february

By February New Years Resolutions have been broken, Christmas debts have been paid off and the overdose of family time has finally remissed.  And as some are just recovering from the holiday hangover I am rejoicing at what has yet to come.

February is the steps leading up to the white house, the appetizer before the main dish, it’s the opening act before the headliner. February is the hopes and the dreams and the anticipation before the big game. February is to March and April what stuffed mushrooms are to a steak dinner or what Hunter Hayes is to Reba McEntire.

February’s real purpose is two-fold: a) to show us that spelling and pronunciation have no correlation to eachother and b) to tease our athletic appetite until the main coarses arrive: the draft, opening day, and the madness that is March.

February gives us the combine. And with the combine comes the draft. And the draft day predictions, and Mel’s big board, and failed wonderlic tests. The NFL Draft is like one big game of dodgeball minus the dodging, ducking, diving, dipping, and dodging and only having the drafting. Its 3^rd grade picking teams taken to the next level.

It’s suits and ties and hopes and dreams all knotted into one night. It’s friends and family and girlfriends and fake girlfriends all in one spot. It’s photo ops and ill-fitting flat brim hats. It’s first round duds and sixth round studs. Its undrafted free agents and fans who think they know better. It’s everything you can hope for in an event that has no score.

And before you can overestimate potential and underestimate willpower you get the combine. 200-400 lb men in womens sized spandex running 40s and shuffling throught cones, catching passes and throwing bombs. And it all adds up to the number you see on your future wikipedia page. So we have the combine, where seconds equal millions of dollars in endorsements and practice throws can turn into Madden covers, and it all starts here, in February.

Next comes spring training. My favorite child baseball is almost in the forefront of ESPN’s homepage. America’s past time is waiting in the wing to wrap us up again with the smell of fresh cut grass and the taste of $8 beers. The Rockies have taken their talents to Arizona and with each twitter update or webpage reload I reinvest myself in the Colorado Rockies.

The past year was filled with too many untimely strikeouts and unphotogenic DUIs. So with the season upon us it is time to open our heart to the chance that this year could be more. Perfectly timed hits and seamlessly fielded groundballs. Big smiles and bigger wins. Perfectly breaking breaking balls and deliciously curvy curve balls. It all lies ahead of us, and it started here, in February.

The college basketball regular season is coming to an end and that means one thing: things are about to get mad. (Think mad hatter mad). Men will count wins and losses, and RPIs and SOSs and pick their teams: their 64 (ish) teams that represent the best in the country. And then comes the bracket: A simple piece of paper filled with names and lines. A simple piece of paper that causes nightmares and arguments. A simple piece of paper that makes you feel like a king or a pauper. The bracket. Teams play their final games of the season and their conference championships to end up on this nationally printed piece of paper. You can choose teams by names or the small numbers in front of their names or mascots or syllables, but no matter what that simple piece of paper will haunt your March, and it all starts here, in February.

So here’s a toast to the month that gave us Abe, and the Bus, and Wynne Brantlinger. There are only good things to come. 

Just a game?

People who say, “it’s just a game” are no friends of mine. Just a game? Just a game. No. It’s more, so much more. 

Less than 120 minutes ago I watched my Denver Broncos lose a playoff game, and it wasn’t “just a game.” It was two overtimes and missed opportunities and mental lapses. It was kickoff return touchdowns and thrown interceptions and blown coverages. It was more. 

If someone were to tell me “it’s just a game” I would place both palms on the ground in front of me and donkey kick that individual (probably in the face, my increased level of rage would equate to an increased donkey-kick height). Their physical pain would parallel my emotional pain. And, hopefully, they would understand, it’s not just a game. 

When Justin Tucker’s 47-yard field goal sailed throught the uprights to symbolize the end of the game, the end of the season, and the end of my 2012 Broncos relationship I wanted to cry. And not a single tear falling down the curve of my cheek… a real cry. A fetal position, weird noises, trouble breathing, screaming names cry. “Why Peyton? Why Rahim “the dream”? Why John Fox? Why Mike McCoy? Why Demaryius? Why?” Luckily for those around me this cry was a mental cry. But it still hurt. And “just games” don’t feel that way. 

I logged onto Netflix and fired up Ally McBeal. I grabbed a pint of ice cream and smothered it with chocolate syrup. Then came the whipped cream. The first serving went straight into my mouth, the other four servings went on top, icing on the proverbial cake. So this is what a breakup feels like. A hole in my heart that can only be filled with ice cream and crappy 90s tv dramedys. The Broncos broke my heart. So don’t tell me it’s simply a game. 

And it wasn’t just this one. It’s midseason games, and late season throwaway games, and first games of the season. They all matter. They all matter to me.  It’s the moments, the little ones and the big ones. 

Its draft day “busts” becoming everyday backs. It’s coming back from insurmountable odds. Its rookie quarterbacks scrambling and veterans showing them how. Its blocked punts and blown calls. It’s playing the game for the love of the game. 

Its people coming together to cheer, and ohh, and ahh. It’s hating people before you meet them because of the jersey they sport. It’s wearing the same socks every Sunday because you know it makes a difference. It’s no judgment day drinking and chicken wings for lunch. It’s watching because you know it’s more. 

So, no, its not just a game.