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.

Then, the clouds opened up and God said, "I hate you Alfalfa"

The last time I wrote, I spoke of love, the kind of love that can happen between a small-town girl and a big league team. I’m going to pull a 180 and go in a different direction. There are some things that I hate. I used to say that you can’t hate something unless at one point you cared about it. I was naïve, I was young, I was wrong. I hate the San Francisco Giants. I hate that they pretend they are a team of mis-fits. Last time I checked “mis-fits” don’t make millions of dollars a year. Last I checked a team of “mis-fits” doesn’t have a rookie of the year candidate, and a 2-year Cy Young Award winner. In case you forgot, the Giants won their division, they won MY division, no group of rejects has ever done that in my recollection. And “mis-fits” don’t win the World Series.

I hate bandwagon fans. Being a sports fan means dealing with the pain and the losses, and never losing faith. This past weekend the Buffs, the Broncos, and the Steelers lost. So what do I do come Monday? I become a fan of the Oregon Ducks, the New England Patriots, and the Baltimore Ravens. Oh, and also, those San Francisco Giants are sure looking good these days. WRONG. My emotional well-being is connected to my teams. Is this ridiculous? Of course it is. But like any boyfriend, I will not dump them for the newer model simply because they were a loser that weekend (at least I think that is how those bf/gf relationships work). If you jump on the bandwagon you sure as heck better hold on, because once you’re on, there should be no letting go. If you decide to be a Giants fan tomorrow, you better be one for the rest of your life. When they win 80 games next year and don’t get over .500, you better be wearing that black and orange, because that is what fans do. They hold on, they tighten their grip, and they buckle their seatbelt when they open the door of the bandwagon. Let this be a warning to all of those considering catching the bandwagon.

I hate losing. Oh boy do I hate losing. It’s like they don’t even care how I feel. My teams, my loves, my boys: they just keep losing. I will not dump them, I will not let go, but I hate losing. There are many types of losses. Recently, my teams have been, how do I put this nicely, been getting completely and utterly dominated. The sucker-punch phase is over, its just a pure beating now. (A sucker-punch loss is the one where you have a chance, there is an opportunity to win, so you raise your hands above your head in jubilation….and bam, a punch right to the stomach, you bend over in pain, it hurts, you are pretty sure you can’t breathe. That’s what a sucker-punch loss feels like.) It’s to that point where my body is so calloused from the beatings that they almost stop hurting, I’ve lost all emotional affect. But I still hate losing and I hope I never see the day when the losses completely stop causing pain (ask any Cubs fan how that feels). So there you go, I hate the Giants, I hate bandwagon fans, and I hate losing. I also hate cilantro, and I hate cats, but I'll save that rant for another day.

Don’t hate me ‘cause you ain’t me.