The Ethics of Sports Fandom

Adam Kadlac

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781000512106
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Philosophy
• Subtopic: Ethics & Moral Philosophy

Fans largely regard sports as an escapist pursuit—something that provides distraction from the cares and concerns of "real life." This book pushes back against a fully escapist account of sports fandom and argues that we should understand the value of fandom in terms of the ability of sports to prompt fans to reflect meaningfully on the notion of a good life. Even if we are not engaged in high-level athletics, it is possible to learn a great deal from those who are: what sacrifices are required to achieve our goals; how to persevere through failure and disappointment; and about teamwork and the rewards of accomplishing things together. Moreover, partisan fandom, which has been criticized from various quarters, can teach us valuable lessons about love and what it means to be invested in things over which we have no control. If our reflection on the efforts of individual athletes helps us reflect on our own pursuit of the good life, our attachments to teams can help us to cultivate a certain kind of humility and openness to all that life has to offer.

The Ethics of Sports Fandom is an accessible resource for researchers and students interested in the ethics and philosophy of sport that offers an analysis of several different aspects of contemporary fandom: fantasy sports, the ways that fans interact with athletes on social media, violent sports, women's sports, and the support for our countries' national teams. In all these areas, reflecting on what it means to respect athletes as individual human beings engaged in their own pursuit of the good life requires that fans consider their sports-related behavior in a new light.

1

ON “WE”

DOI: 10.4324/9781003223696-2

Among the many peculiar habits of sports fans is their tendency to use pronouns of the first-person plural variety when describing the exploits of their favorite teams. “We didn’t play well today.” “Our defense has to improve if we are going to have any shot at the title.” “I really hope we beat the Buckeyes this weekend.” “If only we had a decent striker, our fortunes might finally start to change.” None of these phrases would raise an eyebrow if uttered among fans bantering about the prospects of the teams they support, even though such individuals have only been witness to—rather than participants in—the events in which they are so invested.

In a 2011 column for the now-defunct Grantland website, Chris Jones takes aim at this practice, arguing that “[i]f you don’t play for, or you are not an employee of, the team in question, “we” is not the pronoun you’re looking for. ‘They’ is the word you want.” Jones’s case for this conclusion is largely ontological as he points out that a team without fans still exists and that first-person plural pronouns invoked in other entertainment contexts sound ridiculous. He thus writes: “If someone read a book and said to me, ‘We really killed that opening chapter,’ I’d wonder if I were talking to Gollum.”¹ Bill Simmons issues similar, if somewhat more lenient, advice in a 2002 essay for ESPN. com when he suggests that readers be “very careful when using the word ‘we’ with your favorite team. Use it judiciously. Just remember, you don’t wear a uniform, you don’t play any minutes, and you’re not on the team.”²

In this chapter, I want to explore this practice in somewhat greater depth and ask what potential costs might attend unreflective uses of “we” on the part of sports fans.³ My central contention is that such uses are corrosive insofar as they distort the proper relationship between fans and the teams and players they support. After all, to be a fan is, fundamentally, to be one who takes pleasure in the achievements of others (and likely experiences displeasure at their failures), and those who employ first-person pronouns when talking about their favorite teams thus run the risk of representing the successes of others as their own successes (and the failures of others as their own failures). To insist that fans maintain a distinction between themselves and their favorite teams when they talk about sports is, therefore, a way to keep the proceedings on the field in perspective: it promotes an appropriate level of respect for the accomplishments of athletes (and the work they put into achieving them) while also highlighting that fans are essentially helpless to affect the events in which they are so heavily invested.

My case for this conclusion is, following Jones’s lead, largely ontological. When fans say things like “We won the game” or “We can play so much better than we did today,” they are linguistically attributing qualities to themselves that they do not, in fact, possess and thus eliding the fundamental distinction between participants and observers that I think is central to any plausible ethic of fandom. However, before examining some of the specific ways in which use of the first-person plural can lead fans to lose track of this distinction, it is perhaps worth remarking briefly on a concern that readers might have with the way in which I have framed the present argument.

If we take it as a given that all but the most wildly deluded fans know that they do not literally play the games they observe—that they do not score touchdown or goals, commit penalties or game-deciding turnovers, or suffer career-ending injuries—then it might seem excessively nit-picky to focus on a linguistic practice that is as widespread as this one. Why paint fans, who love the teams they support with a passion that is often unequaled elsewhere in their lives, as doing something wrong when they express that love using language that is widely accepted by other fans? Isn’t this much ado about nothing?

