Dear Glob,
Before he became a member of the “Superfriends of South Beach,” I was mildly obsessed with Dwyane Wade. Overshadowed by the plethora of talent available during the 2003 NBA draft, Wade had a relatively quiet rookie year in Miami, where I watched him develop into my ideal athlete: unselfish yet always competitive, amazing game changing fourth quarter/playoff style play, and, conveniently, incredibly easy on the eyes. During Wade’s Sophomore year Shaquille O’Neal arrived with one of the biggest trades in NBA history. Naturally the media hooplah that followed cast a bright spotlight on the Heat, and though more people finally began to truly appreciate Wade’s talent, it wasn’t until the 2005/2006 season, when the Heat won the title with Wade named MVP, that he was cemented with bonafide Star status. Case in point: I was down in South Beach for New Year’s Eve 2004 (soon to be 2005) celebrating at some big trendy club. Sometime after midnight, a mob excitedly formed as Shaq and his entourage entered the club. I briefly joined in on the catcalls for autographs and pictures, though didn’t follow the masses as Shaq was ushered into the private exclusive area reserved for Very Important People. Next thing you know my friend is rushing towards me, exclaiming that she heard the entire Heat team just arrived. Brushing off her excitement citing I had already seen Shaq, she ignored my disinterest and pointed to a certain fellow, discreetly standing to the side of the dance floor. It was Dwyane Wade, hanging out in the midst of an unnoticing crowd surrounding him. Completely flummoxed, I followed my friend as she coolly introduced herself and gave a witty remark on the triple-double he had scored during the previous night’s game. As soon as my initial shock wore off, on cue the word vomit began. My friend thankfully cut my overly enthusiastic reign of praise short, requested a picture (where I smiled stupidly as Wade put his arm around me), then lead me away and promptly yelling at me for ruining a chance of a lifetime. Had I not spent the entire flight to Miami dreamily (though half jokingly) plotting out how I was going to meet Dwyane Wade in person? What the hell happened to me?
Before he became a member of the “Superfriends of South Beach,” I was mildly obsessed with Dwyane Wade. Overshadowed by the plethora of talent available during the 2003 NBA draft, Wade had a relatively quiet rookie year in Miami, where I watched him develop into my ideal athlete: unselfish yet always competitive, amazing game changing fourth quarter/playoff style play, and, conveniently, incredibly easy on the eyes. During Wade’s Sophomore year Shaquille O’Neal arrived with one of the biggest trades in NBA history. Naturally the media hooplah that followed cast a bright spotlight on the Heat, and though more people finally began to truly appreciate Wade’s talent, it wasn’t until the 2005/2006 season, when the Heat won the title with Wade named MVP, that he was cemented with bonafide Star status. Case in point: I was down in South Beach for New Year’s Eve 2004 (soon to be 2005) celebrating at some big trendy club. Sometime after midnight, a mob excitedly formed as Shaq and his entourage entered the club. I briefly joined in on the catcalls for autographs and pictures, though didn’t follow the masses as Shaq was ushered into the private exclusive area reserved for Very Important People. Next thing you know my friend is rushing towards me, exclaiming that she heard the entire Heat team just arrived. Brushing off her excitement citing I had already seen Shaq, she ignored my disinterest and pointed to a certain fellow, discreetly standing to the side of the dance floor. It was Dwyane Wade, hanging out in the midst of an unnoticing crowd surrounding him. Completely flummoxed, I followed my friend as she coolly introduced herself and gave a witty remark on the triple-double he had scored during the previous night’s game. As soon as my initial shock wore off, on cue the word vomit began.
This was my first poignant experience with my personal expression of Fandom. Note: This is not to be confused with being Starstruck; au contraire - I’m usually the New Yorker nonchalantly brushing off the James Franco and Derek Jeter sightings. But when it comes to someone who I genuinely admire, I regress into a wide-eyed school girl, blowing all chances of being “cool” in front of a person who I so desperately don’t want to think I’m a complete moron. Sadly, after a handful of similar pitiful chance meetings with people of my highest esteem, I am resigned to this sorry fate. Ironically enough, this behavior is not only reserved for people who have garnered widespread fame. I’ve also made a fool of myself in front of a musician who opened for Kid Koala whose performance I wholeheartedly enjoyed despite never previously hearing her music, a girl whose food blog I religiously read and recommendations I unwaveringly trust, a bartender whose cocktail I sampled at a Bacon and Bourbon expo, a member of the Mark Morris Dance company, a barista who makes beautiful Cortados, etc. In each of these situations, I’ve been unable to express my admiration in a non-stalkerish eloquent way. Perhaps my own self deprecating image of myself cannot fathom socializing or, as an even more deep seated desire, to somehow become friends with the aforementioned people. Wow, that’s depressing - I should work on that, huh? But to those people who have yet to be recognized by the masses (as in my mind you rightfully should), may you garner some delight from this one girl’s incredibly awkward hum of praise... and her unavoidable geeky requests for a high-five before she runs away in embarrassment with the realization that she has inevitably once again botched her once-in-a-lifetime first impression.
