When sports return, we’ll appreciate them more than ever
One day, sports will return to us. When they do, we’ll appreciate them more than ever for all they are, a refuge from everyday troubles.
Where the hell did they find that horn?
Throughout my childhood and early adulthood, I often wondered.
I’m a 31-year-old New Jersey Devils fan with many memories. Three Stanley Cups. Five Final appearances. Martin Brodeur. Scott Niedermayer, Ken Daneyko and Scott Stevens. Patrik Elias.
And a horn which had to be ripped off an 18-wheeler on the Jersey Turnpike.
Today, our country is without sports. The NHL, MLB and MLS, PGA Tour, WTA and NASCAR seasons, among others, are on hold. MLB is yet to begin. The NFL and college football are hoping to get ramped up on time. Yet only COVID-19 and our plan to emerge from its grip will ultimately provide the answer of when our escape from reality returns.
For any sports enthusiast, there are powerful images attached to their fandom. It may be a championship-winning goal, a favorite outfielder running first to third, or a serve nicking the line for an ace. We all have them. In some cases, we can hear them.
In my case, I can see most. Save for one. But I can hear it.
Loud. Obnoxious. The definition of New Jersey.
As a kid, I noticed three things about the old Brendan Byrne Arena. It resembled a concrete bunker. It smelled like urine. It had a sound which compelled me to leap from my seat.
Between 1995-2003, the Devils won three Stanley Cups while calling the Meadowlands their home. And with postseason wins came the horn. A horn which wasn’t celebratory but almost bullying. It let the opponent know, repeatedly, what had gone wrong.
It whipped the white-towel waving crowd into a frenzy, roaring in approval of their heroes.
Volume UP.
None of that cheap nonsense dreamed up by a think tank. Just turn it up and let ‘er rip.
In our weeks of quarantine and social distancing, I’ve gone down the YouTube rabbit hole more than any man should admit.
I eventually started watching old clips of Devils games, specifically their home playoff affairs. With each goal, the names change. Different players score with different men picking up the assists. The opponents are interchangeable and the announcers swapped for the escalating rounds.
Yet the horn. It’s a constant. And now, as much as ever, a sound which makes me smile.
The horn is as it was then. A literal siren song of hope and elation.
The Devils moved out of what was renamed Continental Airlines Arena years ago. I was there for the last time they won in the old barn. She went out wonderfully, with Jamie Langenbrunner beating the Ottawa Senators in a 2007 Eastern Conference semifinal double-overtime thriller. A week later, New Jersey was ousted and off to Prudential Center.
The Rock, as it’s known, is infinitely nicer. You can get there with mass transit. There’s a beautiful bronze statue of Martin Brodeur gracing the entrance. Inside, you can choose from hundreds of beverages and snacks.
It doesn’t smell like piss. It has every modern bell and whistle.
But not the horn. Not the winning.
And yet for now, I don’t care about the win percentage. I don’t care if the Devils miss the playoffs again, or how bleak the depth chart looks on the blue line. I just want to see them lined up on it, listening to the national anthem and knowing there’s a game to be played.
I miss sports for all they represent at their core. If you peel through the layers of vanity and greed, of bloated contracts and dirty politics, there are players in matching outfits competing at the highest level for our enjoyment. It’s a shared moment of happiness.
For now, I’ll sit here awhile and wonder.
I’ll ponder when it’ll all be back. When we can safely reenter the arenas. When we can bring our children, as our parents once brought us.
And of course, I’ll wonder where the hell they found that damn horn.