Sports are sacred around Boston. And inside the walls of my parents’ house, they become even more so. It starts as soon as you walk in the door. Magnets hold up Patriots schedules and newspaper clippings from the Super Bowl years. Two commemorative footballs rest on the floor next to the absurdly huge television, on which we watch the game in its full High Definition beauty. We have Patriots ornaments, decorations, trains, Christmas stockings, sweatpants, jerseys and coats. Same with the Red Sox.

I used to have a dog named Fenway, while my brother named his dog Bruschi (after Tedy Bruschi, the great Patriots linebacker).

Needless to say, we are a superstitious bunch when it comes to watching the games. We truly believe where we’re sitting, what we’re wearing and who is in the house at the time all play a part in determining the outcome of the game. We have lucky jerseys, coins, balls, bats and assigned seats. And we are very wary of who we let in the house during games.

Because if you’ve never been in the house during a game, we have no idea if you’re bad luck. And if you’re bad luck, you can’t come in.

Just ask Melissa, my sister-in-law. When she came over to the house years ago for the first time during a game, there was tension. And it wasn’t just the usual “meeting someone’s family for the first time” kind of tension either. In fact, my father—not one to mince words—described the tension right to Melissa’s face when he said “Hi Melissa, it’s very nice to meet you and I’ve heard nice things about you. But if the Patriots lose while you’re here, you can’t come back.”

I’d like to tell you that was said in jest, but I’d be lying. Thankfully the Patriots won.

So, getting back to Sunday’s game. First of all, it snowed on Sunday morning, which automatically triggered a family tradition dating back years. So my dad and I donned our snow gear, went outside and went to work. We didn’t shovel the walk or clear off the cars. Hell no. We made a snowman. Then we went inside to where we keep the lucky sticks we’ve used as snowman hands for the past eight years, alongside the lucky Patriots pom-poms from the 2003 Pats-Jets game. With Will’s help, we put the arms on the snowman and attached the pom-poms, and topped it all off with a Patriots hat.

From there, the snowman stays until it crumbles or melts. The hat, sticks and pom-poms must remain where they drop on the lawn until the next snowfall, at which point the cycle begins all over again.

When kickoff rolled around it was me, my father, my mother, my Uncle Paul and my Aunt Darleen. They were at the house a few times earlier this year for games and the Patriots had won, so they were in the clear. However, Sunday’s game started off horribly. Pittsburgh was killing us and nothing was going right for the Patriots. We tried some early adjustments in the living room but nothing seemed to be working. Until…

Darleen had to go outside to move her car. While she was out there, the Patriots intercepted Steelers quarterback Ben Roethlisberger deep in Pittsburgh territory. We all jumped up simultaneously to cheer. And in our next breath, we all ran towards the door to lock it so Darleen couldn’t come back inside so we could preserve the good luck. We made her wait out there for five minutes in the cold with no coat on until the Patriots scored a touchdown.

The most telling part is, Darleen never complained or questioned what we were doing or why. She knew and understood.

Unfortunately it wasn’t enough. After we let Darleen in and the game wore on, things started to get desperate. I left my usual seat and stood in the kitchen. No good. My dad cycled through his collection of “lucky” trinkets which he swears brought this team three Super Bowls. Nada. I then turned my jersey around and tied one of Will’s scarfs around my head and wore it like Rambo. Zilch. We were all doing whatever we could to bring the team luck, and that’s when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.

My uncle Paul was hunched over grabbing at something I couldn’t readily see, so I asked him what he was doing.

“Taking off my leg,” he said nonchalantly.

Yup. You read that right. My uncle, who has had a prosthetic leg since he was a teenager, was not joking. He was taking off his fake leg in a desperate attempt to spark some life into the Patriots. I can only imagine what would be said about us if a stranger had walked in just then, to see me with a backwards jersey and a child’s scarf wrapped around my head, my father worshiping his lucky coin as if it had magical powers, my poor Aunt freezing to death outside and my one-legged uncle sacrificing a limb to bring the Patriots good fortune.

