The Pittsburgh sports fan is jaded, if not spoiled. I grew up here, and I was 16 when the Pirates won the 1971 World Series. By the time I was 25, I had seen the Steelers win four Super Bowls, and the Pirates win another World Series in 1979. In a span of 22 years, Pittsburgh sports fans like me witnessed and reveled in two World Series championships, four Super Bowl titles and two Stanley Cup championships. Not to mention a National Championship for Pitt football. Other fans wait a lifetime for just one shot at a championship in one of those sports. I rooted for the Pirates and Steelers as hard as any other fan in this city, although I never felt the need to wear a Roberto Clemente or Terry Bradshaw jersey, or a painted face, while I was doing it. In the 1970s, pro sports exploded, and here in Pittsburgh, Steelers fans almost set the standard for turning football games into rituals. There was Franco's Italian Army, Gerela's Gorillas, the Terrible Towel and Lambert's Lunatics. We showed the country how to tailgate, and the television networks were our window to the rest of the sports world. It was all so new and exciting, and an uplifting experience for our citizens, many of whom needed a morale boost in the wake of the demise of the steel industry. And when Howard Cosell referred to Pittsburgh as the City of Champions on Monday Night Football, he was talking about all of us. In retrospect, that era gave birth to the “we're No. 1” syndrome, a condition that strikes sports fans whose teams win championships. It has hit Pittsburgh hard. Another term for it is “reflected glory”. When our teams win, we win, right• Even the TV news anchors engage in it. And we Pttsburghers have won so much, that we have come to expect our teams to make the playoffs and challenge for a championship every year. I sat in the stands at the AFC Championship game in Heinz Field last year, and I could not believe my eyes or ears. I might have been the only person within 10 sections who wasn't wearing a Steelers jersey. On one hand, I felt naked, and on the other, I felt normal. The word 'fan' is short for fanatic, and that is exactly what I found myself surrounded by — fanatics. Many of them seemed to think they were playing the game, and not just being entertained by it. I found the atmosphere to be a bizarre mutation of what I experienced when I attended Steelers and Pirates games in the early '70s. It was almost cult-like, the by-product of years and years of winning. Unfortunately, the Pirates and Penguins are no longer in the same league as the Steelers in this town. For the last several years, Pirates, and most recently, Penguins fans, have been reminded again and again that their teams can no longer compete with the large-market teams in Major League Baseball and the NHL. The Pirates couldn't keep Barry Bonds, Bobby Bonilla, Doug Drabek, or Denny Neagle. The Penguins couldn't keep Ron Francis, Jaromir Jagr, Robert Lang, Darius Kasparaitis or Bob Boughner. In a town where winning is the only thing, the contrast is stark, and the psychological damage is immense. The Pirates and Penguins are, in effect, telling the fan that he is investing his emotion (and hard-earned cash) into something that is inherently inadequate. And the fan is repulsed by it. Call it "reflected inadequacy". No wonder attendance and TV ratings are down. It's the 'we're a small market' syndrome. NHL commissioner Gary Bettman has said that he wants to fix the NHL's current system so that every fan in every NHL city feels that his team has an equal chance to win a championship. It is a noble cause, and a necessary one, if Pittsburghers are ever to feel reflected glory after the 2003-04 season. And as for the local hockey fans who show up in the meantime, glory be to them.

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