Me (left) and Mike. My smile would indicate this was taken BEFORE the game.
As a die-hard Jet fan, disappointment is a way of life. Like a relative who manages to ruin every holiday, they let you down...but you can't leave them behind. No matter what, they're a part of you. And you love them. No matter how many times they've indirectly placed a glass of bourbon in your hand, they're also capable of delivering emotional highs that few others can.
I like to attend one game per season. I live 20 minutes from MetLife Stadium, so home games are convenient. However, upon seeing the schedule at the start the season, one game jumped off the page. January 3rd, vs. the Buffalo Bills, in Buffalo. The final game on the Jets' calendar,and one that could carry some serious significance. My Buffalo-raised brother-in-law was more than happy to join me (and root for the other team), and so we committed to going, both of us knowing we could be setting ourselves up for one of the greatest (or most terrible) moments of our fandoms, ending with one long, sad ride home for one of us. But I couldn't help myself. I knew the risk, but the potential reward outweighed it. Or so I thought...
After the first Fitzpatrick interception, I could literally feel the air leaving me, as if I were a balloon with a hole in it, gradually deflating. And since we were in Buffalo, I was surrounded by thousands of boisterous, celebrating Bills fans who knew full well the misery that was being thrust upon us. They've been there many times themselves. Two more interceptions later, the game was sealed. Jets lose, their season and playoff hopes unceremoniously crushed in a moment. I ripped the Jet hat off my head in disgust, the only visible sign of my allegiance. But then, as I stood there, in stunned silence amidst high-fiving Bills fans, I realized something. And I put my hat back on and made my way toward the exit. No matter the outcome, my spots had not changed. And being teased by droves of Buffalo fans on my way out was simply part of the deal.
After the Jet loss was official, I found myself shoulder to shoulder with a fellow New York fan. And he looked over at me and solemnly said, "It's just a game. I don't know why I get so worked up over it." He was likely in his mid 50s...and he had tears welled up in his eyes. That hit me hard. Because so, so many of us are that guy. We're miserable about a game and we can't explain the reason. But I think I'm closer to understanding why than ever before.
When you truly commit yourself to a sports franchise and establish a fandom, what eventually happens is both wonderful and sad. We buy clothing with their logo on it, sometimes literally erect a flag outside our home declaring our commitment. Hell, some of us dedicate an entire room in the house to our undying love for the team. We wear our allegiance like a skin, and sometimes that skin protects us...and sometimes it gets cut and we bleed from it. But why do we do it? Why do we put ourselves in vulnerable situations where the outcome is completely out of our control? I think it's more simple than most of us think.
Professional sports are an inescapable part of our culture, so it would make sense that many of us develop some level of interest in it. But a good percentage of us go all-in, And I think it's because we're all actively, in some way or another, establishing our personal brand, our identity. And it feels good to do it. Something intangible resonates with us, and we find ourselves casually rooting for a particular team. Then gradually watching entire games, listening to post-games shows, buying merchandise. We're hooked. And there's no turning back. And we stay on the proverbial horse. Because we're waiting for that one magical moment when all of that commitment will pay itself off, when we can raise our flag and wave it in victory - that moment when we can unequivocally pronounce that our brand is stronger than your brand, if even for a day.
But losing the big game? We find ourselves frustrated, angry, and often depressed. Because we realize the emotional energy we put into it yielded nothing more than a hangover and countless taunting text messages from friends. It's maddening. But it's what happens when you care so deeply.
So, I'll keep my hat on. Because as disgusted as I was to slink out of that stadium, face frozen in stunned disbelief, staring at the ground, to hide my allegiance and personal brand would be the greatest disgust of all.
Go Jets.
Joe DeProspero
@JoeDeProspero
