
When tipoff finally arrives, you go from semi-normal human being to animalistic creature of prey, releasing days of anxious buildup on an unsuspecting walk-on guard who had no idea he was signing up for this kind of abuse. You even have this kid’s phone number. You talked to his mother last night. She’s a nice lady. But that won’t stop you from getting inside her son’s head.
You’re one of us, Batsh*t Crazy Dawg Pack Member. And for all your insane enthusiasm, we can’t help but love you.
Northwest Profile #2: College-Aged Red Sox Fan
With your leather Abercrombie flip-flops, your khaki cargo pants with the strategically-placed rips, and your Big Papi jersey shirt, you make a bold statement to the world that has you riding bitch in the backseat of the Boston Red Sox bandwagon.
Sure, you could be like most Northwesterners and be a fan of the hometown Mariners, but why do that? That’s what they expect. That’s what they want you to do. So instead you’re a Red Sox fan. Not because it’s cool. Not because it’s nice to be the underdog — or at least it was, up until about 2004, but whatever. Not because the Yankees suck. But because, you know, you’re original like that. You’re an original kind of guy.
So what if you were born and raised in the Seattle suburbs? You’ve been to Boston once. An airport layover when you were six and your family was coming back from London. It was the greatest city you’ve ever been in. It was awesome. About thirteen years later, you became a Red Sox fan. Because you just knew. You just effing knew.
College-Aged Red Sox Fan, you’re one of us. We’d rather you weren’t, but what choice do we have?
You love the Sonics.
You hate that their gone.
Given the opportunity to go Eli Roth “Bear Jew” apesh*t on David Stern, Clay Bennett, or Howard Schultz, you would not hesitate for a second. You’ve actually considered carrying around an old-school Louisville Slugger just in case the opportunity ever presents itself.
You still watch old VHS recordings of Sonics games you taped as a kid.
You have a poster of Ricky Pierce on your bedroom wall.
Your cell phone ringtone is Kevin Calabro shouting, “Good golly, Miss Molly!”
You cried watching Sonicsgate.
You have an Oklahoma City Thunder voodoo doll that you use to bring bad luck to the Sooner State.
Yep, you’re hardcore. And that makes you one of us, Starbucks-Boycotting, Greg Nickels-Hating Super Duper Supersonics Fan. Because you’ve sacrificed your coffee and laid blame on the ex-mayor all for your love of a basketball franchise that will always hold a place in our hearts. And that’s something we can all get behind.