There’s a special strain of obnoxiousness that springs from a mistaken belief that goes something like this: What I love is what everyone will love. I’m mindful of that. So I will not be telling you that everyone within driving distance of Seattle should have canceled their Saturday night plans, filled the empty seats inside Key Arena, and shared in the shrieking jubilation that surged through us when Sue Bird knocked down a three-pointer with 19.3 seconds left, sending the Seattle Storm to the first of two overtimes they would need to overcome the Atlanta Dream. No, I specifically will not be telling you that everyone should have been there with us. Because people like different things, and Seattle is a fine place to explore those different things. Maybe, by skipping the Storm’s 91-84 win, you got to see the Maldives play the last of their three sold-out shows at the Tractor. If so, I bet that was great. Or maybe tonight was a night that your steadfastness was rewarded and you got to be at Safeco Field to see the third-place Seattle Mariners win 8 to 4 against a Kansas City team that has now lost 80 of its 129 games this season. If so, that may have been exactly the right way to spend your Saturday night. Because when your beloved Mariners are nine games out of first place in the AL West, there’s probably a certain satisfaction that comes from watching them score as many runs during the first inning as the other team will score all night. If that’s your thing, if that’s exactly what you needed, I hope you were at Safeco. But maybe you had a different kind of night here in Seattle. Maybe, as a friend of mine did a couple of weeks ago, you went out to a bar in Fremont with a friend, hoping to unwind and talk the evening away. And maybe instead, as my friend did, you spent your time fending off horny guys — sincerely horny guys, who may possibly have meant well, but were ultimately so relentless that you and your friend experimented with impersonating lesbians in a happy, committed, staid relationship. And maybe, as happened with my friend, the undaunted guys then asked you and your ersatz lesbian partner if you “ever bring boy toys home.” If that was your evening, I humbly submit that maybe you and your friend should have skipped the bar, stayed the hell out of Fremont on a Saturday night, and sipped your beers inside Key Arena with all 9,089 of us who got to see the Storm — minus injured superstar forward Lauren Jackson — persevere through two overtimes and find a way to win. I say all this not as a diehard Storm fan, not as some politically correct martyr who’s willing to sit through a lackluster sporting event so that the WNBA can survive and my daughter and all the daughters of America can have a league of their own to play in when they grow up. No. I go to these games because I like them, because my wife likes them, because our kids like them, because two of our best friends like them. I also go to these games because whatever gender hangups might have prevented me from enjoying a WNBA game disappeared on a basketball court at UC Berkeley in the 1990s when I played in a pickup game against some players from the Cal women’s basketball team. Few — and possibly none — of those players went on to play pro ball. But they destroyed me out there that day. They were quicker than me. They were stronger than me. Vastly so. So while I realize that I’m not watching the literal second coming of my childhood idol Michael Jordan out there on the Key Arena hardwood, I am clear on the fact that I am seeing world-class athletes compel their bodies to do amazing things. It’s a joy — even on nights that aren’t as suspenseful as this one. And this joy is a surprise to me. Because after a childhood and early adulthood of rabid, sputtering fandom, I’d given up on spectator sports, decided — basically in disgust after taking Prof. Harry Edwards’course on the sociology of sports — that I didn’t want to be a fan anymore, didn’t want to be that guy hyperventilating his way through the player introductions at Chicago Stadium, didn’t want to be that guy swearing at Dennis Rodman and Bill Laimbeer through a TV screen. Rodman and Laimbeer bring us to an interesting linkup here, a possible connection between hatred and tonight’s empty seats at Key Arena. My hatred for Rodman and Laimbeer — actual malevolent, wish-you-would-just-shut-up-and-die hatred — so animated my experience of being a Chicago Bulls fan at a particular moment that I am inclined to actually put some stock in a possibly crackpot assertion that writer Jason Zengerle disseminates in the September issue of The Atlantic. Zengerle’s piece — “The Bad Girl of Women’s Soccer” — is about goalie Hope Solo and the prospects for the latest attempt to sustain a professional women’s soccer league in America. Here’s the passage I marked in our copy of the magazine: But Solo’s polarizing persona is what makes her so crucial to the new league’s fortunes. The last professional women’s soccer league in the U.S., the Women’s United Soccer Association, lasted only three seasons—largely because it lacked edge. “The WUSA sort of had a focus on preteen, ponytailed girls who aspired to play soccer someday, and so their messaging was around ‘cause marketing’: ‘This league is something girls deserve to have, and as a fan you ought to support this,’” says Tonya Antonucci, a former Yahoo executive and the new league’s commissioner. “We’re presenting an environment that’s not about babysitting kids but is an opportunity to watch the best and be entertained by the best.” In most professional sports, a large measure of that entertainment typically comes from booing, or at least rooting against, a villainous athlete. That last sentence just grates on me: “In most professional sports, a large measure of that entertainment typically comes from booing, or at least rooting against, a villainous athlete.” It probably grates on me because I can’t refute it. Not with any certainty. So I find myself sitting here hating the idea that a shortage of hatred may one day doom the Storm as a financially viable sports franchise, hating the idea that double the number of people might have seen tonight’s truly great game if only Storm fans could be more like I used to be, if only we could show our love of the game by hating more of the people who play it. The last home game before the playoffs is Thursday, September 10, at 7 p.m. when the Storm will face the scary-good Diana Taurasi of the Phoenix Mercury. I don’t pretend to know what you like, but you should at least think about being there. For tickets through Ticketmaster, click here. Or visit the Seattle Storm web site by clicking here. UPDATE (8/30/09): If you’re willing to sit through a 30-second ad first, the WNBA has posted this highlight video of the game, including clips of the many strong plays that added up to Tanisha Wright’s 25-point performance. Wright (pictured dribbling in my photo at the top of this post) just rocked last night. Click for high-res photo