I know, I know. You’re reading this and shaking your head thinking “what a bunch of fucking idiots.” Well, SCREW YOU! I am a 32-year-old adult man and yes, I believe my actions have an impact on the game. My family members believe it too. Which is probably why I watched Game 4 of the 2004 ALCS standing pantsless on MJ’s couch and holding her cat while I called my brother and father who were watching from outside on the back deck while holding a lucky bat and an unscrewed broomstick (to avoid the sweep).

Hey, it’s fun. And frankly it’s nice to have family traditions, which one day will be adopted by Will. It may make us a little insane, but these oddball antics also bring us together.

But still, it might be safer to call or email before you come over on game day.

I don’t say this lightly or without a wealth of experience, and my credentials are beyond reproach.

My father has had New England Patriots season tickets for 39 years, which means I’ve been going to games practically my whole life. I used to go to eight home games a year, until tickets got too expensive. So now I go to a minimum of four games a year. Until this year, my dad also had Boston Celtics season tickets as well, so I have experience at the Garden. Throw in hundreds of Red Sox games and a sprinkling of Bruins games throughout the years, and I’ve pretty much seen it all. The good, the bad and the REALLY obnoxious.

To the untrained eye or the live sporting event rookies, it might not seem like there’s much to know when going to a game. Sit, watch, clap and that’s it right? Wrong. There is a subtle art to being a truly great fan. Which is probably why there are so few great fans out there. Unfortunately, there is no shortage of ass clowns ruining it for the rest of us.

So without further ado, I give you the 9 Most Annoying Sports Fans.

1. THE CELL PHONE TALKER

I hate this person. With a passion. Not only that, I don’t understand him/her. You pay all that money for a ticket, get drunk on $8 beers and instead of watching the game you decide to jump on your cell phone, call your friends and wave every time you’re on camera. Idiot. For the record, the only acceptable time to use your cell phone is during halftime or in between quarters. Even then you’re only allowed to text or check your fantasy team. No conversations. Ever. Because even if they’re not on camera they’re talking on the cell phone and ruining the game for you. My question is, why are they always talking about something uber-personal and inappropriate?

“So I went to the doctor…yeah, I got the results…CHLAMYDIA! Can you believe that shit? No I didn’t wear a rubber…you know I hate how it feels.”

2. THE JUMBO-TRON WHORES
A close cousin of the Cell Phone Talker, these people are equally annoying. While real fans are there to watch their team win, the JTWs are only there to watch themselves on the stadium big screen. You’ll recognize the JTWs easily because they’re either dressed in wacky clothing sure to catch the cameraman’s eye, or they’re dancing. Yup, dancing. During every timeout and break, they launch themselves out of their seats and dance wildly. If they succeed and see themselves on the Jumbo-Tron, the shrieks and screams are deafening. They get 4 seconds of glory and then it’s either back to the beer stand or leave in the third quarter to beat traffic. Either way, they need to be exterminated.

3. SIGN HOLDERS
I swear these idiots always manage to sit in front of me. They bring in a homemade sign that they think is really witty and/or charming, but no one else sees it that way. Normally it’s something to suck up to the network the game is on, like:

Another
Brady
Championship

So just like the Jumbo-Tron Whores, they stand up at inopportune times during the game and hold up the sign, which blocks the view of the poor people behind them. Rule of thumb: don’t bring a sign to a game. Ever. It won’t be funny, you probably won’t get on TV and you’re going to piss me off to the point that I verbally berate you to the point of tears. Now here’s your sign!

4. THE UP & DOWNERS
Sometimes it feels like all 68,000 people in Gillette Stadium are sitting in my row. Why, you ask? Because they are CONSTANTLY sitting down and then leaving their seat. They sit down then they need some food. They sit down then they need a beer. They sit down and drink their beer and then they have to pee. And pee again. And again. Meanwhile the entire row has to stand up and let them pass each time like we’re in an 80s aerobics class.

