The Great Depression-by Todd Flynn

It all started in 1983, soon after Mo Cheeks threw down the final dunk to stake claim to the NBA Championship. I was six-years-old at the time, my faint and faded memories are more than likely attributed to ESPN Classic, but I like to tell people I remember so they don’t think I’m of one of “them.” My childhood was marred by cheapskate owners, low payrolls, and half-filled stadiums. My foray into the uncharted waters of young adulthood consisted of bad trades, superstars being run out of town, and the end of promising eras. The common denominator of my entire fandom has been failure and futility, every year culminating without a Championship. Expansion teams have won titles, some multiple. Season after season, year after year, I am emotionally beat-up, yet I keeping coming back, I keep painstakingly punishing myself for no logical reason. The pot of gold over the rainbow is what I am searching for, that feeling of satisfaction and euphoria that you ultimately hope outweighs all of the anguish and heartache suffered after each traumatizing loss. I can’t deny the fact, I am indeed, a Depression Era Kid.

The Philadelphia Sports Depression has lasted a quarter century, it has spurned two and half plus decades devoid of civic pride, with despondent young adults walking around with parched throats, still waiting to sip the proverbial champagne that accompanies such joyous occasions. Depression era children have an edge, harboring an inferiority complex to their Boston and New York and Dallas and fill-in-the-blank counterparts. The overwhelming largess of the Wing Bowl has become a symbol of ineptness to our generation. We pack the building to overflow, indulge in women, booze, and violence to hide our sporting shortcomings. We use the Wing Bowl as a deflection of our pain, as a substitute for our hurt. We are all just crying out for attention, we all just want to feel like we belong, like we have a championship.

Bill Giles, Norman Braman, Ed Snider, and Harold Katz were the grumpy old men that helped ruin our childhoods, four grinches that stole our sports championships. In Giles case, it was cheapness, he took America out of past-time, he mired our generation with Attention Deficit Disorder, ever try to watch Lance Parrish, or Ricky Otero, or Chad Ogea for a full nine innings? Braman showed us how to be disloyal, how to care more about your yacht in France and your used car dealerships than your football team. We do have to give him credit for introducing us to religion though, he allowed us to see how God took Reggie White to Green Bay. Harold Katz gave us all hope, he showed that an inept buffoon could still become rich. He also gave us a Hooked-on-Phonics example of how a dynasty can crumble in just one day by trading the first overall pick and Moses in separate deals that fetched a sack of potatoes in return. Ed Snider taught us the finer things in life, how to live fast, how to have high payrolls and to-a-fault loyalty that always ended in heartache,no matter how genuine and heartfelt the intention. He also taught a generation respect, how to refer to your elders as “Mister.”

Eric Lindros was our JFK Jr., he embodied hope and expectation, he raised the level, and then it ended all so quickly, as our era’s anti-hero, Scott Stevens, literally ended his Flyers career on the Corestates Ice. The other three in the Mount Rushmore of Superstars; Barkley, McNabb, and Iverson all left town or are leaving town without procuring a title. All of their departures symbolize the end of eras, the end of hope, and the end of Championship dreams. The Depression ushered out a group of superstars in Schmidt, Carlton, Clarke and Dr. J and broke in a newer group that couldn’t compare. This group of superstars allowed the “close but no cigar” moniker to be part of our daily vernacular.

We hate Joe Carter with passion. We would love to pound mad brews with Lenny, Dutch, and Krukker. We would not eat dinner with Chris Wheeler because we would be afraid that the raccoon would jump off the top of his head and eat our steak. We grew up listening to Harry, and Gene, and Whitey, and Merrill on the transistor. We say that Lou Tilley and Jim Jackson have porn star mustaches. We say prayers for Jerome Brown and Pelle Lindbergh before meal. You get the point. Our generation is knowledgeable and we’re scorned. It’s unreal how we’ve come up empty in over 100 chances for championship bliss. Life as a fan during the depression isn’t easy, yet we support all of our teams and keep coming back. We are all depression era children, we’re disgruntled, and it’s time to fight back!

Todd Flynn is a contributor to www.disgruntledfans.com and is a life long Disgruntled Philadelphia Fan.