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Greetings from Fair Play, U.S.A.
Posted: Wednesday January 26, 2000 07:38 PM
Each afternoon during the hype-heavy days leading up to Super Bowl XXXIV, SI's David Fleming will do his best to cut through the S.B.'s B.S. and offer his take on the goings-on. This is Flem's third file in the series. Realizing I could no longer put off the inevitable, I packed my earmuffs, long johns and cliché dictionary and jumped in the family truckster and headed to Atlanta. But a strange thing happened to me on the way to the Super Bowl. About five miles from the Georgia border I tuned in a sports radio show (but only because my only other option was static) and what I heard made me want to turn my car around and go home. From what I could ascertain, this radio idiot -- or radiot -- had lined up an entire show of guests to come on and tell him how great he was. There was also news that people in Tampa, Fla., were trying to file an injunction to stop the Super Bowl in protest of the horrible call late in the NFC Championship Game that nullified a Bert Emanuel catch. I also had to hear about the bean-counting weenies who are already calling this Super Bowl a flop because the teams are from small markets. (Since when did TV numbers become more important to so-called fans than the final score?) Then, during a discussion about things that could happen in the game, the charming host said: "If my aunt had a package she'd be my uncle." Eat your heart out, Dr. Z.
I swerved onto the shoulder and nearly hit a sign for Fair Play, S.C. Since every trip to the Super Bowl should start with Fair Play (unless you're Bucs fans -- then I suppose it starts with legal counsel) I decided to pull off and check out this tiny little hamlet of a few hundred folks, near the shore of Lake Hartwell. It would be my last pit stop for sanity before reaching Atlanta. Or so I thought. The first thing I saw was a billboard for Dad's Restaurant. I was hungry, but the specialty was "Chicken Liver" so I kept driving. There was Ole Dave's Produce and Tackle, sports fields, zero stoplights and four churches, including one that was broadcasting a religious radio program from a loudspeaker in its bell tower. Nice going, I know. First an editor screws up the answers of my NFL quiz, then I take a trip to the Twilight Zone. A WHYLO twice in 36 hours, that must be some kind of record. Then I drove by Ms. Holly's General Store, where the sign begged me to COME IN AND BROWSE. So that's exactly what I did. Ms. Holly, 72, was a bit under the weather, so some friends of hers, Sam and Bonnie, were running the place. "Go tell Ms. Holly I write the Flem File," I said. "That'll get her out of bed." Blank stares. Nuttin' but blank stares. Another assignment off to a roaring start. Actually Sam and Bonnie could not have been nicer, more hospitable, more helpful or more tolerant of this doofus media guy who just invaded their nice little store. Oh, that store. It was a thing to behold. Heated by a cast-iron stove, it had everything you could ever want -- most of it stacked right on top of each other: Eggs next to Skoal; fan belts above Twinkies, saw blades and Triscuits; corn-cob pipes and $2 bags of home roasted peanuts next to copies of The Matrix. It was like my old bachelor pad in Mason, Ohio. Sam explained to me the origin of the town's unique moniker. About a hundred years ago two fellas were about to fight. The townspeople surrounded them and right before they started to whale on each other someone yelled: "Now let's make sure we have fair play." Yeah, sure, the two guys still beat the crap out of each other but, well, it was a fair fight and a unique town name was born. "Well," I asked, "are your athletic teams more sportsmanlike because of the town's name?" "Naw," admitted Sam, "there's nothing different here than any place else." "Yeah, but we like it here because it's quiet and there's no crime," added the grandmotherly Bonnie. "'Cept maybe for a little bit of drugs." "Not much has changed here in the last hundred years," said a women shopping next to her dog. "Biggest thing was they paved the roads." "Y'all got a prediction for the game on Sunday?" I asked. "I don't even know who's playing," said Bonnie. "Will you marry me?" I asked. She declined. "Sundays 'round here are for church and spending time with my five grandchildren." Sam's answer was even better, although I chose not to ask for his hand in marriage. "Years ago I enjoyed watching that game," he said, running his fingers though his stringy silver hair. "But there's so much money and attention now, it's not really a game anymore, so I have completely lost interest in it." Sam put it into words better than I ever could. Then, after promising to bring them back a souvenir on my way through town next Monday, I jumped back in my car and rolled out of town. Behind me was Fair Play. Ahead was the world's largest trash-talking, money-walking, ego-squawking, pride-hawking, out-of-control-primadonnas-like-Macaulay-Culkin festival on earth. And that's just the media. Five minutes after arriving in Atlanta, I heard over the loudspeaker in the media center an announcement for what I believe was the Chunky Soup Chunky Lineman Contest. My guess was the league's fattest players were going to be weighed to see who is indeed the chunkiest of them all. Soon, I was sure, there would be an announcement about a contest where fans would set themselves on fire to be the first to eat cold nachos at the ESPN Zone. I clicked my heels three times, hoping to return to Fair Play. But not a damn thing happened. Sports Illustrated staff writer David Fleming explores the sometimes weird and wacky side of sports every Thursday. Click here to send an e-mail to Flem, or address it yourself: flemfile@aol.com. The opinions expressed here are solely those of the writer.
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