Giving John Rocker Just What He Deserves

I booed John Rocker this summer. No, scratch that. Let me be more specific. I booed, jeered, taunted, harangued and even hissed (for a bit) at John Rocker this summer. And let me tell you it was great.

Here's a little background. John Rocker is the infamous relief pitcher for the Atlanta Braves who grabbed the national spotlight earlier this year for deriding gays, poking fun at Asians, espousing a distaste for foreigners and calling a black teammate of his a "fat monkey," all in the course of one Sports Illustrated Article.

Rocker was vilified for his comments in the national press, but it was his unrepentant behavior afterward that made him a singularly reviled figure in sports. After an apology that came from his mouth with all the willingness of a healthy tooth, Rocker continued to make inflammatory statements and topped it all off by even threatening the SI reporter who wrote the profile.

This guy, in short, was asking to be hated, and sports fans were more than happy to accommodate him. And so, with the visit of the Braves to Fenway last July, it occurred to me and a friend that there was no better way to spend a warm summer evening than to go see (boo, scoff, deride, etc.) John Rocker. The event, we hoped, would be memorable; but it was so much more than that.

At Fenway, we sat in the outfield with the Sox's ever obstreperous bleacher bums. After a couple innings of anticipation (and not a few visits by the Bud Man), when Rocker finally emerged from under the bleachers to warm up, you would have thought that this crew was going to storm the field and lynch him. There was enough cursing coming from the bleachers to make a sailor blush.

The most extraordinary moment, however, came late in the game. Down by a few runs, the Sox loaded the bases. Rocker had already come out again to warm up with a very good possibility that he might be called out to finish the inning. The fans in the bleachers knew this, and everyone seemed more concerned that Rocker might make his appearance than they were that the Sox had the chance to tie up the game.

Then, after the pitcher had walked in a run, there were few tense moments of uncertainty, and finally Rocker was called out to pitch. You know, I have never followed baseball religiously, but in my youth, I used to attend a lot of Cubs games during the summertime. When I was probably six or so, I watched Pete Rose tie Ty Cobb's long-standing record for the most number of hits in a career, and I can say without doubt, that that event no more than ties for most intense moment of sheer jubilation I have ever witnessed from a crowd.

The other was when John Rocker walked in the first batter he faced and was pulled from the game before he could finish with the second.

When I thought back upon it later the inability of John Rocker to keep the Sox from scoring, the pandemonium of the crowd when he was yanked, Rocker putting his head down in failure as he left the field it all seemed the stuff of WWF wrestling, a scripted moment of tension, failure, and the ensuing celebration of good triumphing over evil.

Indeed, when you think about it, the treatment of John Rocker by just about everyone provides an interesting commentary on our American social psychology. Because he has come across publicly as a backward, bigoted, homophobic, fascist jerk, John Rocker is, par excellance, a politically correct villain. Everyone is allowed--and even welcomed--to hate him (check out www.rockersucks.com if you don't believe me). And yet, as opposed to the WWF, where hating our enemies is a guiltless pleasure, Rockers villainy begs us pause. John Rocker may be a character, but he isn't playing one. He is a real--if often absurd--person, and yet we still guiltlessly revel in the cathartic pleasure of our very public scorn of him.

In a sense, of course, our treatment of Rocker is nothing unique. For years, we've watched the always predictable moralizing of talk show audiences, and we've reveled in the barked reprimands of that cadre of midday judges who clot the television airwaves. We like watching other people get criticized, and we love the chance to do it ourselves. Indeed, our treatment of Rocker is only an extension of all this. And yet, of course, there must be a line.

Among other things, Rocker has been beaned by a battery and spat on by fans, while New Yorkers, with whom he has a particularly loving relationship, have all but declared a city-wide jihad on him. Such actions step far over the line, and, if any thing, lead some misguided people to feel sorry for Rocker which make his actions seem understandable to them and, at times, even legitimate, which, of course, they clearly are not.

Sure, I booed John Rocker last summer; and, caught up in the moment, I loved booing John Rocker. It was fun, a lot of fun. But I wish him no ill will, and I surely don't hate him. If anything, I hate his beliefs. I'll spend my time attacking them, and treat John Rocker the way those people who propound such view beg to be treated. I'll ignore him.

John Paul Rollert '02 is social studies concentrator in Mather House. His column will appear on alternate Wednesdays.