Picking Up the Pieces of My Broken Heart
Despite my ongoing hatred of the New England Patriots as a whole, I have, until last night, maintained that Tom Brady is the best looking guy in football, and still often referred to him as “my future husband” (to everyone’s immediate understanding as to whom I’m talking about). Well Brady, it’s over. I hope your immense grief over this news severely hinders your performance in the Super Bowl.
In the wake of last night’s 41-27 Steeler loss to the Patriots in the AFC Championship, it should be said that I’m not mad at Ben Roethisberger or Bill Cowher. Anyone who is, or who is calling for their immediate removal, is a fool. Cowher’s the best thing to happen to Pittsburgh since the heyday of the 70’s dynasty. Ben’s a rookie, and a darn good one at that. Take away the turnovers and we played a good game. We controlled the clock, had more total yards, and sacked Brady twice. Our turnovers were our obvious doom. But Ben had an amazing rookie year and will come back wiser and stronger next year.
That said, I am heartbroken. And not over Tom Brady. Despite all my claims prior to game time that I was “ready for anything to happen,” apparently losing still really smarts. On the long drive back to my apartment after the game, in between pressing “Ignore” on my incessantly ringing cell, I had a wide range of thoughts. Blinking back tears I thought, “That’s it, no more sports for me. Too stressful and I obviously get way too emotionally involved. It’s not worth it.” Knowing immediately that was never going to happen, I tried to gain some perspective on the situation. I thought of the mass devastation caused by the tsunami just a few weeks ago. I thought about people with real problems. However noting that there were real tragedies going on at that moment gave me absolutely no perspective. I was inconsolably disappointed. As my wise friend Jason said in an effort to make me feel better today, “It's like love. The person you're in love with both HURTS you the most, and makes you HAPPY the most. It's a trade-off.”
No matter how long your team has gone without winning a championship (now everyone knows how long the Red Sox fans waited), the time span in your mind is only as long you personally have been waiting. And I’ve been waiting my whole life. The two teams I root for, the Pirates and the Steelers, have a wonderful, rich tradition in my hometown. My Mum tells us stories of her Dad packing them all up in the car after the Bucs beat the Yankees in the 1960 World Series and driving them downtown to celebrate with the rest of the city. As I sit here typing, a print of the famous Life magazine photo from that series hangs on the wall above my computer. My Dad tells us stories of four Super Bowl championships in six years. A signed Lynn Swann Terrible Towel hangs in our house as a reminder of the time my Dad picked him up (walking to the stadium for practice—I’m not kidding) and gave him a ride to Three Rivers Stadium. I’ve seen footage of the “Immaculate Reception” so many times, sometimes I actually think I saw it happen the first time. The tradition is wonderful indeed—but it's also before my time. The last Super Bowl win was in 1980 – I was not quite 3 years old. That win doesn’t mean anything to Jerome Bettis, and it barely means anything to me. As far as I’m concerned, every time my team makes it to the post-season, we leave disappointed. But I will not stop cheering. The Pirates haven’t even had a remote shot at the playoffs since 1992, a fact which still leaves me (not to mention an entire city) bitter toward the Braves. But I love them, and if I’m 80 years old when their time comes back around, I’ll still be singing “Let’s go Bucs!” I hope the Steelers will not have to wait that long to get their “one for the thumb.” But if they do, you’ll find me waving my Terrible Towel with the rest of the city. Pick yourself up and move on Pittsburgh—our time will come again.
Despite my ongoing hatred of the New England Patriots as a whole, I have, until last night, maintained that Tom Brady is the best looking guy in football, and still often referred to him as “my future husband” (to everyone’s immediate understanding as to whom I’m talking about). Well Brady, it’s over. I hope your immense grief over this news severely hinders your performance in the Super Bowl.
In the wake of last night’s 41-27 Steeler loss to the Patriots in the AFC Championship, it should be said that I’m not mad at Ben Roethisberger or Bill Cowher. Anyone who is, or who is calling for their immediate removal, is a fool. Cowher’s the best thing to happen to Pittsburgh since the heyday of the 70’s dynasty. Ben’s a rookie, and a darn good one at that. Take away the turnovers and we played a good game. We controlled the clock, had more total yards, and sacked Brady twice. Our turnovers were our obvious doom. But Ben had an amazing rookie year and will come back wiser and stronger next year.
That said, I am heartbroken. And not over Tom Brady. Despite all my claims prior to game time that I was “ready for anything to happen,” apparently losing still really smarts. On the long drive back to my apartment after the game, in between pressing “Ignore” on my incessantly ringing cell, I had a wide range of thoughts. Blinking back tears I thought, “That’s it, no more sports for me. Too stressful and I obviously get way too emotionally involved. It’s not worth it.” Knowing immediately that was never going to happen, I tried to gain some perspective on the situation. I thought of the mass devastation caused by the tsunami just a few weeks ago. I thought about people with real problems. However noting that there were real tragedies going on at that moment gave me absolutely no perspective. I was inconsolably disappointed. As my wise friend Jason said in an effort to make me feel better today, “It's like love. The person you're in love with both HURTS you the most, and makes you HAPPY the most. It's a trade-off.”
No matter how long your team has gone without winning a championship (now everyone knows how long the Red Sox fans waited), the time span in your mind is only as long you personally have been waiting. And I’ve been waiting my whole life. The two teams I root for, the Pirates and the Steelers, have a wonderful, rich tradition in my hometown. My Mum tells us stories of her Dad packing them all up in the car after the Bucs beat the Yankees in the 1960 World Series and driving them downtown to celebrate with the rest of the city. As I sit here typing, a print of the famous Life magazine photo from that series hangs on the wall above my computer. My Dad tells us stories of four Super Bowl championships in six years. A signed Lynn Swann Terrible Towel hangs in our house as a reminder of the time my Dad picked him up (walking to the stadium for practice—I’m not kidding) and gave him a ride to Three Rivers Stadium. I’ve seen footage of the “Immaculate Reception” so many times, sometimes I actually think I saw it happen the first time. The tradition is wonderful indeed—but it's also before my time. The last Super Bowl win was in 1980 – I was not quite 3 years old. That win doesn’t mean anything to Jerome Bettis, and it barely means anything to me. As far as I’m concerned, every time my team makes it to the post-season, we leave disappointed. But I will not stop cheering. The Pirates haven’t even had a remote shot at the playoffs since 1992, a fact which still leaves me (not to mention an entire city) bitter toward the Braves. But I love them, and if I’m 80 years old when their time comes back around, I’ll still be singing “Let’s go Bucs!” I hope the Steelers will not have to wait that long to get their “one for the thumb.” But if they do, you’ll find me waving my Terrible Towel with the rest of the city. Pick yourself up and move on Pittsburgh—our time will come again.
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