Oooooooooh. I just want to roll around in it, to baste in it, to squirm delightfully in its delicious sauce of vanquished, redemptive giddiness. I want to make a suit out of it, and wear it to the Church of Eat It!
They said the passion would abate, but it hasn’t. They said we would grow complacent, but 8-20 and visions of 2001 have made us eternally vigilant, and eternally thankful. Now, when I drink it, it tastes like carbonation and sugar and alcohol and root beer floats. Oh, to bottle it and bring it out on dark nights of depression!
Everyone gets a pass, sportsmanship rules supreme, and all is forgiven: except for one team. We need that one visceral loathing; it defines us, it is the wall that provides prospective. It is okay to make an exception to civility. I’m fine with batting .999, really.
In this time of the Self, in the era of Me, when we are always asked what we stand for, we’re offered a shorthand when our yang plays our yin: “To know me, look here; for this is what I’m not.”