side the hockey arena were described in news accounts as delirious:
“They hugged, sang, and turned somersaults in the snow.” Even those
fans not present at Lake Placid exulted in the victory and displayed
their pride with bizarre behavior. In Raleigh, North Carolina, a swim
meet had to be halted when, after the hockey score was announced, the
competitors and audience alike chanted “U.S.A.! U.S.A.!” until they
were hoarse. In Cambridge, Massachusetts, a quiet supermarket erupted
at the news into a riot of flying toilet tissue and paper towel streamers.
The customers were joined in their spree—and soon led—by the market
employees and manager.
Without question, the force is deep and sweeping. But if we return
to the account of the silent veteran, we can see that something else is
revealed about the nature of the union of sports and sports fan, some-
thing crucial to its basic character: It is a personal thing. Whatever
fragment of an identity that ravaged, mute man still possessed was
engaged by soccer play. No matter how weakened his ego may have
become after thirty years of wordless stagnation in a hospital ward, it
was involved in the outcome of the match. Why? Because he, personally,
would be diminished by a hometown defeat. How? Through the prin-
ciple of association. The mere connection of birthplace hooked him,
wrapped him, tied him to the approaching triumph or failure. As dis-
tinguished author Isaac Asimov put it in describing our reactions to
the contests we view, “All things being equal, you root for your own
sex, your own culture, your own locality...and what you want to prove
is that you are better than the other person. Whomever you root for
represents you; and when he wins, you win.”^26
When viewed in this light, the passion of the sports fan begins to
make sense. The game is no light diversion to be enjoyed for its inherent
form and artistry. The self is at stake. That is why hometown crowds
are so adoring and, more tellingly, so grateful toward those regularly
responsible for home-team victories. That is also why the same crowds
are often ferocious in their treatment of players, coaches, and officials
implicated in athletic failures.
Fans’ intolerance of defeat can shorten the careers of even successful
players and coaches. Take the case of Frank Layden, who abruptly quit
as coach of the NBA’s Utah Jazz while the team was leading the league’s
Midwest Division. Layden’s relative success, warm humor, and widely
known charitable activities in the Salt Lake City area were not enough
to shield him from the ire of some Jazz supporters after team losses.
Citing a brace of incidents with abusive fans, including one in which
people waited around for an hour to curse at him following a defeat,
Layden explained his decision: “Sometimes in the NBA, you feel like
a dog. I’ve had people spit on me. I had a guy come up to me and say,
Robert B. Cialdini Ph.D / 149