Here’s what I want to know: why does just about every team in the Major Leagues have team colors that incorporate the three boring colors: white, red, and blue. Let’s take a look at teams whose caps do not feature a color other than the aforementioned three:
Red Sox,
Yankees,
Rays,
Blue Jays,
Twins,
Indians,
Royals,
Angels,
Rangers,
Phillies,
Braves,
Nationals,
Cardinals,
Cubs,
Reds,
Dodgers,
Diamondbacks, and
Padres. That leaves the orange teams (
Orioles,
Tigers,
Mets,
Giants), green (
Mariners,
A’s,
Marlins), and gold (
Astros,
Brewers), then the purple of the
Rockies and black and white of the White Sox. So what’s up with the monotony of professional sports dress? In college, there’s the maroon of USC and Alabama, yellow of
Michigan and Cal, purple of TCU and Northwestern, orange of Florida and Tennessee—it’s just more interesting in the NCAA. When I go to a game, I want to be able to distinguish the fans of one team versus another. How cool is it to watch a Texas football game and sea a sea of burnt orange, then a segregated fifty or so fans, tucked away in one corner of the stadium wearing Oklahoma red? If I’m at Fenway, and I knock over someone’s beer, I want to be able to anticipate whether I should apologize—‘cause there’s nothing worse than saying “excuse me”, only to realize that it was a Yankee fan you accidentally shoved, and he didn’t deserve an apology. If the Yanks sported the more appropriate color of tickle-me-pink, Sox fans could see ahead of time who was holding up the hot dog line, who the drunk fan trying to hit on the ball girl was, and wouldn’t have to hold off judgment until they got a closer look at his hat. So next time
a team decides to change their logo (ehem, Rays, ehem), I hope they don’t go with the flow and make it just like everyone else’s. The next expansion team—no matter what sport or what city—should be called the
Supernovae.
Michigan and Cal, purple of TCU and Northwestern, orange of Florida and Tennessee—it’s just more interesting in the NCAA. When I go to a game, I want to be able to distinguish the fans of one team versus another. How cool is it to watch a Texas football game and sea a sea of burnt orange, then a segregated fifty or so fans, tucked away in one corner of the stadium wearing Oklahoma red? If I’m at Fenway, and I knock over someone’s beer, I want to be able to anticipate whether I should apologize—‘cause there’s nothing worse than saying “excuse me”, only to realize that it was a Yankee fan you accidentally shoved, and he didn’t deserve an apology. If the Yanks sported the more appropriate color of tickle-me-pink, Sox fans could see ahead of time who was holding up the hot dog line, who the drunk fan trying to hit on the ball girl was, and wouldn’t have to hold off judgment until they got a closer look at his hat. So next time 
a team decides to change their logo (ehem, Rays, ehem), I hope they don’t go with the flow and make it just like everyone else’s. The next expansion team—no matter what sport or what city—should be called the Supernovae.
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