An Open Letter to Boston “Fans”

To Whom It May Concern:

I write to you today on behalf of the loyal fan-base of the Boston Bruins. You may or may not know who we are, because up until recently you probably didn’t care about us or our sport.

In 2001, Patriots fans from all-around New England welcomed new-comers from all over the nation and the world to pull for our scrappy underdog team, led by an untested quarterback and a defense of names you wouldn’t know if you lived outside of Rt. 128. We welcomed you because our team was the personification of hope in a time when the nation needed it. The Superbowl was the first major sporting event far enough removed from the pain of 9/11 that would allow our nation to return to normalcy*. On one side you had “The Greatest Show on Turf”, a seemingly unstoppable offense juggernaut known as the St. Louis Rams. On the other side, you had a team that, by hook or crook, scrambled and clawed it’s way onto the biggest stage of them all. To paraphrase Robert Kraft, we invited you all to become Patriots that night. To cheer for the selflessness of a group that set a precedent by bucking the Superbowl tradition; choosing to be introduced as a team. No one could root against a team called “The Patriots” on that night.

In 2004, we of the long-suffering Red Sox fan-base – before the existence of “Red Sox Nation” – welcomed new fans from far and wide to witness the greatest spectacle in the history of professional sports. Underdogs again, a theme for our fair city, the Boston Red Sox – a group of self-proclaimed “idiots” – cowboyed up and executed the greatest comeback in professional sports. They defeated not only their hated rivals, but the very symbol of the impossible. The New Yorks are arguably the greatest sports franchise in history. But not on those four nights in October. We invited you to don our colors and root for our “Large Father”, our pugilistic captain, our Dirt Dogs and our heroes of the red socks (one of which was red from blood). When Keith Foulke underhanded the ball to Doug Mientkiewicz, Red Sox Nation was born. A long-standing tradition of suffering was ended.

In 2008, I was welcomed into the fold of the green and white. Being a short, slow, white kid basketball was never my sport. But I cheered for a team that I believed in against a team that my very blood told me to despise. I cheered for an intimidating beast of a man who screamed, and slammed his head into poles like a man-possessed. I cheered for a man whose name was known around the city as a captain, but who had yet to earn the moniker of champion. I cheered for a bench of misfits, especially the guy with over-sized shorts and an undersized son at courtside. Despite my dislike for a sport overrun by ego-maniacs, I fell in love with a team that mirrored those of 2001 and 2004.

Now it is 2010.

Fenway Park has fallen silent, except for eighth inning renditions of a mediocre song.

Gillette Stadium caters to fans of six-figure incomes and luxury box aspirations.

The Celtics court is surrounded by people in the stands who know less about basketball than I do.

Boston has always been known as two things: a sports city, and a college city. Unfortunately, the two have mixed and diluted the former. Red Sox hats exist in various different colors, but most offensively: a bright pink. Tom Brady went from unknown seventh round draft pick to GQ cover model and celebrity heart-throb. And the team that once was proud to have names like Bird, Parrish and Russell has now become a secondary act to the sideshow of dancers and acrobatic leprechauns. Boston has turned from the gritty hub of loyal, local sports fans into the latest version of the Yankees, Cowboys, and Lakers. An embarrassment of riches in titles and trophies has turned the local fan-base into an embarrassment itself.

There is but one last bastion of sports left in this city, and we refuse to let you take it from us.

Most of you probably don’t know, but another team plays in the TD Garden. They sport the black and gold as proudly as any team has ever adorned any colors. Their history is long and proud, but it is all bittersweet and agonizing. The Boston Bruins have always been a team that survived on guts above glitz and honor above all else. We, the Bruins fans, have lied quiet and dormant until recently when our team has made valiant, but futile, attempts at finally bringing a championship home. And now we sit at the onset of a new season, a season of hope, a season that followed the familiar mantra of “There’s always next year,” and we have but one simple message to you:

We want it. But we don’t want you.

You’ve taken our Red Sox. You’ve taken our Patriots. And you’ve taken the Celtics. But you will not take our Bruins. Hockey is not a sport you just “pick up.” You are born into it. You are bred for it. You either played hockey, or you didn’t. You either love hockey, or you don’t. There is no middle ground, there is no room for amateurs and posers. There is no section for you to wear pink jerseys and eat sushi. There is only room to scream and yell and drink and yell some goddamn more. “Sweet Caroline” will not be played here. There will be no supermodels in attendance. And no leprechaun will do backflips between periods. No between periods you get the another beer or two and you watch the goddamn Zamboni, because that’s fucking hockey.

Make no mistake about it: you are not welcome at the Garden on nights when our team plays. We do not want you to cheer for us. We want you to go back to your dorm rooms or your suburbs and watch Jersey Shore. Outsiders need not apply. You’re either die-hard or you’re dead to us. This is OUR team. This is OUR year.

And you will not take it from us.

* The World Series was in October, as always, but was a mere footnote that year.