CRYYYYY if I want to! CRRRRRY if I want to! You would cry too, if it happened to you....
As the last few remaining seconds of Saturday's game began to tick away, you would have thought I was hosting a wake rather than a Titans playoff game party. The room was silent - all except for the slow dumb drawl of Dan Dierdorf's voice on the TV that was now uncomfortably loud. Guests began to aimlessly shuffle about like John McCain at a debate and cleared out of the house quicker than an expiring play clock. If my friends were dogs, they would have all left with their tails between their legs in search of a nice quiet corner to go whimper in. As I came back in, Katie handed me a tuckered out Charlie, in hopes that the innocent smile of my son might cheer me up until I noticed the vomit stains on his Titans onesie and thought, "How fitting..."
Unfortunately, the day after isn't any better. When a fan suffers defeat of this magnitude, football, and sports in general are about as appetizing as a hot pickle. I would liken it to a breakup in some ways. Your invested emotions over the course of the past five months have been pummeled to the point of numbness. Pictures, songs, official sportswear, do nothing but dredge up the raw and awful past that hits you like a cold drop of rain on the back of your neck. So what do you do? Me? I rake leaves.
Yeah, that's right - nothing like some good ol' unnecessary manual labor to cast out the demons. But still you ponder...what might have been? Would we have gone on to win the AFC title? Would we have won in Tampa? Would Vince have been installed in some sort of Wild-Raccoon package? The questions pile up like the wet rotten mess in the leaf bag riddled with worms that continue to eat away at your conscience until the replay of Crump's fumble is etched permanently into your brain.
And what is it about Baltimore? Honestly? How on God's green football field does that awful city and team of thugs deserve to win a football game? What the hell is karma waiting on with Ray Lewis?!?!?! Is there a grace period when you are (mistakenly) exonerated for murder? And does it really matter that Brian Billick is not pacing the Baltimore sidelines anymore? NO! Cause his stupid fat face keeps showing up on those retarded Coors Light soundbite ads!
Being a native Houstonian, I have lived with the scourge of disappointing sports teams, save for the Rockets' back to back championships in the mid '90s. The Titans, who were once the Oilers own the lion's share of my let downs. And let's not forget the Astros, who brought me to the ultimate point of jilting when they made it to the World Series before wetting the bed in an 0-4 sweep to an annoying White Sox team back in 2005. You want to know pain - that is pain. Baseball is a long game - and you have to sit through a best of seven series before the fat lady brings her ass out to sing. That's the equivalent of having your heart cut out with a baby spoon.
Regardless of my tragic past - the heart of this sportsfan is never desensitized to the pain. And like a fat man at Shoney's, I keep coming back for more. Sure, I'll watch the Superbowl (only for the commercials) with the stinging irony that I could be watching my own team on that stage of stages. I'll listen to the radio this week and relive the game through the anger and remorse of callers five and six on the Wake Up Zone. I'll study the draft boards and make a wish on a WR from the Big 12. I'll mark my calendar when the schedules are released hoping that NBC finally decides to televise a game involving the Titans. And yes, when the scorching heat of July finally arrives, I will bring Charlie to Titans training camp and anoint him in the most unholy ritual of becoming a sportsfan. Why you ask?
Because I love this game.
