I’m not a fan. There’s something missing in my personality make-up—seriously. I watched the royal wedding on television for about ten minutes and became bored. I never cheer at football games, don’t even attend them. I’m not into sports past the physical fun of participation. I never screamed at Mick Jagger or the Beattles, never swooned over Elvis, none of that stuff. I’ve never sought a single autograph. I don’t follow celebrity gossip. I seldom know who they’re talking about, anyway.

When I was in high school (a thousand years ago), I was a cheerleader for about two months. I had to quit. I didn’t know what was going on out there on the field and didn’t care. Worse, I didn’t care who won—except that it made the home team happy to win, so I wanted them to win. I knew the only reason I was a cheerleader: I looked cute in that uniform, and it got me flattering attention from boys. My conscience hurt. The hypocrisy was too much. I quit.

And just as I am not a fan, I don’t like fans of me. It took only one or two experiences when I was very young to teach me to run from that kind of “admiration.” It is not fun—indeed, it is very weird to have someone look at you with glazed eyes. Frankly, it scares me to death.

Since I lack fanhood in my nature, I look at it Spock-like, as a human ideosyncracy, an oddity (to me) and I see it as the stuff of tragedy.

Poor Father Corapi. Poor fans of Father Corapi. If he’s innocent and he’s telling the truth when he says that his superiors just want to shoot him down—still, poor Father Corapi. If he’s guilty and lying about his superiors, poor Father Corapi. Poor fans of Father Corapi—they have to be disappointed, confused, angry. No matter whose side they’re on, they’re having a very hard time. Fans of Father Maciel went through a worse hell, defending him even after his guilt was proven. Father Corapi hasn’t been proven guilty, so his fans must endure that doubt and suspense now, not knowing whether to string him up or to worship him still more. It’s tragic.

I once had a friend, a fan of Father Corapi, who wanted me to go with her to one of his talks down in Florida. The place was packed. We had good seats, up close to him where he stood talking for hours (I felt sorry for him having to stand so long).  Nothing he said was new in any way. Anyone who had a Catechism already knew all he had to say, and the poor man had to say it over and over, first in one city and then another. Yet they all looked at him with that rapt glaze—I thought he was trapped, imprisoned by their expectations. He had a very impressive speaking voice, and since nothing he said was new, I decided that the reason for his popularity was his strong masculine delivery, very emphatic and assertive. I think there is a great hunger for that among Catholics.

That hunger was more interesting to me than he was—its causes and what all of its consequences may be. We already see one consequence: Father Corapi. But that’s a familiar story, a tragedy that was bound to happen. Not because of any fatal flaw in him (though he may be riddled with them, for all I know), but because of the fan mentality.