In terms of opportunities for psychological and spiritual growth, there can be few more strengthening (read: "utterly soul-crushing") experiences than suffering two major defeats in the same six-hour span. Such was the case Sunday evening, when the Saints were hamstrung by Chicago's inhospitable weather (and the Bears) and the Patriots were handed the business end of the proverbial spoon by "The Fucking Colts" (M's words).Granted, such defeats are only as personal as one allows them to be, and it certainly wasn't me out on the pitch against Brian Urlacher or Peyton Manning. Nor were any of my close personal friends. Yet these defeats are made none the easier by such trifling consolations. When one puts his heart on the chopping block for the three-hour battle that is a Conference Championship, when the laurels of victory mean a ticket to that most hallowed, most super Sunday in all of American sport, one tends to feel the blow of a butcher's blade as if it were less metaphor than reality.
Alas.
There is usually, however, an opportunity for redemption afforded those like myself two Sabbaths hence. He can pull for the team that dusted his favorites, allowing himself the faint rationalization that his team lost to the eventual champions. Or, of course, he can wish those vanquishers fiery deaths in plane crashes and freak microwave-oven explosions. Defeat, then, becomes a test of one's mettle as a sportsman, even one whose proximity to the field of play is distanced by a glowing rack of liquors and an oaken bar.
But what, then, can one do when both of his sides suffer defeat, when his split loyalties are roundly punished by confluences of events and timing and horrible officiating and the like? What is he to do when he can't root for either team without admitting to a key flaw in his fanship?
He can watch the game for the game's sake, free from obligations to adopted homes, but not without a note of bitterness to sour the sweet strains of Prince's halftime program. He can wish either the most impressive defense in the league (Chicago's) or the best quarterback of the last many seasons (Indianapolis') the rewards they deserve for putting up massive numbers against strong opposition. He can revel in the fact that the winningest teams in both conferences are battling for the title in what will likely be a Super Bowl for the books, and not some piddling matchup of less-worthy elevens who may have squeaked through the playoffs unscathed and lucky. He can watch the game without the kind of blinding passion that leads to another Monday morning of horrifying, shuddering realizations of loss and abandonment, such as those he experienced only yesterday.
In short, he can watch some football. And so he shall.
Dispassionately, but with reservations.
