Football Brings Out the Best in Us, and the Worst

Disclaimer: The following blog is a study of a personality trait and is meant for entertainment purposes only. The views and opinions expressed here in no way represent the views and opinions of the writer... between the months of March and August. Reader discretion is advised.

I’d like to think I’m a good person. I like dogs, I donate to worthwhile causes when I can, and I’m not an Internet Troll.

I’m also friendly to strangers by offering them smiles and cordial greetings. That’s not always reciprocated, but that’s okay.

And, I believe in everyone’s right to be an individual. To believe and support whatever cause reflects their values. To worship whatever deity they choose, or not to worship. And, I believe that diverse interests when it comes to forms of entertainment are a good thing.

Then, the NFL football season rolls around, and I turn into a completely different person, much like Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll transforming into Mr. Hyde.

You see, despite all my positive qualities, at my core, I’m a very competitive person. I hate to lose. I grew up playing baseball, and every time my team lost, the only thing that kept me from punching a wall was that I was scheduled to pitch the next day. I admit, that’s a problem.

As I’ve aged, I’ve tried my best to curb those impulses. Broken bones are painful, busted walls and/or furniture are expensive to replace, and public outbursts are embarrassing for my family and friends.

So, I typically just let my hate and vitriol stew inside me like a cauldron of poison. That’s a problem as well, and not good for my hypertension, which I’m thankful is controlled with medication. (Gee, I wonder how he got high blood pressure)

I’ve been labeled by fans of rival teams as a “mean-spirited, foul-mouthed, intolerant, sore loser.” Yeah, okay. For six or seven months out of the year, I’ll own that shit.

Lately, I’ve been considering my problem in a different light. It’s a test. A test of my overall mental health. A test of my self-control. A test of loyalty to the sports teams I follow, because, to be completely honest, most of them don’t win.

I know that keeping a negative emotion like hate in my heart is unhealthy. Yet, it’s there, desperate to come out to the world around me like Mr. Hyde. Yoda, venerable Jedi Master, said, “Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.” If you follow Yoda’s logic, at the core of my hate is fear. Yes! Fear that my team will never win a Super Bowl.

You know, the word “hate” is such a powerful word. Let’s use “rancor” instead. (Stand by for another Star Wars reference) Rancor is also the monstrous creature that tried to eat Luke Skywalker in Star Wars: Episode VI – Return of the Jedi. I imagine that if my hate manifested into some physical form, it would probably look just like that creature.

“But Ron, why do you feel such rancor?”

See. Doesn’t that sound better?

It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with championship fatigue, seeing certain teams in playoff after playoff, year after year, which may or may not have anything to do with accusations of referee favoritism, proving that the NFL is rigged. Nah, no way that’s remotely true.

I mean, if you believe that, then you must believe that celebrities arrange their marriages for the benefit of public image and financial gain. In the history of the world, that’s never, ever been a thing, right?

The thing that really gets my goat is watching a sport that I love, and being forced to see or listen to something I have absolutely no interest in, over and over and over again.

Let’s look at it this way. Say you go to your favorite restaurant, order your favorite meal, and they bring you out a full plate of garbage instead. You tell the server you didn’t order a plate full of garbage. You ordered the prime rib. The chef comes out and says, “You have to eat the garbage because we think it’s good for you.”

You: “No, I don’t like eating garbage.”

Chef: “Eat the damn garbage.”

You: “No! I don’t like garbage! I don’t want to be around garbage. I don’t even like looking at garbage.”

At that point, two burly sous chefs come out of the kitchen, join the chef at your table, and hold you down while they force-feed you garbage against your will.

That’s how I feel being force-fed the garbage that is the Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce relationship. It’s on every news outlet, it’s on social media, and if the NFL doesn’t mention it at least twenty times during football Sundays, it’s because of technical difficulties.

So, there. I’ve outed myself as Mr. Mean-spirited, Foul-mouthed, Intolerant, Sore loser, who has to suffer through a constant barrage of garbage. But hey, you caught me at a bad time. My Mr. Hyde time. Come March of next year, I’ll love everything and everybody.

By the way, I’m betting that in a few years, Taylor’s “Divorce Album” will be her top seller.