Chinook
by George Hosier II  - March 24, 2008

Fandom

I’m always glued to the news during mushing season. Following the Yukon Quest and the Iditarod is like a shot of adrenaline to me. I guess it’s a vicarious thrill for a guy who will never get to be one of the great ones. Although I once rode on a dogsled, I have a secret phobia of spending a thousand miles trying to kill myself by frostbite, fatigue, hypothermia, sleep deprivation, moose mauling and dog drool drowning. As a result, I’ll always be a musher in spirit only—a fan, you might say.

However, to my dismay, I have discovered that mushing is an ostracized and persecuted sport, barely tolerated by other members of the sports enthusiast community. I don’t really understand why mushing fans are so shunned. Clearly, it is macho to be a crazed sports nut. Given the slightest nudge of encouragement, many of my male friends will talk about sports for hours, but as soon as I introduce the subject of dog sledding, their demeanor of comradeship and solidarity evaporates into sneers and jibes.

If I were mean-spirited, I could make fun of their pet sport. The elaborate celebration I’ve seen people host on Superbowl Sunday makes their Christmas, Easter and Independence Day festivities seem like my Great-aunt Flossie’s birthday party. (That’s the awkward little gesture where we light an obligatory candle on a bran muffin from the nursing home cafeteria.) However, being the gentleman that I am, I will allow them their Superbowl party without saying anything to denigrate such an idiotic waste of time.

Oblivious to my gallantry, sports fans of other genres continue to treat me with unmitigated bigotry. They have no problem fluently speaking a jargon intelligible only to the initiated. They proudly memorize gigabytes of arcane data such as the fact that on September 16, 1975, Rennie Stennett of the Pittsburgh Pirates hit 1 triple, 2 doubles and 3 singles against the Chicago Cubs, making him the only major league player to get 7 hits in a 9 inning game since 1900. Big Whoopity-doo! How exciting is that? Yet when I attempt to join in the conversation, I quickly learn that my input is spurned—even derided.

A recent conversation is a case in point. It occurred when I bumped into a couple of local acquaintances at the grocery store: (Note: Names in the following transcript have been changed to protect the identities of the perpetrators.)

Me: Hey guys!

Steroid: Look, Jockstrap. It’s what’s his face.

Jockstrap: Duh…yeah, it’s…Joe. Hi, Joe.

Me: George.

Jockstrap: Me not George, Me Jockstrap.

Me: No, that’s me. My name’s George.

Jockstrap: Huh?

Steroid: You still working in that office over there across from the shooting range?

Me: Yep. Yep. You know how it is. Same ol’, same ol’.

Steroid: Tell me about it.

Jockstrap: So, hey! How ‘bout dat Roger Clemons? Bummer, huh?

Me: Who? (I wrack my brain trying to place the name.)

Steroid: Clemons. Roger.

Me: Oh! Right. (Still frantically wracking. I think I remember hearing about somebody that was Life-Flighted to the hospital after hitting a moose on Jack Warren Road.) Yeah, sorry to hear about that! How’s he doing, anyway?

Jockstrap: Hangin’ in dere. Ain’t right what dey done. Bringin’ him in dere and askin’ him all dem questions like he done sunthin’ wrong.

Me: That’s ridiculous. It was the moose’s fault.

Steroid: Heh, heh. Good one. Which one’s the moose? McNamee or Pettitte?

Jockstrap: Dey’re just jealous. Nuttin’ wrong with takin’ a little juice if you need it.

Me: Oh, I see. They think it was a DWI?

Steroid: What are you talking about? It wasn’t a DWI. They’re trying to say he was pokin’ roids, dude!

Me: Ah! Gotcha. The seat in his vehicle was putting uncomfortable pressure on his hemorrhoids, which may have distracted him, preventing him from seeing the moose in time to avoid hitting it. I don’t see how that…

Jockstrap: Huh? Clemons hit a moose?

Steroid: No, no, no! George, do you even know who Roger Clemons is?

Me: Well, I don’t know him personally, but…

Steroid: Yankees! Astros! World’s greatest living pitcher! Seven Cy Young awards! Don’t you follow sports?

Me: Sport? Oh! Sports! How silly of me. Now I’m on the right track.

Jockstrap: Track? Me like track. Me throw shot put!

Me: So, speaking of sports, how about that Lance Mackey?

Steroid: Who?

Jockstrap: Huh?

Me: Lance Mackey. You know…Iditarod! Four-time Yukon Quest winner!

Jockstrap: Yukon Quest? Dat some sorta Hockey League?

Steroid: (Rolling his eyes.) No, Jock. That’s where you have a pack of them malamutes drag you around in the woods for a week. It’s a redneck thing. Well, sorry to run, but we gotta do some shopping.

Jockstrap: We gettin’ chips and dip for da movie.

Me: Movie?

Steroid: We’re getting ready to watch “Football Bloopers Uncut”. Care to join us?

Me: Uh, no. No, thanks. Not my cup of tea, you know. Once you’ve seen a fumble or a cervical fracture, you’ve seen them all. Have fun though.

Jockstrap: Later, Joe.

Me: George.

Jockstrap: Me not George. Me Jockstrap.

Mercifully, I will interrupt the flashback here. I trust this excerpt has been sufficient to
illustrate the persecution I have to endure simply for loving the ancient sport of mushing.
Well, fine! They can support their chosen sport in their own way; I will support mine
in my way. If they can paint half of their face and naked torso green, I will wear a fur
bomber hat. If they flaunt their Allen Iverson bobblehead doll, I will mount a bobblebutt
doll on my dash. In fact I’ll mount eight of them--beautiful husky bobblebutts with
magnificently curled tail plumes, bobbing out there ahead of me as I travel down the
road. HIKE!

 

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