The Worst Types of Fans to Sit Next to at Sports Events

Image via Complex Original

You find your seat, you sit down with your buddies, but it doesn't take long to realize you're sitting in front of Stump the Schwab who's regaling his friends, his date, himself with updates on every player past and present and giving D-League/Minor League/Draft reports regarding the potential future of the franchise. When he overhears you telling your friend "This guy's gonna be decent in a few years," you hear a sudden *pffft* that whiffs of condescension directly over your left shoulder. Consider that passive-aggression better than the alternative: An agreement followed by him engaging you for ten minutes about the direction of the organization.

We're not sure what's worse: Sitting next to a guy rattling off the greatest tight ends of the last 20 years, or the guy who keeps wondering why the Broncos went with "Archie" Manning over "That Tebow kid." In-between stupid observations he refers to Von Miller as "No. 58."

*Thinks for two seconds*

We'll go with this guy being worse. 

It's one thing to constantly scream "Holding!" "That's a strike!" or "That's a foul you Stevie Wonder motherfucker!" It's another to shout that nonsense from 300 level. What's to hate more: Heckling minuscule rules infractions from the nose bleeds or cupping your hands to scream at a zebra from point-blank range? Don't mull it over too long, it's a trick question.

The good news is you won't have to sit next to him long because he'll probably bolt with a quarter left to play. The bad news is that he'll whine about everything from the officials to wide-open misses to the fact that his God damn ram suit is too hot in a packed gym.

Something that we have to accept is that social media is here (probably) forever. People like pretending they're celebrities. It's something we have to embrace accept. So it's only natural to go to a game and risk an accidental ass-picking photobomb of the bubbly yuppie group in front of you cataloging every moment in life instead of just living it.

During baseball games it's especially short-sighted seeing as how flying projectiles are constantly fired into the seats at 100 MPH (see the near death experience above). But constantly hearing the group in front of you say "Okay, time for another picture!" and holding the camera in front of the action is a metaphorical injury. The possibility that one of their Facebook friends might write "Ew, who is that creep sitting behind you? LMFAO," is the insult that could be added to it.

Above witness Ronnie "Woo Woo" Wickers, a Chicago legend who's as inconspicuous as his middle name suggests. If there's one link you should click on all year it's this one, if only to give yourself the migraine necessary to skip a day of work. If you're in a place where you can't use speakers then picture living next door to an airfield. Got that pictured? Good. Now erase that image and replace it with a 71-year-old man in a full Cubs uniform screaming "Woo!" for hours on end.

Somehow he's "polarizing" instead of "unanimously despised." At long last he's losing his voice after a mere 55 years of "wooing." Any other fan base would've lost their collective marbles by now, but if there's one thing Cubs fans know how to do it's wait.

For the record this is me (not literally). The dude who doesn't boo nor cheer. Just sits there and watches the game (or in the above case, the souls of everybody watching at home). As somebody who's fairly self-aware I realize that if everybody were like me, Ray Allen would've hit that Game Six three-pointer and the response from the 20,000+ would've added up to a small golf clap that would've been eerier than The Blair Witch, Paranormal Activity and that little kid from The Omen combined.

You see this all the time at baseball games, fans desperately yearning for a $9 piece of rawhide like it's a winning Powerball ticket. But it can apply to other sports with T-shirt giveaways, wanting athlete high fives, and reaching up for slingshotted hot dogs. At least if you're under 18 you have the whole "I'm a kid excuse," the same bullshit that gets 10-year-olds out of paying income taxes on their allowances. If you're over 18 and you're begging Derek Jeter for a ball you're just a panhandler. But at least a panhandler is begging for something he needs, like money to go buy crack.

Everybody hates should hate mascots. But at least they get paid. To deck yourself out in the gear of a self-proclaimed "Superfan" is to publicly exclaim that meaning has eluded your life but for 16 Sundays a year. To sit next to the guy who has the nuts to tell everyone else when to stand and "Get Loud," makes you envy those who got stiffed out of their tickets by some scumbag on StubHub.

