I'll be the first to admit that out of my pastimes — reading travel novels, drinking Kool−Aid Jammers and watching "Recess" (1997−2001), to name a few — making fun of Chad Ochocinco has to be near the top of the list.
I've made fun of the fact that his new Spanish surname doesn't quite translate to "eighty−five" and that when wearing a Snuggie he looks more like a Tusken Raider than a human being. I've ridiculed his Ustream, his touchdown dances, his dream to be a journalist and the fact that, when it comes to following his every move, there actually is an app for that.
In my mind, Chad Ochocinco was a clown who happened to play football.
But boy, I'll be the first to admit when I'm wrong.
To SparkNotes the story, as told perfectly by ESPN.com's Amy K. Nelson, Chris Kernich, 23, was a die−hard Bengals and Ochocinco fan. Sadly, after being viciously subjected to an unprovoked attack on the streets, Kernich fell into a coma and passed away. He was buried in an Ochocinco jersey.
Thanks to a few Twitter.com posts — Tweeting? Twittering? Twatting? — Ochocinco found out about the tragedy and called the hospital to speak to his No. 1 fan; and while, unfortunately, it was too late, Ochocinco dedicated his next game to Kernich's memory through a moving post. That sentence right there was 277 characters with spaces. Ochocinco made a difference in fewer than 140.
And therein lies the power of Twitter.
It brings people together, bridging social gaps between elite athletes and the common man standing at the water cooler talking about Ochocinco's latest one−handed grab or pom−pom celebration. Rather than wait weeks — or sometimes, all of eternity — to get a response from an athlete, Twitter allows instant communication.
Whether I like it or not, it's the future of journalism, too.
No, I don't have a Twitter account and no, I don't want to follow yours. It's nothing personal; I just refuse to read about your qualms with Stop and Shop's recent price increase on Twinkies and Bubblicious. But that's only half of Twitter's functionality.
Ochocinco's story is just the tip of the iceberg for Twitter. Unlike Facebook.com or MySpace.com, social media sites to be exact, Twitter can be used as a news source, breaking stories faster than major news sites, because they come straight from the source. Why wait for a story to come out about former Minnesota Timberwolves GM Kevin McHale's firing when you can hear it straight from Timberwolves forward Kevin Love on his personal account?
When someone posts on Twitter, it gives the fan a candid perspective unfiltered by tape recorders and video cameras. But more importantly, it allows a connection previously impossible, when snail mail was the only way to reach out to a favorite superstar.
Over the past NFL season, I've grown progressively fonder of the Cincinnati Bengals. The passing of defensive coordinator Mike Zimmer's wife in October tugged at our heartstrings, as did their last−minute, come−from−behind victory over Baltimore. They became my team of destiny when wide receiver Chris Henry tragically died after Week 9, just as he was getting his career and life back on track. And now this story with Ochocinco.
I always saw Ochocinco as a me−first kind of guy, the type who went out every Sunday to make SportsCenter and earn a few bucks in the process. But his 740,700 followers beg to differ. Sure, he longs for the spotlight and has coughed up more cash in fines than Charles Barkley at the slots, but it's impossible to overlook his big heart. This is a wideout obsessed with connecting with the fans and entertaining the average worker through football.
With the help of Twitter, he made the difference in one family's life.
And proved me wrong in the process.
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Alex Prewitt is a sophomore who has not yet declared a major. He can be reached at Alexander.Prewitt@tufts.edu.
