Devils den

New Jersey fanbase generates more noise than respect

The 10th circle of hell is Section 217 at Continental Airlines Arena. This dark, forbidding corner in the upper bowl is populated by men named -- if the letters on the backs of their New Jersey Devils sweaters are to be believed -- Mr. Intensity, Devil Dan, Bubble Boy, Two Beers (he always seems to be holding at least one) and The Flagbearer (he carries a small Devils flag). They are fans in roughly the same way the Mansons were a family.

As far as I can tell, Two Beers is the shaman of 217. He scowls more often than grumpy Devils coach Pat Burns, paces the back row like a caged wildcat and periodically emits a piercing whistle that leads the crowd in a well-rehearsed chant of "Rangers Suck!" I secretly root for the Devils to win not because I grew up, went to college and later worked in New Jersey -- I left 24 years ago, when the Devils were still the Colorado Rockies -- but out of fear that Two Beers will have an aneurysm if the Devils don't.

During the second intermission of Game 7 of the Stanley Cup finals, with New Jersey leading the thoroughly whipped Mighty Ducks of Anaheim 2-0, a man wearing a Devils jersey with SCOTT STEVENS written on the back loudly admonished section 217 -- "Focus, people!" -- as if their attention to detail would have as much impact on the outcome as goalie Martin Brodeur's. That guy wearing the Stevens sweater reminded the nearby fans that they were 20 minutes from the greatest moment of their lives.

In the annals of American fandom the New York Rangers supporters who fill the nosebleed seats at Madison Square Garden, maybe six miles as the crow flies from the Meadowlands, have long been regarded as its leading sociopaths -- and I mean that in the most affectionate sense of the word. Once again, New Jersey is denied the credit it deserves.

Getting hosed is a recurring theme of New Jersey life. The state has produced America's finest inventor (Thomas Edison), its finest university (Princeton), its finest crooner (Frank Sinatra), its finest rocker (Bruce Springsteen), its finest actor (Jack Nicholson), its finest actress (Meryl Streep) and inspired its finest TV drama (The Sopranos), yet the only recognition the state seems to get is when it serves as a punch line for Jay Leno. In a recent New Yorker story about bears in New Jersey -- yes, there are hundreds -- the estimable John McPhee (the finest nature writer) described it as "the slyest state" because it allows transients moving along the New York-to-Philadelphia corridor to see only the belching factories of the northern New Jersey megalopolis while preserving its great, if sometimes inconspicuous, natural beauty for itself. The point he was making is that New Jersey has been labeled unfairly as a toxic sinkhole when in fact it is remarkably diverse geographically, even if pretentious Manhattanites think they need shots and a passport to cross the George Washington Bridge. That elitist attitude is enough to make even this former New Jerseyan Two-Beers angry.

If there is a common thread in this bedroom state that identifies equally with New York and Philly, it is the deep font of negative energy that bathes the whole area. With the exception of the Oakland Raiders, no team does negativity better than the Devils. The Devils were built by the wiles of general manager Lou Lamoriello, the drafting of scouting director David Conte and unmatched player development. But they thrive day-to-day on the secretive, chip-on-the-shoulder approach that prompted John MacLean, a popular player and now a New Jersey assistant coach, to label the Devils "The Firm," after the creepy John Grisham novel. The team's annual concern is the Stanley Cup, not marketing, not making friends and not kissing ABC/ESPN's synergistic butt.

The risk, of course, is not getting their due even as they chug-a-lug from Lord Stanley's mug. With three Cups and four appearances in the finals in nine years, New Jersey has been as accomplished as the heroes of Hockeytown, the Detroit Red Wings, but the Devils' defensive style generates none of the buzz the Wings get. The disrespect filters down to players such as Brodeur and Stevens. Brodeur, who could surpass Patrick Roy's career records for regular-season victories (551), had never won a Vezina Trophy until this season and lost the Conn Smythe Trophy to Anaheim's Jean-Sebastien Giguere despite a playoff-record seven shutouts. Stevens, meanwhile, is a tour-de-force defenseman who has never won the Norris Trophy.

Even the Devils' home arena gets dumped on, often by the Yankees-Nets ownership group that craves a new building in Newark. Other than a lack of luxury suites, the 22-year-old Continental Airlines Arena is swell -- excellent sight lines, easy accessibility off the New Jersey Turnpike, tons of parking. (Never underestimate the importance of a parking spot in New Jersey. The Swedes were among the first settlers in the state, and unless I'm wrong, they must have come for the parking.) You pull into a Meadowlands lot for a Devils game, pay a relatively modest fee and head to the game. Try parking around the Garden. The lots don't give you a receipt, they hand you a ransom note: "Pay $32 or you'll never see your Toyota again."

I'm sure Devil Dan, Two Beers and Mr. Intensity can explain the zeitgeist of New Jersey better than I can. But if you ask them, just remember to focus.

Sports Illustrated senior writer Michael Farber covers the NHL for the magazine and is a regular contributor to SI.com.

 

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