How many times can this hit home? Probably not until I stop going to live sports events.

I am not a sports fan. Not of any team. Not of any individual. And never again will be.

At least, not in a fashion that would be recognized as fandom by actual sports fans.

Why? Because I was in journalism too long. And traditional fan-like behavior — cheering, applauding, ticket-purchasing, jersey-buying — was leeched out of me during my career. Not that I ever was going to be a fanatic, frothing and screaming. But for me, now, to sit in the stands among other fans … it’s like being the atheist at a spiritual revival.

Some of this is learned behavior. You work in sports journalism, practically the first thing you’re told is, “No cheering in the press box.”

At first, it might be a little tricky to live up to. Eventually, it becomes innate. You sit when others stand. You don’t make a peep when others are shouting. You study a scene impassively while others are celebrating. That’s being professional.

But then this other concept takes root, as well.

You’ve seen too much. You know too much.

You understand just how imperfect is the guy who pitched the perfect game. You have seen the superstar in eclipse. You know his dark side.

You’ve seen teams treat players callously. You know the owner is a cretin and the general manager a dope and the coach/manager a fraud.

It can’t help but jade you. It has to turn you into a cynic. Yeah, nice play, but that kid is an idiot. I’ve talked to him. Clever play, considering that guy is a stoner.

Fans are at a safe remove. In the stands. On the other side of the TV screen. Their contact with athletes is fleeting and limited, allowing them to create heroic (and mythic) figures out of people who are every bit as human and fallible as the people you really do know.

Journalism tends to make cynics of most of us. But the effect seems pronounced in sports journalism, a field where nearly everyone enters as a fan and exits as a jock-world weary unbeliever.

You retain an ability to watch and appreciate competition. Very much so. But even then, you find yourself dissecting it rather than celebrating it. Again, I am reminded of religion. Of how many of the leaders of organized religion eventually become disdainful of it. In their own field, they know the “great and powerful Oz” is just a man manipulating machines from behind a curtain.

Same deal for sports journalists.

The trigger for this bit of self-realization was the Dodgers’ game vs. the White Sox on Wednesday night. My childhood chum, Frankie Poturica, invited me to go along with him, and we sat in a couple of good seats down the first-base line, on the loge (second) level. Where I was surrounded by fans. And why wouldn’t I be?

I was reminded that actual fans cheer and shout and stand up and clap. And all of that just wasn’t going to happen for me. I don’t do that. I looked up at the press box … where the impartial observers were sitting stoically. I am still one of them, and always will be, even while sitting in Seat 5, Row L, Section 140.

I’m glad I went, grateful that Frankie Poturica invited me. I enjoy watching a game. Even if my behavior might seem a bit abnormal, to the crowd.

There’s a sense of something being lost … but with no regret. There is a realization that knowledge has killed some potential for joy … but you won’t give back that knowledge.

It must be fun to be able to forget the real world for a bit, when you’re in the stadium/arena. I can see that it appears to be fun for lots of people. For fans. But I no longer have the need or ability to join in … I realize anew.