That wouldn’t be so bad except they give no thought to the timing of their arrivals and departures. Instead of using some common sense and waiting until a timeout or even in between plays, they decide to inconvenience everyone at the worst possible times. A huge third down in the fourth quarter of a one-score game, the crowd working itself into a frenzy, the center about to hike the ball and then—some douchebag causes the entire row to stand and you end up missing some of the play while simultaneously pissing off everyone behind you.

Stay in your seats or use some common sense, morons!

5. THE STATISTICIAN
This guy is a real piece of work.

You can spot him even before he speaks, because he looks like he’s spent the week in his mom’s basement memorizing statistics in order to show off at the game. Even though you’ve made no overture of friendship towards this person, he will seek you out and give you stats you don’t care about and don’t want after every play.

For instance, if I cheer on Tom Brady for a great throw he has to add his two cents by saying “Did you know Brady is completing 67.9% of his passes and has a quarterback rating of 109.5?” Yes, as a matter of fact I did know that. But unlike you, I don’t feel the need to validate my existence with near useless statistical analysis that no one wants to hear about in the heat of a game!

6. THE “STAND UP” GUY
Usually it’s good to be a stand up guy. But this guy is not good. Not good at all.

This idiot—usually heavily intoxicated—is convinced that the only way to be a true fan is to stand up at all times to cheer on the team. And he feels it is his mission in life to shout “STAND THE FUCK UP, GET ON YOUR FEET, STAND UP YOU PUSSIES!” in order to fire up the crowd. But what he doesn’t realize is the crowd wants to put him in front of a firing squad.

This jerkoff doesn’t realize that standing and cheering at a game is completely dependent on the action and the situation. In a regular season game, it’s fine to sit except for big moments and huge third downs on defense. I still yell and cheer while I’m sitting, and I know when to stand and when not to. Fans also pay hundreds of dollars for the seat, so why not use it?

7. THE ANNOYING HOUSEWIFE/GIRLFRIEND
Call me a sexist if you want to. I don’t care, because this one is very, very true.

Usually this occurs when the only way guys can buy season tickets is if they promise to bring their wives/girlfriends with them to the games. Even though said women have ZERO football knowledge. Needless to say, when they get to the game they become Cell Phone Talkers, Jumbo-Tron Whores and Up & Downers. They’re interested in everything BUT the game. If they do pay attention for a few minutes, they shout idiotic things like “GET A TOUCHDOWN BRADY!” or “WES WELKER IS SO LITTLE AND CUTE!”

The worst is when they talk to each other about their sex lives, their impending purchases and what they wore to their high school reunions. I’ve never seriously considered violence towards women before, but when these hens are clucking in my ear for three hours, I’m seeing red.

8. THE WAY TOO DRUNK GUY
Everyone knows this guy. And has probably been this guy at some point (myself included) so I do allow for a little leeway here.

It’s a football game, so drinking is a good thing. Hell, being a little drunk is a plus in my opinion. But if you’ve had a 12-pack out in the parking lot and then a fifth of Jack on the walk to the stadium, you’re going to be a mess. These are the guys who can’t stand up straight so they’re teetering and falling on people during the game. And since they’re drunk they’re loud. Any drunk will tell you the louder they get the funnier they are, and so you have a really drunk guy screaming either inappropriate or unintelligible things. He’s laughing, but we aren’t.

At best he’s a nuisance, at worst he vomits on you. Either way you’re not coming out a winner.

9. THE BEACH BALL/WAVE PEOPLE
No beach balls and no wave. Ever.

If you pay hundreds of dollars for a ticket and feel that the best athletes in the world playing at the highest level imaginable is second to batting around an inflatable beach ball, do yourself a favor and just put a gun to your head. Or if that’s too extreme, don’t come to the game. Because we don’t want you. Or your damn beach ball.

