Generally speaking, I'm pretty sure that my actions (and sometimes, my non-actions) can and do dictate the outcome of sporting events. It's like this: If I were to wager a significant amount of money on a game, I would lose in most cases. The exception to those times are determined by a gut feeling that's usually wrong anyway so as a rule, I don't wager on games (unless there's a lot of taunting by friends or, I've been drinking). But it doesn't end there. In fact, it only starts there. How much I brag on my instinctual leanings toward one team or another is like betting--it results in the opposite affect, like the universe aligns against me for abusing my "gift", the gift of knowing what others only guess at. This all extends into superstitions about clothing, routine and such. For every game with any legitimate tie for me--despite the millions of other fans, the athletes, their training, the coaches and their prep, the weather, cheating, etc.--I have a direct effect on the final score. And yes, I actually believe this.
Case in point, the New York Giants were down to the New England Patriots by three at the half. I faced a dilemma. I watched the first half with my dad, uncle, brother, and nephew at my mom's house (long story). Dad and Uncle Danny were leaving, and Mom wanted to go to sleep. Jeff, Tish and I would have to relocate. Rivalry's was close and would certainly do, but I knew that if we went to the Cox Capitol Theatre, the Giants would win. How? Why?
It was February 2002. In six months, I would be leaving Nashville for Macon, which is to say I was six months away from realizing I'd hit bottom, which is to say I was still feeling pretty good about life. But this was the new world, post-9/11. We were all still feeling this thing out. The Super Bowl was no different. The president showed up for the coin toss. Mariah Carey did that thing with her voice during the national anthem. And I was at the Belcourt Theatre in Hillsboro Village, a restored movie house where food and booze are sold. Since St. Louis had stopped my Tennessee Titans (what? you try cheering for the hometown Falcons) a couple yards short a couple years earlier, I hated the Rams. I was praying for the Patriots to knock them off, and I believed they would. Up there on the big, big, big screen I watched one of football's greatest upsets. The Greatest Show on Turf was manhandled defensively while Tom Brady, a relative unknown who'd just taken over for Drew Bledsoe, New England's veteran starter, did just enough to guide his team offensively. Final score: 20-17, Pats.
So at the half, we went to the Capitol. Every mistake the Giants made looked like the beginning of the end for them. You could hear the armchair quarterbacks all over the room uttering the same things I uttered at my brother: "You can't turn the ball over like that with the Patriots," and, when Brady passed for the go-ahead touchdown, "Well, they'd played a good game but you knew the Patriots would pull it out." Every time the Giants overcame their errors or outplayed their seeming destiny, Jeff would get really animated. He came to really hate the loud Patriots fan who continued yelling, "It is what it is," right until the last thirty second when it was apparent that the Giants would likely prevail.
At the end, I was just confused. Though I've grown accustomed to my powers, it still shocks me when something of this magnitude happens. But there it is: the reason I was the key to victory last night. I'll be expecting a call from Eli any minute now.
No comments:
Post a Comment