The thing about the fan with the glove is that he never catches the ball anyway. The fact that he hasn't shagged a fly in 20 years shouldn't even give you the illusion of safety. In fact, it should make you feel less secure because it's likely that the mitt-bringing fan will pull his glove at the last second giving you no-time to react and leaving you like Ashley Judd from Simon Birch.

Which is to say "dead."

If you're not a baseball fan, and you're truly dark, seeing the potential of a grown man falling over a ledge for a souvenir (above) may be the most excitement you'll get from America's pastime.

Whether it's waving at a camera with a cellphone in his hand, dancing for the Jumbotron operator, or mooning the viewing public (above) the attention hog is devoid of shame like a prostitute or a...well that's actually a pretty good example right there.

True story: I was at a White Sox-Rays game in late September of 2012 when the Sox got knocked out of playoff contention. An entire year dwindled to another late season collapse by my beloved Southsiders who consistently wilt every fall. You'd think the rest of the fans would lament the sorry effort the squad put together during yet another stretch run. But instead, every time "Call Me Maybe," started blaring people danced like they were at a club in a desperate attempt at milliseconds of Jumbotron fame. The only reason we were there (allegedly) was baseball, and yet a team with another disappointing late season run eluded fan angst thanks to a combination of "Look at Me" casual fans as well as Carly Rae Jepsen and her chart-topping hook.

The first time he swears at the opposing team it's kind of funny. You're confused why his parents didn't bat an eye but maybe he's a good kid who had a slip of the tongue. Ten minutes later you realize these people are raising a little asshole. The type that'll call an eight-year-old a "little asshole" in a future slideshow.

If this problem isn't nipped in the bud what's he going to be like in 2034? Or 2054?

In the lower middle of this pic you have your first answer to the question posited in the last slide. Click to the picture at the right for an answer to your second. Spoiler: It's the same answer.

The 48-year-old heckler is more obnoxious because (s)he's acquired life experience and (s)he still feels it necessary to unleash tirades on pro athletes who can't respond. The only person who secretly likes the heckler is the backup. This type of grassroots fan movement might spread and be his shot at playing time. Of course, that all changes when the backup actually gets into the game and screws up.

From a distance "The drunk" is entertaining. From the same row, not so much. With this slide we bring you two sides of the same Coors Light pounding coin. Are all drunks created equal? Well consider what annoys you more. Do you hate the type who downs a few and becomes the section comedian with slurred heckles and incomprehensible observations? Or, do you hate the type that drinks until they pass out and leaves you sitting next to somebody who both resembles and smells like a stall in a bar bathroom? For us it's the second one (pictured above). By the 8th inning we'd feel obligated to turn to her less-intoxicated buddies and say "I don't know you, I'll never see you guys again, and I have no business butting into your life, but your friend really needs to get her fuckin' shit together. Seriously."

Most of the time you luck out and get seated between a group of fans who are of the mind that "We're all just here to have a good time." But there's the small, dreadful possibility, when going to games on the road, that the ushers will lead you past a line that shouldn't be crossed and all of a sudden you feel like you just wondered into a Crips neighborhood wearing a little too much red. If your team loses you'll be bombarded with taunts of "[Your team] sucks." If your team wins you'll be bombarded with taunts of "[Your team] sucks," followed by a homophobic slur, followed by a half-full beer cup.

The stoic Giants fan in the upper left knows the feeling.

Having homophobic slurs hurled at you is one thing. The seventh grade preps you well for that. But when you combine alcohol with important topics like "Colin Kaepernick is overrated," and "Joe Montana is not the best quarterback of all time," well then you got a full-blown riot in the bleachers.

A tribute to grandiose narcissism. Way to go you wrote onto some cardboard with a Vis-a-Vis and blocked the family behind you. Odds are they won't say anything because they're trying to be cool and they figure "No way this guy is so self-centered that he'd shat on our experience for a slim chance of getting a two-second TV window." But that naive faith is rarely rewarded. Instead the silence emboldens the egomaniac. If it's an ESPN alliteration then you truly are amongst the worst types of people who've ever lived. And yeah, that stretches across time and space from Attila the Hun, to Pol Pot, to Rick Moranis. Think about it, is that really the type of group you want to be a part of?