There’s a special strain of obnoxiousness that springs from a mistaken belief that goes something like this: What I love is what everyone will love.

I’m mindful of that. So I will not be telling you that everyone within driving distance of Seattle should have canceled their Saturday night plans, filled the empty seats inside Key Arena, and shared in the shrieking jubilation that surged through us when Sue Bird knocked down a three-pointer with 19.3 seconds left, sending the Seattle Storm to the first of two overtimes they would need to overcome the Atlanta Dream.

No, I specifically will not be telling you that everyone should have been there with us. Because people like different things, and Seattle is a fine place to explore those different things.

Maybe, by skipping the Storm’s 91-84 win, you got to see the Maldives play the last of their three sold-out shows at the Tractor. If so, I bet that was great.

Or maybe tonight was a night that your steadfastness was rewarded and you got to be at Safeco Field to see the third-place Seattle Mariners win 8 to 4 against a Kansas City team that has now lost 80 of its 129 games this season. If so, that may have been exactly the right way to spend your Saturday night. Because when your beloved Mariners are nine games out of first place in the AL West, there’s probably a certain satisfaction that comes from watching them score as many runs during the first inning as the other team will score all night. If that’s your thing, if that’s exactly what you needed, I hope you were at Safeco.

But maybe you had a different kind of night here in Seattle. Maybe, as a friend of mine did a couple of weeks ago, you went out to a bar in Fremont with a friend, hoping to unwind and talk the evening away. And maybe instead, as my friend did, you spent your time fending off horny guys — sincerely horny guys, who may possibly have meant well, but were ultimately so relentless that you and your friend experimented with impersonating lesbians in a happy, committed, staid relationship. And maybe, as happened with my friend, the undaunted guys then asked you and your ersatz lesbian partner if you “ever bring boy toys home.”

If that was your evening, I humbly submit that maybe you and your friend should have skipped the bar, stayed the hell out of Fremont on a Saturday night, and sipped your beers inside Key Arena with all 9,089 of us who got to see the Storm — minus injured superstar forward Lauren Jackson — persevere through two overtimes and find a way to win.

