Remnants of the last Philadelphia championship, 2008 Philadelphia Phillies World Series, South Philadelphia

To look at me, you’d never guess I was a full-on, raging, degenerate devotee of sports.  On the outside, I’m a pleasant, mild-mannered, upbeat woman.  And when I say “woman,” I mean “girly-girl”.  As a child, I wore dresses.  All. The. Time.  Even when the weather (and my worried mother) dictated that I wear something more substantial to shield my chilly legs from the cold northeastern winter.  The solution:  my favorite dress of the day, over-top my little 70s-era polyester knit pants…an image that I’m forever grateful there were no blurry 70s-era Polaroids to capture for all eternity.  So, suffice it to say I’ve always been a bit prim and proper…prissy…buttoned-up, if you will.  Not the type to embrace the nasty, brutal world of competitive sports.

That’s not to say I was never exposed to it.  Every year, my father, having no sons, dutifully took me on his company trip to see the Philadelphia Phillies typically lose another summertime classic.  Even then, my luck with live games was dreadful.  I don’t think I saw a team live, that I was rooting for, actually win a game until I was 18.  Which was manageable for me because losing didn’t upset me then.  Not like it does now.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Growing up outside of Philadelphia, it was only a matter of time before I was bitten by the bug.  An apt analogy, since being a sports fan here is much like battling a serious illness.  You are alternatively feverish, dizzy, nauseous, drippy, and then find yourself rebounding to some state of recovery.  And that might be all in one game.  So, as I headed off to college — a nice, cheerful, respectable Big 10 school with a big-time football program, I never expected the bug to bite.  Stupid.

My first Division 1A (at the time) game was a rout of SackOurQuarterback State from a nice Midwestern college whose need for a portion of the gate outweighed their pride as a university.  This made them a perfect tune-up game for many big-time football programs hoping to not only please their alumni (who, let’s face it, mostly sold their season tickets for game 1 and want to keep those folks buying again next year when they want to unload the less desirable games) but also served to position the team well for that long, tense tightrope walk to the bowl season.  (Don’t even get me started on the farce that is the college football national championship — the imperfect combination of skill, success, luck and bureaucracy.  Definitely a rant for another day.)

So, after this rousing victory, I naturally assumed things would be like this forever.  Or some variation whereby I ended up happy and then had cocktails with my friends to celebrate.  (Busch Natural Light.)  Again, stupid.  Because somewhere along the way, I became way too involved in sports.  Maybe it was because, having the girly-girl upbringing, I never actually played sports with any degree of acumen.  I didn’t have experience with the ups and downs of team sports.  So when I started following them, I followed with the intensity and blind passion of any good Philadelphian…leading with your heart and running full force into the fray.  Usually with some profanity at the ready, just in case.

Over the years, a lot has happened.  I learned the games, the players, the coaches…and not how your girlfriend “knows” that she has a crush on Chase Utley.  I mean really know.  I know what a 3-4 defense is.  I know the difference between a changeup and a cutter — not that I could throw either in a thousand years.  I’m not Bob Costas, but I get by and usually don’t embarrass myself.

So, cultivated in decades’ long observation and steeled in the fires of white-hot sports fervor, my fandom has emerged as a major influence in my life.  I’ve spent countless hours watching or attending games, countless dollars on tickets and merchandise, and countless dreams on championships.  And normally, one would expect that a passionate avocation, nurtured over many years like this should bring joy to the pursuer, right?  Or why else stick with it?

Ah, so we’ve come to the issue at hand.  My sports fandom is not bringing me the joy that it should.  The championships I’ve dreamed of have remained largely elusive throughout my lifetime.   Usually painfully so, with many a season ending in spectacular fashion.  For the opponents.   Over time, my enthusiasm for my favorite teams has evolved from an optimistic hopefulness, born of love and regional pride, to an uneasy pressure-cooker feeling, quickly shifting to anger and, more often than not, mired in misery.

When my teams win, I am content.  Not euphoric.  Not joyful.  Content.  But when my teams lose, the magnitude of the loss I feel is much greater and longer lasting than any fleeting happiness I feel at a win.  I have officially become the Bill Belichick of sports fans, without the repulsive cutoff hoodies.  And the funny thing is, I know I’m not alone.  There are many of us suffering from sports these days.

So, in an effort to explore this crazy, complicated, love-hate relationship with my fandom, I write this.  It’s an attempt to restore some perspective in my life.  Bring balance to the force.   For you who read this, it may be a reflection of similar frustrations.  Or maybe just a ringside seat to the complete meltdown of a once proud, sane individual.  For me, it’s talk therapy to better cope with what I find wrong with my outlook on competitive athletics.    And a great distraction as my teams are currently self-destructing.

As any good Philadelphian might say at a moment like this: &^#^%#@$%&!!!
And welcome to the crazy.