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.
