Thursday, January 24, 2008

(I'm not a Giants fan, so I can admit that I expected Eli to get fucked in the mouth up at Lambeau last weekend.)

So, I'm faced with a dilemma. I'm going to Haiti for Carnival on February 1st. This means I'll be in the poorest nation in the hemisphere, one that knows football only as motherfuckers kicking a round ball across a giant field, while the city (and hence my closest football friends) gathers to root for Big Blue to put that motherfucker Tom Brady in his place.

As a woman, my take on sports is a little different. I mean, I pull for my teams, bet like a fiend, and boo Isiah as much as any man, but I constantly think about the undercurrents of loyalty and emotion that make us sports fans.

We all have our rituals, our crews, our spots. They're of paramount importance. When our team is playing, our girlfriends (well, my boyfriend) know to leave us the fuck alone until the game's over. Watching the Superbowl with my boys is more important than spending Christmas with my family. But is it really just because we care which team gets a piece of rubber through a goalpost more than the other?

Being a real fan is like being in a relationship. You invest your emotions and faith, and it doesn't always pan out. Some losses hurt worse than others. Sometimes, your team sucks all season and you're consistently disgusted by them.

But still, you love them. Even if you want to gut the whole the coach...bring in as much new blood as possible...your loyalty remains unshaken and you operate under the belief that the other party, your team, will work on shit until it's right.

And I know this more than most people...

...because I am a Heat fan. And after watching the Knicks lose countless times at the Garden, I had to watch them beat my team in their home arena Saturday. Weak.

Still love 'em, though.

Except for Shaq. Fuck Shaq.

P.S. Add the Shrine to Myspace.

And pull through for a drink. This place MUST survive.

W. 134th Street & Adam Clayton Powell.

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