The Curse of Prosperity

Nobody wants to hear it. Even I don’t want to hear it, and yet here it comes. Regret, jealousy, the shaking of disappointment. There was no way the Patriots were going to lose that game, not after a first half when Brady was his usual clockwork self, Dillon was running (or at least walking very quickly), and Asante Samuel had conjured the ghost of Ty Law to haunt Manning. It was all over. Years of watching the Red Sox collapse during big games like a sorority girl after a night in Tijuana has inevitably tempered my confidence, but honestly, deep down, it was all over. And yet just moments ago I walked to the closet and hung up my Bruschi jersey in defeat. The year is over, along with my most reliable avenue of escape from the real world.
No one wants to hear how crushing that loss was, and I understand. The Patriots have been the most dominating team of the current century. Three Super Bowls in three years, the parades almost seen automatic now. There are fans that would give anything for their team to even win four games (hello Alameda County!) and here I am complaining about a championship loss during a season that saw the Patriots vastly overachieve. There are thousands (or at the least hundreds) of Cardinals fans who can only dream of what it’s like to lose in the playoffs. What right do I have to complain when the people of New Orleans not only saw their team fall under the feet of the new Super Bowl Shuffle Bears, but also saw their cities brightest symbol of rebirth put out? Even I can acknowledge that there’s got to be certain karmic justices for Colts fans to watch all of New England finally feel the stab of a big game loss. I should just order some Ellis Hobbs merchandise, be grateful for a team that’s been astoundingly successful, and shut up.
Though the more I think about it, the more impossible that type of amnesia is. Only the occasional fan would be able to put things in perspective and happily move on. That’s not the way sports work, or at least not for those of us who make the trials of sports such an integral part of their lives. Simply put, we care, and it’s impossible to stop now because it’s the smart thing to do. Statistics and numbers dominate the sports world, but no one watches because they love math. Quick question, how many academic decathlons have you attended? We watch because our teams are an extension of ourselves, and their seasons the markers of our lives. I’ll always remember literally jumping off the walls of my apartment when Vinatierri killed the unstoppable Rams to start the so called dynasty, and I won’t ever be able to forget the crushing hopelessness of watching Marlin Jackson lay on the RCA Dome field holding the most important interception of his life. So while I am smart enough to realize how good I have it, I refuse to not feel upset over Sunday nights loss, because the day I’m able to forget and move on, is the day I no longer care. And I hope that never happens.