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What’s small, obnoxiously loud, and scattered around cities housing MLB teams?

I’ll give you a hint, sports fans: the answer is not illegitimate children. 

Give up? 

It’s grandstand fan clubs! The small groups of die-hard baseball fans you see sitting in the cheap seats and wearing ridiculous costumes are the heart and soul of any good home crowd. These people take the words “Root, root, root for the home team” to heart. 

They cheer louder than the Raiderettes, are more creative than Martha Stewart, and drink more booze than Bluto.

In Atlanta there were Shef’s Chefs, a group of Gary Sheffield fans who wore chef’s hats and aprons to every home game.

Philadelphia has the Wolf Pack, a group of Randy Wolf fanatics who wear wolf masks and fake claws, have a choreographed dance, and sing “Werewolves of London” whenever Wolf takes the mound.

Also in Philly, and slightly less politically correct, is Padilla’s Flotilla, a group of Vicente Padilla followers who dress up in sombreros and ponchos, bring tortillas to the games, and pretend to row a boat with every strikeout Padilla records.

So what, right?

Well, my buddy Jason and I were watching the UCLA baseball game the other day, and we got to talking about the aforementioned fan clubs. Then we decided we needed to start one at UCLA. We went down the roster, throwing names around, letting the creative juices flow like a stream of tobacco spit, and trying to find a nice rhyme-scheme.

First we came up with Thayer’s Slayers, to honor Bruin left fielder Matt Thayer. The plan was to dress up like the Grim Reaper, set up camp on the hill behind the left field fence, and develop a good relationship with our man.

“Yeah, and when Thayer’s up to bat, we can hop the fence and try to behead the opposing left fielder with our grim reaper sticks,” Jason said.

Solid idea, but there was a slight issue with the police; somehow I doubt that trying to kill the opposing left fielder would fly with the cops. Also, I don’t want to scare children, and let’s face it, a bunch of college kids dressed up like death isn’t too comforting to most children under the age of 10. So we scratched that idea. Sorry, Matt.

Our next potential fan club was to be named after UCLA’s designated hitter/first baseman, Brett McMillan. McMillan’s Villains. Catchy, huh? Again, too many problems. We would be running around dressed like villains.

“Shotgun Pol Pot!” Jason claimed early on, referencing the former Khmer Rouge psycho.

OK, um, no. First of all, I could never be part of a group that glorified evil men. Secondly, I’m not capable of growing enough facial hair to look like Saddam Hussein, my villain of choice. Finally, the first idiot to have suggested Hitler would have earned a swift kick where the sun don’t shine from a size 11 1/2 boot. So McMillan’s Villains was out. Sorry, Brett.

We then turned to UCLA’s power-hitting first baseman/pitcher, Wes Whisler. The big lefty doesn’t know it yet, but Jason and I are starting a fan club in his honor called Whisler’s Whistlers. Look for us at home games behind the left field fence, sitting in lawn chairs, drinking carbonated beverages, and blowing on whistles until we get head rushes. Opposing teams’ left fielders are going to hate us. The only problem with Whisler’s Whistlers: It is only two members strong. So far.

So treat yourself to a $1.99 whistle and come support UCLA baseball. The world could use a few more Whistlers.

Whisler’s Whistlers debut March 6. If you want to be a whistle-blower, e-mail Karon at ekaron@media.ucla.edu.