Same goes for The Wave. Seriously, it’s not 1987 anymore. The Wave wasn’t even that cool then, and it’s even less so now. I’ve seen people at Fenway Park do the wave in the 8th inning of a one-run game during a pennant race. It makes me sad that people are that idiotic, and it besmirches the name of true Boston sports fans everywhere.

That’s why whenever I get my hands on a beach ball, I pop it. Sometimes the idiots boo me but I don’t care, because the real fans thank me or give me an approving nod for righting an obvious sports wrong.

I have my dad to thank for this because he taught me right. From the time I was little he physically restrained me during the Wave. I didn’t understand it then, but I thank him for it now. To think I could’ve been one of those obnoxious douchebags…I shudder at the thought.

The point is, watch the fucking game. It’s what you’re there for!

If you’re wondering what makes for a great sports fan, here it is:

Be intelligent about the game but not a stat snob. Be happy drunk and not shitfaced. Go to the people around you for high-fives and create good vibes. Sit down except for big plays. If you’re going to yell out taunts to the opposing team, time them right for maximum effect. Talk about the game and nothing else, unless it’s halftime. No beach balls and no Wave, you’re there to watch the game. Ditto with signs. The cell phone should stay in your pocket.

So, did I miss any?

I’m not sure exactly when I went to my first Red Sox game, but I was probably 6 or 7. Roger Clemens was pitching, although I had no idea what that meant at the time. All the other memories are fuzzy, except for one that’s crystal clear. Walking with my dad in Fenway Park, through the crowded concourse, up a ramp until suddenly my vision was flooded with the greenest grass I’d ever seen, and the Green Monster (Fenway’s signature 37.5-foot wall in left field) looming larger than life.

I was blown away. I remember thinking how all this green space could exist in the city. Wondering how ANYONE could ever muscle a ball over the Monster. And feeling the whole thing was surreal because I had seen Fenway on TV so many times, it felt like it was this faraway fantasy land that didn’t really exist. For 10 seconds I just stared, lost in the enormity of it all.

I was only a little kid, so I didn’t understand the intricacies of the game yet. All I knew was how important the team was to my dad. I watched him more than I watched the game. He lived and died on every pitch so dammit I was gonna do the same thing. Just like he learned from his grandfather. I remember him telling me the Red Sox would eventually break my heart, but it’s our job to root for them no matter what. For life. And so I did, no questions asked.

The only thing I remember from that day 25 years ago was my dad putting his hand on my shoulder and giving a squeeze. I didn’t know it at the time, but that squeeze was his way of saying “Welcome to the club little man.”

Fast forward to last weekend.

I had been going back and forth on whether or not I could bring Will to a Red Sox game this season. Ultimately I decided against it for several reasons. First of all I thought he was too young. But mostly, it’s because the Red Sox have the most expensive tickets in baseball. Bleacher seats are $25 face value. Except everything is sold out so you can’t get face value. Usually you have to pay $50 per ticket for small seats so far away you can barely see the action. And the concession prices are so disgustingly inflated you need to take out a bank loan before you buy a couple of hotdogs. Combine all of this with the fact that 3-year-olds have the attention span of a gnat and you’re traveling an hour and spending a shit ton of money for a couple of innings until the whining & temper-tantrum kicks in.

But my parents, who are awesome, decided to get Will and I tickets as a birthday present to me. So with the financial impediments cleared, I was THRILLED to take Will to his first game. And formally induct him into a club populated by the men in my family for many, many years.

I had grand plans for last Saturday. Will and I were going to take the train in because he loves riding the subway. The Red Sox were playing the Oakland A’s. Jon Lester was pitching. Our seats were along third base way up high in the State Street Pavilion. I had it all planned out and—because I blog everything—I was going to find a way to record it all for posterity, as I do with most everything that happens in my life. And the crowning jewel would be the look on his face when I walked the next generation up the ramp to worship in baseball’s most glorious cathedral.

