No fan shall be made to feel like a jerk just for wanting to shake the hand of an athlete said fan has spent all his time and money idolizing, just because said athlete happens to be 7'1" and 325 pounds with footwork Baryshnikov would've guzzled turpentine for.
The fan shall not suffer parking places that are $4 cab rides to the arena door; nor shall the cost of four tickets, four hot dogs, four sodas, four programs and four souvenir hats to any game exceed that of a 2003 Ford Focus; nor shall old phone books, sliced diagonally, slathered in picante sauce and topped with green goo, be sold as a $9.95 Fiesta Mexicana; nor shall the beer be anything but very, very cold.
It would also be nice if somebody explained the Davis Cup to the fan, preferably Anna Kournikova.
These powers delegated to the fan shall not be construed to mean that said fan can streak, holler "You da Man!", participate in Father-Son Night pummelings, ask for autographs if over the age of 12, or wear those hideous striped Zubaz pants.