I say all this not as a diehard Storm fan, not as some politically correct martyr who’s willing to sit through a lackluster sporting event so that the WNBA can survive and my daughter and all the daughters of America can have a league of their own to play in when they grow up. No. I go to these games because I like them, because my wife likes them, because our kids like them, because two of our best friends like them. I also go to these games because whatever gender hangups might have prevented me from enjoying a WNBA game disappeared on a basketball court at UC Berkeley in the 1990s when I played in a pickup game against some players from the Cal women’s basketball team. Few — and possibly none — of those players went on to play pro ball. But they destroyed me out there that day. They were quicker than me. They were stronger than me. Vastly so.

So while I realize that I’m not watching the literal second coming of my childhood idol Michael Jordan out there on the Key Arena hardwood, I am clear on the fact that I am seeing world-class athletes compel their bodies to do amazing things. It’s a joy — even on nights that aren’t as suspenseful as this one. And this joy is a surprise to me. Because after a childhood and early adulthood of rabid, sputtering fandom, I’d given up on spectator sports, decided — basically in disgust after taking Prof. Harry Edwards’course on the sociology of sports — that I didn’t want to be a fan anymore, didn’t want to be that guy hyperventilating his way through the player introductions at Chicago Stadium, didn’t want to be that guy swearing at Dennis Rodman and Bill Laimbeer through a TV screen.

Rodman and Laimbeer bring us to an interesting linkup here, a possible connection between hatred and tonight’s empty seats at Key Arena. My hatred for Rodman and Laimbeer — actual malevolent, wish-you-would-just-shut-up-and-die hatred — so animated my experience of being a Chicago Bulls fan at a particular moment that I am inclined to actually put some stock in a possibly crackpot assertion that writer Jason Zengerle disseminates in the September issue of The Atlantic. Zengerle’s piece — “The Bad Girl of Women’s Soccer” — is about goalie Hope Solo and the prospects for the latest attempt to sustain a professional women’s soccer league in America. Here’s the passage I marked in our copy of the magazine:

But Solo’s polarizing persona is what makes her so crucial to the new league’s fortunes. The last professional women’s soccer league in the U.S., the Women’s United Soccer Association, lasted only three seasons—largely because it lacked edge. “The WUSA sort of had a focus on preteen, ponytailed girls who aspired to play soccer someday, and so their messaging was around ‘cause marketing’: ‘This league is something girls deserve to have, and as a fan you ought to support this,’” says Tonya Antonucci, a former Yahoo executive and the new league’s commissioner. “We’re presenting an environment that’s not about babysitting kids but is an opportunity to watch the best and be entertained by the best.”

In most professional sports, a large measure of that entertainment typically comes from booing, or at least rooting against, a villainous athlete.

That last sentence just grates on me: “In most professional sports, a large measure of that entertainment typically comes from booing, or at least rooting against, a villainous athlete.” It probably grates on me because I can’t refute it. Not with any certainty.

So I find myself sitting here hating the idea that a shortage of hatred may one day doom the Storm as a financially viable sports franchise, hating the idea that double the number of people might have seen tonight’s truly great game if only Storm fans could be more like I used to be, if only we could show our love of the game by hating more of the people who play it.

The last home game before the playoffs is Thursday, September 10, at 7 p.m. when the Storm will face the scary-good Diana Taurasi of the Phoenix Mercury. I don’t pretend to know what you like, but you should at least think about being there. For tickets through Ticketmaster, click here. Or visit the Seattle Storm web site by clicking here.

UPDATE (8/30/09): If you’re willing to sit through a 30-second ad first, the WNBA has posted this highlight video of the game, including clips of the many strong plays that added up to Tanisha Wright’s 25-point performance. Wright (pictured dribbling in my photo at the top of this post) just rocked last night.