As you can see, we got plenty of pictures.

Not only that, but Will had a truly great day. He got to ride two trains into Boston which may or may not have been the highlight of his day. He had his first Fenway Frank (picture on the right). He ate ice cream from a plastic mini Red Sox helmet. We bought a game program as a keepsake. Wally the Green Monster (who I hate because he’s the worst mascot in sports) patted Will on the head. Will danced with a beautiful woman between innings (video is at the bottom of this post). Jason Varitek—the aging Captain—hit a homerun, which Will shockingly called just before he hit it. All in all he lasted six spectacular innings.

Oh yeah, the Red Sox won the game too.

I share so much of my life on this blog. I detail the good, the bad and the just plain silly. So it makes sense that I’m sharing this experience. This wonderful, memorable day for which I’ll be forever thankful. The day I officially passed on a love of Red Sox baseball to my son. Just like my dad did for me.

But as for capturing Will’s expression when he came upon the beauty that is Fenway Park for the very first time and started a lifelong love affair with baseball and Boston?

Sorry folks. I’m keeping that one for myself.

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After work yesterday I took him to Dick’s Sporting Goods. I received a $50 gift certificate courtesy of Klout and its Perks program(which you should check out if you haven’t already), and I thought it was the perfect opportunity to get Will ready. Ready for what? Well, I’m THRILLED to announce I will be fulfilling a true father-son moment on Saturday when I take my son to his first Red Sox game at Fenway Park!! And a momentous occasion such as this deserves a new Red Sox shirt at the bare minimum.

The hideous Zippleback

I’ve been trying to keep it a surprise but I couldn’t. So on the way to the store I started giving Will hints. Unfortunately, I forgot that 3-year-olds are selfish little assholes who can only live in the now.

“OK buddy, your first hint is its something you’ve been asking for for awhile now.”

“A REAL DRAGON?!!?!?”

“What?? No. Not a dragon. Something even better.”

“A Zippleback Dragon (fans of How to Train Your Dragon know what I’m talking about)??”

“Buddy, forget the dragons. OK, I’ll give you another hint. We’re gonna ride the train to get there!”

“YAY! YAY! Dada, you take me to StoryLand (a kids amusement park in NH my parents just took him to)??”

“Wow. This was not a good idea. No bud, not Storyland. The place we’re going is in Boston.”

“We go to the aquarium to pet stingrays?”

(Completely exasperated at this point)

“FENWAY PARK! I’m taking you to Fenway Park to see the Red Sox!”

“Right now?”

“No, not right now. On Saturday.”

“BUT I WANNA GO NOWWWWWWWWW!”

It’s my own fault. Expecting a 3-year-old to think about the big picture and just push his overwhelming sense of immediacy aside was foolhardy at best. But after some warnings about whining and the promise of a new Red Sox shirt at Dick’s, he was fine again. And with that we entered the massive sporting goods store, much to Will’s amazement when he walked in and saw their ridiculous inventory of everything from paintball guns to golf clubs.

We made a beeline for the team sports apparel and started combing through the vast array of Patriots and Red Sox gear they had available. Although I had envisioned a Red Sox shirt, the allure of a shiny new Patriots jersey for Will just in time for the start of the season was pretty enticing as well. So I began tearing through the youth jerseys looking for just the right player and the right size.

And that’s when it started.

I heard her before I saw her. The over-excited, high-pitched whine of a spoiled princess. Talking about how she needs a new Patriots jersey every year, and this year she likes Wes Welker because “he’s little just like me.” She was obviously talking to someone, and it didn’t surprise me at all when they came into view. She was an attractive woman in her late 20s/early 30s. Cute, brunette with HUGE boobs. And he was…older. Probably late 40s, early 50s. Instead of the Red Sox logo on his shirt it should’ve just read “SUGAR DADDY!”

Let’s just say I don’t think she was after his youthful good looks, and he probably hasn’t spent a lot of late nights discussing Tolstoy with her.

