Happy Heckler

There is a thrill in walking into a sporting arena that's jam-packed, buzzing with energy and eager for the game to start. There is another sort of thrill, which very few people understand, in walking into a deserted stadium. Everyone watches the big games, everyone knows the days when their team scaled those mighty peaks but there are people more interested in the depths, when athletes perform in empty arenas and hear echoes of their own voices.

It's often said that an athlete reveals himself under pressure, when a sell-out crowd is roaring him on, cranking up the expectation levels. I think athletes reveal quite a lot even when no-one is watching. In fact, it must be really difficult to simulate pressure in empty stadiums, to know you're career is on the line amid this silence.

Often in these silent times, a spectator will take the opportunity to liven up the day. In Mumbai you're likely to hear of Vijay Gaundalkar, the umpire who lost his head and turned into a traveling supporter. Gravy and Chickie were very much part of games at the Antigua Recreation Ground and there are tales of Kojak in Cape Town, hollering away during South Africa's sporting isolation the '70s. And then there was Yabba, the legendary barracker in Sydney.

The best part about these guys is that they're always there. Through thick and thin, they're by the team. They have plenty of advice and abuses to hurl but usually, heart of heart, they really care. They land up every morning hoping that some time in the distant future the dark days will pass. That some day in their lifetime, their team will lift the ultimate prize.

If you're one of those who enjoys the silent times, you'll enjoy Ashby Jones' piece in WSJ. The deck sums up the story well: As Tampa Bay Rays draw a noisy throng, Robert Szasz gets drowned out. This was the Rays' first home game in a World Series. Szasz was very much there but, for once, in a really sweet irony, his voice wasn't heard.