Cry Baby, Cry

Writer: Ashtyn Butuso

Illustrator: Andrew Gragg

“There are certain moments I go into knowing I’m going to cry. But still, when the tears come, I try to hide them.”

There are certain moments I go into knowing I’m going to cry. But still, when the tears come, I try to hide them. It doesn't matter who I’m with; I make every attempt and effort to stop the tears or, if that fails, hide or subtly wipe my eye as if I simply suffer from Itchy Cornea Disease. I can be with my closest friend, my sibling, even my husband, it doesn’t matter. I’m still doing my damnedest to pretend I’m a tough little cookie. Often, the waterworks come at normal times—at a friend’s wedding or during a sad film (no, I don’t use the word film in real life, that is reserved for the pretentiousness necessary for The Written Prose). I’ve never told anyone this, but a place I find myself crying at—every single time, without fail—is a basketball game.

People cry for a myriad of reasons, and I’m not Neil deGrasse Tyson or even an actual scientist (I just play one on TV), so I can’t adequately explain the intricacies of hormonal releases and the cathartic relief that comes with a good cry. I’m really just here for my own cathartic relief: the feeling of knowing that maybe I'm not the only one who does this. Besides, the crying I’m referring to isn’t necessarily to release pent-up hormones for some kind of biological survival. I cry at basketball games because I am just feeling so much. Am I alone in this admission? Do you cry at basketball games? When you hear the announcer say, “WEARING THE LETTER O…DAMIAN…LILLARD!” do you suddenly feel the urge to bite the inside of your cheek and lightly tap the inner corner of your eye (this itchy cornea acts up at the silliest times)? When your partner says, “are you crying?” do you confidently say, “what? me? no?” as if they are the kooky freak, asking a silly question, while you sit there very serene and undisturbed, taking in the sights and sounds as if you were surveying regular, everyday people from a park bench?

Sometimes I cry when my favorite player hits a big three. Sometimes, I cry when two players dap each other up in a huddle. You know the tears are definitely hittin’ during starting lineup announcements at a home game; that’s a given for this little biotch.

“Big girls (gender-neutral) do cry! It’s just that it happens mostly at sporting events.”

Fergie first sang “Big Girls Don’t Cry” in 2006, 12 years before the 2018 All-Star National Anthem debacle. After attending that game (and probably scrolling through Twitter to see the general population’s reaction to her performance), I bet she was whistling a different tune. Big girls (gender-neutral) do cry! It’s just that it happens mostly at sporting events.

This past summer, I went to a Mercury-Liberty game at Barclays. I sat in the most regular degular seats in the building and ate the most regular degular food the concessions could offer (shout out to Barclays for having vegan options, albeit very regular degular ones). Despite my entirely regular experience, you guessed it, I cried.

Of course, the seats, the food, the fact that it was way too air-conditioned because the city of New York cannot figure out how to regulate temperatures regardless of how modern the building is—none of that mattered. The only thing that matters is the fact that, at that moment, I was lucky enough to witness something I love, maybe more than anything. I was lucky enough to see Skylar Diggins-Smith talk her shit while she dropped 30 on ‘em. So, is a bodily need to expel the overwhelming, overflowing electric (science word) energy from within me even strange? Or are the non-criers the freaks here—those who maintain a straight, dry face in the midst of the most exhilarating and intoxicating experience known to man? Yes, Jesus said, “do not weep for me,” so perhaps non-criers are just following good old-fashioned Christian values, but I wonder: if he was posterizing guys and averaging a triple-double (I think he would be if he hooped) would he understand the reason for my tears?

“Not to get too sciencey on you, but I did some research (can you imagine?), and I found that tears of sorrow and tears of joy have the exact same composition—apparently, there is no difference between the two.”

Not to get too sciencey on you, but I did some research (can you imagine?), and I found that tears of sorrow and tears of joy have the exact same composition—apparently, there is no difference between the two. Both occur as some kind of attempt by your body to rid itself of being overwhelmed by emotions. Surely though, being sad and being happy are vastly different experiences. Even the tears feel different in some ineffable way. Regardless of the motivation, crying releases oxytocin and endorphins, according to a little place called Harvard Medical School.

I did not find much research on whether the groupthink aspect of being in an arena surrounded by thousands of fans plays a role in my uncontrollable waterwork activation, but I tend to think it does have an impact.

Working in sports has afforded me the opportunity to be in the same room as some of my favorite professional athletes, but the switch from calm and collected to blubbering is only flipped when thousands of my best friends (strangers) join me in my enthusiasm.

There’s a reason Madison Square Garden is such a special place—it’s because it’s filled with emotional freaks pretending we all have dirt in our eyes. I’ve been lucky enough to bear witness to a few different basketball games at MSG, and if there was ever a place to bawl your little baby back eyes out, it’s in da greatest city in da world. (Watching Villanova in the Big East Tournament was a near-spiritual experience for me, partially due to Jay Wright’s impeccable suits). It’s a place where anything goes, you’re allowed to scream your guts out, cry your peepers out, and punch the guy next to you for saying Cam Reddish wants out of da greatest city in da world without judgment.

“I liken those electric moments in the arena to when you first fall in love and you feel completely submerged in obsessive thoughts of your partner— so much so, you could (and do) cry.”

I liken those electric moments in the arena to when you first fall in love and you feel completely submerged in obsessive thoughts of your partner—so much so you could (and do) cry. Since we don’t have direct access to our favorite teams and athletes, we subconsciously craft a perpetual, platonic honeymoon phase (where we live with them until our worst fears come true and they demand a trade). It’s especially amplified when they are enjoying themselves. My favorite player is best friends with another guy on my stinky little team? That’s gonna be a cry for me, dog. A former favorite returns to their old team and the crowd erupts in elated screams (or boos)? I cry every time. A player scores 25+ after being in a months-long slump? Crine!  

Maybe going to sporting events is such an emotional experience because it’s the personification of the community we engage with online on our overpriced couches (why do they cost so much?). Perhaps the explanation is much simpler, and we are just in bizarro pseudo-love. It’s possible that we love a good storyline so much it brings us to tears. Or, maybe the overwhelming feeling of being surrounded by your homies (or haters), and experiencing something you love together, reminds you that you’re alive — a sentiment that is definitely worth crying over, in my opinion.