Fandom is a funny thing.

I swore off the concept decades ago when I became a journalist because it was the thing to do back then and I felt it was a higher calling than us vs. them. I can’t remember rooting for a team since Mike LaValliere left the plate and allowed Sid Bream to slide past him for the winning run in Atlanta’s victory over Pittsburgh in the 1992 National League Championship Series. It was a truly heartbreaking moment at the time, my guy was Pirates manager Jimmy Leyland and he pushed all of the right buttons to force Braves boss Bobby Cox to send the last man on his roster, the immortal Francisco Cabrera, to the plate against his closer.

It seemed like an affront to all that is right and good, my team did everything right yet the bad guys still won. I was in Japan at the time, and since the statute of limitations has probably passed I can admit that the Marine Corps didn’t get my best effort the rest of the week. I was watching with a captain who hung a framed letter of rejection from his beloved Cubs from when he applied to be the general manager on the wall behind his desk.

He knew a thing or two about pain and gave me the rest of the week off even though it was a Wednesday afternoon. As far as I can tell, the world stayed safe while I drowned my sorrows and played chess in a string of tiny Hiroshima bars. I showed up bright and early on Monday morning and it was like nothing had changed, the world still spun.

It was the last game in the black and gold for Barry Bonds and Doug Drabek, Bob Walk pitched like a broadcaster the next year and Pittsburgh didn’t have another winning season until 2013. My main allegiance went to the Hanshin Tigers the next season, but I followed nearly every Pirates game even after Leyland left in a huff because he was tired of losing players to free agency. I still watch the Pirates, but more as an observer than a fan.

Now I either root for the best story, like the Seattle Mariners in their 18-inning loss to the Astros in the 2022 playoffs, or Trevor Lawrence because he is the crappy quarterback on my crappy fantasy football team. I am still in the vast minority in swearing allegiance to nothing except myself but there are more of us than there used to be and not rooting for a real team makes more and more sense.

Instead of following a billionaire’s fantasy team I keep tabs on my own, knowing it won’t work without the huddled masses who swarm sports bars in matching jerseys. Let them do the heavy lifting.

Never mind that they seem to be the only ones who seem to truly care about wins and losses in an age when their favorite running back opts to stay home until he gets a new contract or the college quarterback they have supported ever since he left his old school for the new one skips a bowl game to retain his value in the transfer portal or professional draft. Even the prep game has its share of mercenaries who have learned that a college scholarship and NIL opportunities have way more value than a state title.

Yet they keep the passion, filling the Ching Complex for a football team that can’t beat an NCAA Division I foe. There is not as many of them as there used to be and definitely not enough to justify a new stadium but they are what its all about. They fund the sport for the simple pleasure of root-root-rooting for the home team and it almost always ends in disappointment. I’m afraid I don’t remember the good feelings that come with a championship and probably never will. Maybe that’s what real fans are after.

I got interested in the Buccos in 1979 when my mother drove me seven hours so that she could swoon over Johnny Bench. The 76ers earned my loyalty the first time I saw Moses Malone clear out the entire lane in pursuit of four offensive rebounds in a single possession and the Minnesota Vikings had my attention from a snippet on a grainy television of the steam coming out of their helmets and coach Bud Grant refusing to wear a jacket in the frigid weather.

Silly reasons to be sure, but religions are based on lesser moments in time.

Keep the faith, fanatics. Without you, us cynics have no reason to watch.

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Reach Jerry Campany at jcampany@staradvertiser.com.