I’m not proud to admit it. Not at all. But I can’t deny it. A sports game being played by a group of 18–23 year old boys just sent me into a downward spiral of rage. The rage was followed by sadness. And the sadness parlayed nicely into a numbing sensation that has taken hold of my body for the foreseeable future.
The contest in question wrapped up about an hour ago. You may have been watching, too. It was the Iowa Hawkeyes versus my alma mater, the Temple Owls. One bird of prey, and one bird of prey’s eye, which seems like a pretty shitty fucking mascot.
But anyway, I completely ignored any workplace responsibilities and watched the game attentively at my desk. I could be seen visibly writhing in agony through a mediocre first half performance by my team. And then squirming some more during an up-and-down second half in which Temple mounted a comeback, sealed by a last-second triplet of foul shots to tie the game up at the end of regulation. All the while, I was losing my appetite more and more as I was forced to admire the grotesque facial features of Iowa’s leading scorer, Jarrod Uthoff, who looks like a naked molerat that just smoked some not-so-good meth.
Where I’m going with this, I don’t quite know. But long story short, the game went into overtime with the momentum on Temple’s side. “We never win this type of game. This is our year,” I thought to myself. But in the dying seconds, yet another inbred white man in an Iowa uniform chucked up a heinous airball, which was miraculously tipped in at the buzzer by a slightly taller, more ogre-like white man also outfit in that stupid fucking Hawkeye jersey, who very clearly pushed off of a Temple player to secure the winning basket and crush my heart into thirteen thousand tiny pieces while spawning a burning hatred for the entire state of Iowa deep within the catacombs of my deteriorating soul.
I am still not okay. I am sweating through my shirt. My foot is tapping like that of the drummer of a screamo band who doubled his dosage of Adderall before hitting the stage. I silent-screamed at my desk and gave myself a pounding headache. My face hurts from scrunching it fiercely in anger. I may have burst a blood vessel in my eye. And yet again, I sit here alone, ashamed at my emotional investment in the outcome of activities in which I have absolutely no influence.
And yeah, it sucks for me, but it sucks even worse for the girl who ends up sleeping with Jarrod Uthoff tonight. Eat shit, Iowa.