There is certainly something to this response, and in keeping with my aims in this book, I don’t intend the point I am making to be overly moralistic: I do not think that fans who use “we” are bad people in virtue of that use or that every deployment of the first-person plural should be met with harsh moral rebuke. Nevertheless, I think this topic serves as an important window into some of the issues I will be exploring in later chapters. At a time when many fans seem to think that their status as supporters gives them a right to engage in all kinds of questionable behavior—from verbally abusing players from the stands and attacking them (often quite viciously) on social media, to demanding that athletes stay silent about controversial political issues and instead just “shut up and play”—it seems appropriate to give some sustained attention to the various contours of the relationship between players and fans. And because I think these behaviors are likely fueled by a sense that fans have a close identification with athletes that gives them a right to engage in these kinds of activities, perhaps the use of “we” is not as innocuous as it might first appear.

Moreover, even if our everyday language does not always express nuanced philosophical theories, the words we use are nevertheless capable of reflecting—and sometimes shaping—broader patterns of thought that should concern us. Think here of debates concerning the use of gendered pronouns or the labels that people deploy for characteristics like ethnicity or sexual orientation. Or consider the ways in which words like “retarded” are gradually expunged from polite discourse because they reflect ways of thinking we believe should be revised. Calling someone retarded may show that the speaker has objectionable views about individuals with disabilities and may, therefore, be grounds for morally criticizing that speaker. But whether or not one has such views is not as important as the way in which the word reflects a broader attitude toward the disabled. Individual speakers may not share such views, or even necessarily be aware of the connection between what they are saying and that broader attitude. Nevertheless, those concerned to bolster respect for those with physical or cognitive impairments should probably work to expunge “retarded” from their vocabulary.

Here’s another example that is, perhaps, less morally loaded.⁴ Midwives tend to describe their participation in the childbirth process somewhat differently from OB-GYNs. Whereas OBs usually talk about “delivering” babies, midwives may refer to “catching” babies, the idea being that it is pregnant women who deliver their children, not whoever happens to be assisting them in the process. The terminological differences are subtle—it is, after all, just one word—but they reflect broader differences in the approach that many midwives and OBs adopt toward their work. Midwives try to emphasize their role as facilitators and sources of emotional support, whereas the language employed by OBs is part and parcel of a medicalized approach to childbirth.

My point here isn’t necessarily to argue that either of these choices is correct in this particular context. It is instead to show that there are many examples along these lines where we decide to alter the way we talk because doing so is a useful way to alter how we think or to reflect changes in our worldviews that have already taken place. Thus, if it is important to respect the accomplishments of athletes by making sure that we maintain a clear distinction between fans and the teams they support, then we also have good reason to think that the language fans use to talk about their favorite teams can play an important role in either bolstering or undermining that distinction. Understood in this way, a commitment to avoid using “we” can be a useful reminder of the boundaries of our achievement—a way to demarcate what we have truly accomplished (or failed to accomplish) as fans and where the glory more properly belongs to others.

Of all the topics I address in this book, I have been most surprised thus far by responses to the argument that follows in this chapter. In part, I think I simply underestimated the genuine complexity of the philosophical issues associated with “we” when I began this project, and so the pushback has been an invaluable part of my own philosophical development. I know I have still left some loose ends, but I have tried to address the most prominent objections and alternative views without expanding the chapter well beyond the limits of readability.

However, I also think that the views that people have on “we” are as strong as they are because they serve as a kind of proxy for their broader commitments as sports fans. As such, the topic serves as an incredibly useful point of entry into a much wider variety of issues. Thus, readers who don’t find themselves initially convinced by what I have to say might consider revisiting the topic once they have made their way through the arguments of subsequent chapters. If the remainder of the book does not make the argument here more compelling (as it very well may not!), I hope that it will at least address some lingering questions and provide a clearer sense of how I see the broader ethical terrain and why I take the stand in this chapter that I will now attempt to defend.

Athletes Pay Different Costs

When I drive into campus during the fall semester, my route takes me past the Wake Forest football team’s practice field. Most days, I arrive around 8:30 in the morning, and at that point, the countdown clock that looms over the facility usually shows that there are seven or eight minutes remaining in the session. The team has been at it since 6:30, and while my workday is just about to begin, they have been running, blocking, and tackling for two hours. By the time I see some of the football players in my 9:30 a.m. class, they will have (thankfully) showered, devoured a quick breakfast, and be ready to (at least try to) talk philosophy.

If I find myself at a football game on a Saturday afternoon, among the many things that will distinguish the players from the cheering throngs in the stands is the amount of time and effort that has gone into preparing for the day’s events. I will watch the game from the relative comfort of my seat while the players endure a significant amount of physical punishment over three and a half hours on the field. Moreover, having witnessed a small part of their daily routine in the week leading up to the game, I know that their performance on that day will be only a fraction of the overall commitment they have made to excellence in their chosen sport. Hours and hours of practice over many years have preceded whatever performance fans happen to see in the stadium.