I figured they’d pass us by because she said she was looking to buy a jersey for herself, and the adult section was on the other side of the display. But much to my dismay, she came right next to me and Will and started obnoxiously looking through the kids’ jerseys. Not toddler-sized, but for bigger kids. I was confused for a second, thinking maybe she was buying a gift for a child. Sugar Daddy was also perplexed as he tried to steer her towards the appropriate section. But she was not having it.

“I know a youth large will fit but I think I might have to down to a youth medium,” she said in a matter of fact tone.

At that point my head snapped around. I couldn’t help it. As discreetly as possible (which wasn’t discreet in the least bit), I watched as she whipped off her shirt (don’t worry, she had a tank-top on) and began trying on jerseys. Forget for a second that the dressing rooms were a few feet away. Even though she had a tank-top on, she was not leaving much to the imagination. This chick was on par with Pam Anderson. It looked like two hot air balloons were trying to lift off her chest.

As I said, she was attractive. She wasn’t fat at all, just thick. As in not rail thin, which I greatly prefer. Especially when you factor in what was happening in the chesticle department. A regular jersey would’ve looked just fine on her and she would’ve had no problem garnering as much male attention as she desired.

Know your limits & dress accordingly

So I’m not sure why she looked at that kids jersey and decided that the laws of physics ceased to exist within its confines.

I watched as she tried to pull something meant for a 10-year-old over the twin peaks and down to her waist. Suddenly an attractive woman was transformed into a sausage within its casing. It’s the same reason I don’t wear wife-beater shirts, because I know my limits and I try to wear clothes that don’t accentuate my fatness. Poor Sugar Daddy glanced at me as I quickly snapped my eyes back to Will, and he could only offer up a “it looks nice but how about this one” as he held up a bigger size.

She must’ve tried on five different jerseys, which was annoying because she was shopping on the same rack we were. When we first arrived Will had picked out an adult-sized Danny Woodhead jersey, but I told him he couldn’t have it because it was too big, and that section of jerseys was for adults. Apparently this stuck in his memory, because then he spoke in a very irritated fashion.

“Dada, these are for kids. She needs go to big girl section.”

I couldn’t agree more buddy.

DISCLOSURE: I was given a free product or sample because I’m a Klout influencer. I was under no obligation to receive the sample or talk about this company. I get no additional benefits for talking about the product or company.

And the winner of the free 4-pack of tickets to Fenway Park this Saturday is…

HEATHER!

Heather wrote:

“We’re taking a road trip from Philadelphia to Maine and want to make the journey part of the vacation. Two of our children were born in Boston and now live in Phillies country (not easy, but I guess easier than living with Yankee fans). When we make our trips back to New England – they stock up on Red Sox and Patriots shirt/hats/etc. Their bedroom is devoted to their New England teams, yet they are stand-alone fans in their school. A trip to Fenway would definitely make it to their 10 Ten list! Thanks.”

Congratulations to Heather and her brave kids. We all know Philly fans are the craziest bunch of lunatics on the planet so I can only imagine the hardships her children are facing. These are the same fans who booed Santa Claus and a paralyzed Cowboys wide-receiver, so I can only imagine the crap her kids take when they wear their Sox gear to school. The least I can do for them is treat them to one day in friendly territory.

Now I know some of you might be miffed because her comment was left after my self-imposed 5 p.m. deadline yesterday. But tough shit. The deadline was completely arbitrary and I picked names out of a hat. It was done fairly. Besides, if I really was corrupt I would’ve just chosen Slader because he’s my neighbor. Sorry Slader, I hope I can still borrow the proverbial cup of sugar.

Heather, please email me at aaron_gouveia@yahoo.com with your name, address and cell phone number so I can give the Red Sox organization your contact info and you can pick the tickets up at will call.

Thanks to the Red Sox for the tickets, to all of you for participating and GO SOX!