Cheer on the Inside

Think of war back in the day when we fought with large rocks tied to big branches. Food was scarce and your clan got pumped to avenge the slaying of one of your clan members by a rival clan over a deer claim or something caveman like that. Both clans meet up in whatever was the 10,000 BC version of the schoolyard and your clan puts the hurt on real good. When it’s all said and done and the last rival has fallen, everyone in your clan looks around, raises their stone-branch weapons and they roar in victory. Except one guy, he keeps his caveman bullshit to himself and in his calm sees figures over the far hill and cries out, “Look out! More assholes!” Your clan is alerted, they catch the other clan with higher ground, and the clash is over. The quiet man saves the day. Where is this archetype today?

I attempted to caveman out at a concert once. I was well accompanied by a beautiful Spaniard girl who’d been my bartender the week before. All week long I admired my own prowess. I made faces in the mirror that gorillas make when they pound their chest. On date night I picked her up in my mother’s car. When the lights of the arena dimmed and the main act was hitting the stage, the crowd buzzed. Whistles and claps and stomps filled the air and the atmosphere was thick for cave-manning. I clapped my hands and the cave-manning erupting all around me signaled me to clap harder. Intro music pumped from the speakers and psyched everyone up. When the band appeared, it was a jungle. I did something that was that moment’s stone-branch-thing in the air: I cupped my hands and I roared like a beast. My lungs filled the air of that arena and it was cathartic. I turned to the darling Spaniard. I wanted her to follow suit with a cave-woman grunt. I wanted to grunt back and pound my chest to let other males know that the darling Spaniard was with me. Instead, she offered, ‘You scream like a girl.’ What face do gorillas make when they don’t get the girl? That’s the face I no doubt made for the rest of that night.

Caveman types need to be admired; they sing our songs, they play our sports, they dance to our occasions. But next time you’re at a concert, and the guy in front of you isn’t clapping along or waving his cellphone light with the rest of the hive, leave him alone. He’s got your flank.