Consider, then, fans who talk to their friends about “how well we played today” while leaving the stadium after a win. Such fan are, at least grammatically, attributing to themselves some of the actions that led to the victory. As Jones points out, this is an ontological absurdity. While they were sitting, eating, drinking, and talking with their friends, the players were running, throwing, catching, blocking, tackling, and being tackled. Indeed, none of the discrete events that constitute a team victory require that one so much as take account of fans’ existence.

Of course, fans do invest time and emotional energy in the proceedings, and they may very well leave the game exhausted. But game day is only a small piece of the puzzle, and panning back from a narrow focus on the competition reveals significant differences in the investments made by players and fans. While the players were practicing at 6:30 on Wednesday morning, most fans were fast asleep in bed, and the long film sessions needed to analyze the next opponent’s offensive scheme differ rather markedly from the fan’s latest binge-watching session of Netflix. Even on game day, the differences are stark. While the players will go home with aches, pains, cuts, and bruises, fans will go home with indigestion brought on by greasy food and too much beer. If they have been particularly vocal in their support of the team, they might have to nurse a mildly sore throat.

While I think that the discrepancy in the costs borne by athletes and the costs borne by the fans who support them is particularly salient in the case of punishing contact sports like American football, the phenomenon is present in all spectator sports. I might regularly see the football players practicing because of where my office happens to be located and the route I take into work. But I know that on the other side of campus, the women’s soccer team is finishing their own training session and that at various times throughout the rest of the day, most of the athletes at my university will be practicing or in some other way preparing for their next competition. When fans come to see the soccer team on game days, they see extraordinary physical exertion over the course of a 90-minute game—exertion that almost none of the people in the stands could even hope to approximate. When I watch them play, I also think of the summers I have seen them doing interval training in heat and humidity that is, even in the early morning hours, enough to make me sweat profusely simply by walking to the car.

These sorts of discrepancies between the costs borne by athletes and fans should, therefore, be enough to undermine any justification of “we” that appeals to the joint agency of fans and athletes or the idea that fans are, contrary to all appearances, part of the teams they support. They should also be enough to make fans wary of owning the accomplishments of athletes via the language they use. Saying “We won the game” when you do not play in the game can thus obscure the different investments that athletes and fans have made in the proceedings, and a failure to appreciate that difference can, therefore, be disrespectful.

As I’ve noted, this is not to say that fans have made no investment in the proceedings or that those investments are not legitimate. Fans clearly do invest in the outcome of sporting events, and it is the burden of this book to show that those investments can be worthwhile. Nevertheless, I think that having a clear-eyed assessment of the costs that others incur in the pursuit of their goals is an important part of relating well to that person—of acknowledging their distinctness and value as an individual engaged in their own pursuit of the good life. To the degree that we can encourage this kind of clear-eyed approach to sports through the language we use, it seems to me that we should probably do so. Put differently, if avoiding the use of “we” when we talk about our favorite teams helps us to better appreciate and respect the athletes who play the games we love, then avoiding the use of “we” strikes me as a worthy policy to adopt.⁵

Teams, Fans, and Clubs

For all I have said thus far, it must be granted that there are complexities concerning exactly how we should understand the composition of the teams we support—complexities that might lend ontological credence to defenders of “we.” If we are unsure exactly how to draw the boundaries concerning who is part of the team and who is not, then perhaps we should be much more lenient when considering who is licensed to claim victory in the first person. For example, consider questions about what makes any given team the same team over time. Given that their composition changes so regularly, any team I currently support may be made up of completely different players, coaches, and administrators in five years. In what sense, then, will I be supporting the same team that I support now?

Indeed, there are cases that push this kind of identity question in even more vexing directions. In 1996, Art Modell moved the Cleveland Browns to Baltimore where they have been playing as the Baltimore Ravens ever since. In 1999, a new team began to play in Cleveland as the Cleveland Browns, even adopting the team’s traditional orange and brown uniforms. Which team, then, is identical to the team that played as the Browns in 1985? The “new” Cleveland Browns? The Baltimore Ravens? Neither?

As a solution to these sorts of puzzles, Stephen Mumford suggests that we view sports teams as complex social substances whose identity is determined “not just on the metaphysical facts—the (weakly) mind-independen...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Half Title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Contents Page
• Acknowledgments Page
• Introduction: Probing the Ethics of Fandom in a Post-Pandemic Age
• 1 On “We”
• 2 Why Sports Are Like Shakespeare
• 3 Love ‘em Like a Brother: In Defense of Partisan Fandom
• 4 Avoiding the Pitfalls of Objectification
• 5 A Cautious Defense of Football
• 6 Egalitarian Fandom
• 7 Cosmopolitan Fandom
• Conclusion: A Few Guidelines for Being a Good Fan
• Works Cited
• Index