A Sports Dude Quickie: Wait Till Next Year

As I watched my beloved New York Knicks leave through the tunnel of the world’s most famous arena, players and fans alike were dejected after getting swept by a team that once used to be a punching bag. All the hopes generated by the Isiah Thomas hiring and Stephon Marbury trade were now officially dashed, not even the lingering false hope of coming back from a 3-0 deficit was alive. This loss led me to think about sports, the inevitable ups and downs, hopes and crushed dreams, involved in every season.

To soothe the pain and facilitate the thought process, I grabbed a brewdog from the fridge-o (thanks to the cinematic classic PCU for giving the world the expression "brewdog"). I cannot explain the thought process involved, but I started thinking about how similar drinking and rooting for a team is. Perhaps it’s the natural synergy between my two favorite activities, but the parallels between the two seem too strong to ignore.

The End of the Season / Waking Up Hungover:

Both come with a bad feeling. When a team goes through an awful season (see the Jets circa 1993-97, Mets circa 1992-96, 2001-present, St. John’s...well you get the idea) or the season ends in an awful loss (see the archive “Haunted by Memories”) you tell yourself that you’re going to stop living and dying by every win and loss. Similarly every time I wake up with a real bad hangover, and performing my patented next morning puke (perfected sophomore year of college, peaked after my 21 st birthday, now in retrogression) I swear that I’m never going to drink again...but as we all know these are difficult promises to keep.

The Offseason / An Afternoon of Recovery:

Slowly, but surely the bad taste from the end of the season wears off. Free Agency starts and the draft takes place. Suddenly things are starting to look up for the team and some optimism for the upcoming season arises. It’s analogous to popping a few Excedrin and splitting a Grande meal at T-Bell, suddenly I’m moving out of my hangover induced depression and incapacity to move and starting to look forward to the impending night.

The Season/Drinking Begins:

All the optimism in the world. The team has a good first few games and all of the sudden anything can happen. With the right string of luck and some good season moves, they can compete for a championship. At this point I’m rocking and rolling and the sky is the limit! Now its time to start drinking. Let’s pre-game baby! Beer me Johnson!!! I got a few beers in me, I’m starting to pack a buzz, we’re playing drinking games, and I’m having a grand ole time. Hey, we’re gonna hit up a bar, anything can happen...maybe it’ll be the best night ever!

The Penant Race / The Arrival:

Alright, the team is on a roll, they are fighting for first place and it’s coming down to the end of the season. The entire city is pumped over this team. As a fan I’m so enthused I’m touting this team as the "best team of all time." I’m ridiculing the fans of the cross-town rivals. Life is great. Compare this to getting to the bar (perhaps La Dodger?!), seeing a whole bunch of people I know. As I walk from the door to the back to use the bathroom, I’m giving and getting high fives from every angle, kisses on the check, and oh yes...lots of hugs. I’m in my element. As I walk up to the bar there are Dr. Pepper shots and Bud Lights lined up for my imbibing pleasure. Can it get any better? It sure can as Pearl Jam’s "Black" is blared over the sound system allowing my friend Schneider and I to sing it in a mocking tone at our friend Anil, who once told a car full of us to shut up because it came on the radio.

It’s Playoff Time / Mothers, Hide Your Daughters:

No need to express the awesomeness of the playoffs. If you don’t know you never will. Every pitch, shot, or completion means something. To use a cliché, you gotta be in it to win it! The city becomes electric, the Garden gets rocking, the Met fans pound Mr. Met in the head as he walks by waving. Men beat their wives less and generally escape the malaise and drudgery of everyday life. The further you get, the more excited you are, your stomach knots up with the anticipation and excitement of what will happen next. After all isn’t this why we suffer through the regular season?

I’m in my drinking groove, partying with buddies, making fun of that guy with no friends who’s always at the bar standing around looking for people to talk to. Then all of a sudden I start macking it to a chick and it’s actually going well (don’t act so surprised Dudeheads…it does happen from time to time). She’s laughing at all of my tired material that I don’t even think is funny. Everything I throw out there is gangbusters (“don’t you just love stuff?”…and she actually does love stuff!). I can’t miss, I’m like Jordan against the Blazers a decade ago. The only question is what she’s going to make me for breakfast in the morning (obviously, the four game sweep would be Belgian waffles).

Game 7 Loss / The Inevitable Shoot Down:

You’re deflated like Jason Giambi circa 2004. You believed...no, you knew, this was the year. But alas the season is over. It’s last call, I’m thinking of what’s the smoothest transition to get her to come back to my place (“uhhh...I have a cookie in the kitchen”…write it down, it’s worked) when all of the sudden here come her fat, jealous friends who think you’re a no good man-whore. All of the sudden the sure thing is gone. The great night is over. Back to square one. Maybe tomorrow night will be better. Season’s over. Wait till next year.