We all know athletes are a superstitious bunch. The stories range from hockey players who always put on a certain skate before the other to baseball players who will not wash through the duration of a hitting streak. But when does an action move from superstition to involuntary compulsion? Recently, there has been an epidemic that has ravaged professional and even amateur sports: the tribute. One cannot watch any North American sporting event for more than a few minutes without witnessing one of these public displays. Yet what once was the picture of some of the most enduring and iconic moments in sports and even social history has now become a watered down exhibition of meaninglessness, as athletes are compelled to make a public tribute at every turn.
Once-upon-a-time, the tribute was reserved for only the most brazen of individuals in the most heated of emotional or social contexts. Take for example the 1968 summer Olympics in Mexico City. Tommy Smith, upon winning the 200 meter in record time provided the world with a tribute that would mark itself into the history of the games forever. In the midst of racial unrest at home in the United States, the sprinter made a gesture that he would later claim was to raise awareness of human rights. By lifting his hand in a fist into the air while “The Star Spangled Banner” serenaded his victory, Smith made such a powerful statement that he was actually booed off of the field. What cannot be missed in this act was the amount of courage it took for him to do what he did. He knew the consequences and he understood the massive tension. Smith would explain, “if I win, I am American, not a black American. But if I did something bad, then they would say I am a Negro. We are black and we are proud of being black. Black America will understand what we did tonight.” Of course, the issue was so palpable, so acute, that both sides of the fence “understood” what he did that night. The immediacy of interpretation by society at large is part of what made this act so powerful.
Less than a year later, another enduring image was captured into the imaginations and memories of all North American sports fans. Leading up to Superbowl III, the NFL’s Baltimore Colts were seen as heavy favorites against the AFL’s New York Jets. Of course, this didn’t deter the brash young Jets quarterback, Joe Namath from making what would be known as, “the guarantee.” In the face of long odds and little support from the experts, Namath declared that his Jets would in fact defeat the Colts in the penultimate game of the 1968-69 season. Of course, Namath endured much criticism and scoffing at the absurdity of his proclamation, but sure enough, when the dust settled on January 12th, the Jets pulled off the improbable and what many deemed impossible. As he ran off of the field, Namath provided history with another timeless tribute: a single index finger waving in the air. That one simple act carried with it so much more potency than a press conference full of I-told-you-so’s ever could. Why was it so powerful? First, again, it took a brash man to make the guarantee and just as brash of a man to publicly raise that finger. Second, it took a widely understood context, this time everyone who saw that image, everyone who saw Namath raise that finger knew exactly what he meant—there was no doubt. Just as much as that index finger was a reminder of who was number one, who had just been crowned champions, it might as well have been a middle finger to all of the naysayers.
Of course, with anything great eventually comes great misuse. As the spotlight shone, so did the wild imaginations of every millionaire athlete. The tribute eventually evolved into something far less quickly understood, not reserved for the brazen and the brash and certainly not the powerful symbol that it once was. No, the tribute became personal. Take the NBA free-throw routine. Before every free-throw, Jeff Hornacek could be seen itching, or wiping his face. Of course, to the average fan this looked like nothing more than a simple brushing of sweat. But to Hornacek it meant much more. Hornacek used this face time as a way to give a tribute to his kids. Certainly this seems like quite a break from the tributes that we have already discussed: there was no big moment (it could be in the third quarter of a blowout), there was no brash character (Hornacek was the antithesis of brash) and there definitely was no immediately understood context in which the action spoke immediately to the masses of sports fans and even society at large.
A quick look at the evolution of the tribute since Hornacek’s playing days demonstrates just how personal, distant and meaningless the tribute has become. Barry Bonds and Sammy Sosa were two players who led the MLB through the shadows of a lock-out hitting bomb after bomb. Of course, many look at the rise of Bonds’ home run totals as a reaction to the massive press that Sosa was attracting with his own home run duel with Mark McGuire. Sosa had one of the longest tributes in sports history, going lips-heart-peace sign-heart-lips-point to the sky every time he hit another dinger. According to Sosa the various pieces of the act represented tributes to his mother, the fans, broadcasters and others. Of course, it would be difficult to know this without having the man explain it and even he seemed to have different explanations throughout his career for what every part of the complex routine meant. Perhaps Bonds also picked up on Sosa’s elaborate gesturing as he made the tribute an important feature of his run to becoming the all-time home run king. But in contrast to Harnacek’s example, at least these players had some sort of wider context for their actions. Sure, their actual tributes held very little significance for the average viewer, but they were consistently preformed at the moment of fairly high significance, by some of the games preeminent players.
Today, we have moved into a time of tributes that seems to have very little relevance to anything substantial at all. It would seem to the average fan that a player without a tribute would stand out in the crowd. He would be the exception, not the rule. The tribute has become a necessary part of North American sports and is now called upon by the most uninspiring of players in the most unimportant of situations and without any sort of social context for anyone other than the player himself to understand. It is even probable that many players perform tributes out of sheer instinct and don’t even consciously connect the action to anything at all. It is not out of the ordinary to witness a baseball player deep down the bench kiss his fingers before raising them to the air upon beating out a slow roller that broke his bat in the late innings of an already decided game while his team languishes out of the playoffs. It is also possible, that the typical North American sports figure, with his privileged lifestyle, unimaginable wealth and massive fame lives in a world of overestimated self-importance: he doesn’t realize that society at large doesn’t understand his every motive and frankly doesn’t care to do so. When I do my job at work and I finish a task, I certainly don’t think to make a sudden public tribute in honor of a relative at home or all those who helped me along the way. Just because people are watching doesn’t mean they care about you.
Of course, the proliferation of mass tributes and this critique on the subject is in no way a judgment of an athlete’s particular convictions, but rather this critique is a defense of the powerful, transcendent image. It is a plea to put an end to the watering down of the great metaphorical tribute, something whose power seems to be drowning in the pool of these constantly confusing and generally meaningless acts. Is it possible that as a sporting society we could all agree to save the tribute for a time when only the most brazen of athletes in the most significant of moments can instantly speak a thousand volumes to a million viewers, sports fans and greater society without saying a single word? If not, consider this my shout-out to the now deceased tribute as I kiss my fist and point to the sky.
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