Poisonous Barbs

Sports bring out the lunatic in me. If on balance I am a mild-mannered and agreeable person, I must be angelic when not watching sports. When I watch sports, I accuse the Atlanta Falcons of being racist for beating the 49ers, and I fear that every time the Padres beat the Giants--especially when it spoils a chance for the Giants to win the division--it could be taken as a sign that neo-conservative religious Republicans from a patriarchal system--or "Padres"--are superior to, you know, decent human beings.

It has been a frustrating couple of days, as the Giants have blown their first two chances to clinch the division, not even coming close to giving the Padres a contest; the 49ers played much better but still lost through some inexcusable mistakes--and yes, I say inexcusable knowing full well I would do no better, but pointing out that I'm not paid millions of dollars to avoid making those mistakes.

What is it about sports that turns me into a profanity-spewing, irrational madman, looking for second gunmen among the officiating crews?

Let's face it; the Giants were not expected to be in a position to challenge for a division title, so I should be happy they are doing so well. Baseball preview magazines picked them to finish fourth in the division, after all--those prognosticators should be trampled in spring training, not that I take these things personally. And yes, the 49ers were expected to play a competent brand of football, but still, why should I act as if their failures reflect upon my character? Why do we act as if athletes are totems whose success or failure has anything to do with us?

I think that we all want a simple measure of success or failure in life. How can we tell is we are doing well if there is no one to keep score? Hence Wall Street and the stock market. I mean, outside of material things, how do we keep track of how we are doing? Paying attention to our feelings? Come on. Only communists pay attention to their feelings. The rest of us need sports.

Or maybe I'm just a lunatic. A friend of mine said it was gutsy of me to watch the Giants' game today. Two things about that: I'm not watching it, just recording it in case we win; and that would be a rather depressing standard of bravery if watching a baseball game was "gutsy" of me.

Sports set their hooks in us. We want myth, we want heroes, but it is easy to forget there is always another day, another season. We can get too high after a win, too low after a loss, and always come back for more. Is there a strange vitality to that, or are we just crazy?

The existence of fantasy sports proves that both possibilities are correct.

Okay, so I'm tuning in to the Giants game now. Might as well face the inevitable. We are up 2-0, top of the 7th, 3-2 count, two on, two out. Bring on the pain. It's better than thinking of the pain and poverty around the world. Right?

And we just might win.

Ramon Ramirez strikes out Miguel Tejada to end the 7th. Go Giants!