Sports. Honestly. Since 2011

Dear Texans: Welcome to Dumpsville

When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another…. Wait, no, that’s not right. Gosh this is hard.  How about: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness… That won’t do, either.  I guess I have to come right out and say it:  I’m leaving you, baby.

I won’t sugar-coat it with some cliché about how it’s not you, it’s me. Because let’s face it:  It’s you.

Sometimes relationships just go sour. Oh, sure, we had our moments. Remember that time we beat Dallas?  It was our first night together, and it was wonderful.  And there was that first playoff win, when we beat that red-headed kid like a red-headed stepchild. And there’s always J.J. Watt. Watching him is breathtaking, awe-inspiring. It’s like watching a rose growing at Chernobyl – the magnificent, unstoppable force of nature rising above it all. But even then, eventually you look around, and you can’t help noticing everything else is radioactive sludge.

Wait. Before you say anything, I’m not asking to see other teams.  Ok, yeah, the Colts have been giving me frisky little looks for a while now.  And I’ll admit it: the Saints and I had a brief, torrid fling about twenty years ago (what can I say?  It was college; I was experimenting).  And the Packers, those wallflowers, are always there in the background, pining away for someone’s love.  It’s like The Glass Menagerie, but with bratwurst… But no. You’ll always be the team for me.  You’ll always have a special place in my heart.  But it’s best for both of us if we just end it now.

See, I love football. And when I’m with you, it’s just not football. Not the way it’s meant to be, with the scoring and the ball control and the not letting Pittsburgh score 24 points in under three minutes are you kidding me how in the name of all that’s holy is that even possib…..  No, no, I must stay calm.  This is about what’s best for both of us.

You know what I feel like on Sunday mornings these days? The same way I felt on Monday mornings at the worst job in my life.  That awful, stomach-clenching, sour-headed feeling you get when your first thought as you drag yourself out of bed is, “oh God, what awful thing is going to go wrong today?” It’s like you’re living your whole life with a slight hangover, like you’re sweating on the inside somehow.  That’s no way to live.  Football’s a game.  It’s supposed to be fun. At the very least, a day spent watching football is supposed to decrease your stress level, not make your friends and family wonder if you’re going to pop an embolism.

So farewell, Texans.  I really hope it works out for you.  I hope you find a quarterback who doesn’t stink.  I hope D.J. Swearinger learns that it’s ok to cover someone.  Kareem Jackson, too.  I hope you one day start a real person at right tackle, not just a hologram, and that you find a linebacker whose cleats don’t cling to the field like weird, turf-seeking magnets. And who knows? Maybe someday we can try again.  Maybe someday, when you get over your addiction to hiring coaches who only know four plays.  Maybe someday, when you find a general manager who knows what the draft is for.  Maybe someday.  But until then, good bye and good luck.


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