Sunday, July 27, 2008

Bloody Sunday

I don't like posting on Sunday. I'd like to think that I have better things to do than to just hammer out stray thoughts on a keyboard on the Lord's Day, but today, it's not the case. Pumpkin's out with her Mom, and the dog is just laying there staring at me, like I've forgotten to do something for him. So here I sit.

I can attest that my mood has changed just in the short time that the Brewers went from leading Houston 4-1 to somehow trailing 8-5. My previous post postulated (like that?) that my entire mood system is based on the fortunes of the sports teams that I root for and now I have to say that's the absolute truth. I want to lay down in traffic right now. The first time I checked the game, it was 4-1 Milwaukee, and I wanted to break into a show tune. This has all changed in one hour's time. To my credit, I have not audibly expressed my anger, as that does nothing but make a rottweiler nervous, and we all know how bad that can be. I'm also frustrated that my mood is based on something that I have absolutely no control over. The stock market can rise 1,000 points in one day, but if the Brewers cough up a 9th inning lead, all the good of the day is lost. To all non-sports fans, consider yourself lucky. Once you become a fan (short for fanatic. Someone knew what they where talking about about when they coined that term for us), you can't go back to the life you once knew.

My hope is that my teams eventually raise the championship banner, or get rings, or whatever the hell else they do. This has only happened once in my memory: Packers 35, Patriots 21. 1/27/97. Still the greatest day of my life. It's weird, but sometimes I miss the days when the teams I rooted for had no chance of competing. A loss was expected. A win was a welcome surprise. The price that comes with expectations is high; headaches, stomach cramps, loss of sleep, increased blood pressure, and worst of all- possible physical scarring.

Hang on. let me check the score of the game......


It's worse than it was when I started writing this thing. 11-5 now. I want to scream, but I look down at the dog and it keeps me quiet. He doesn't notice that I'm punching these keys a little bit harder now. Maverick is content. He doesn't know any better and, right now, I'm very jealous of that. Maybe I'll have a bowl of broken glass instead.

My head is killing me.

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