The blinking cursor on my laptop screen is taunting me. My column was due hours ago, and ideas have been tossed into the virtual recycle bin, which would be appropriate, except they're never going to get reused for anything worthwhile.
I first wanted to write about the futility of the Cleveland Cavaliers, and how my prediction at the beginning of the NBA season that they would be fine was way off base. Tiger Woods is still on the decline; there's always something there. Maybe even a unique spin on the college football recruiting process.
Then, considering yesterday was Valentine's Day, I tossed around a few ideas related to the 24−hour period when Hallmark becomes socially relevant to people under the age of 65. I was going to explain how love doesn't exist in sports, how passion is a one−sided projection designed to make ourselves feel better about the monotony of our own lives, how we care so deeply whether our teams win or lose because it's the only superficial thing left to care about in a troubled world of war and political unrest and famine and economic hardships.
But that was no good. Deleted it all. Left nothing except a blank sheet and that demonic cursor. It's taunting me, calling me a loner for writing a middling sports column while everyone else is out celebrating Valentine's Day on afternoon adventures or at romantic, candle−lit dinners.
And then I realized that I was initially way off base. Totally wrong, in fact. Because while sports might be an artificial outlet for an emotion that comes so less naturally than its opposite, a love for sports might be the truest of loves, even more so than the Facebook−inspired preteen lust manifested in glitter−stuffed paper bags hanging off desks.
Teams break our hearts and we come back for more. Sports fans are raised to love unconditionally, no matter the circumstance. Lose the Super Bowl? There's always next year. Trade away the star player? I'll tear down his poster and buy a new one. Hire a convicted dog killer? Go Eagles!
Me? I love meeting people who love sports. My Valentine's Day evening was spent listening to some friends make their ESPNU debut, broadcasting a college basketball game and living the dream. Stories about fans painting their chests or getting outrageous tattoos inspire me as much as ninth−inning heroics in Game 7.
Inspirational stories on the field of play bring joy, but they operate on another level. The only way to allegorize a Cinderella story in March Madness is to extrapolate a broader message about always trying hard and never giving up. It makes a good fairy tale, but the fans add love to the equation.
The common love unites us all, whether we're Bronx Bombers or part of the Red Sox Nation. Ideological differences go out the door with a beer in hand and a ballgame on TV. Sports are the reason South Africa united after overcoming apartheid. Didier Drogba and the Ivory Coast national team caused a cease−fire after five years of civil war. We can put athletes up on pedestals and idolize their achievements, but the reality is that without diehard fans to buy season tickets or call into sports talk−shows or bleed their team's colors, sports would not exist as a form of mass entertainment and pleasure.
Feb. 15 is just another ordinary day, two away from my mother's birthday and a few hours removed from Valentine's Day. But that doesn't mean I can't thank you, casual or average or diehard sports fan, for contributing to true love.
Sports has no holidays, no off−days fabricated by a power−hungry card conglomerate that appeals to the most of human emotions. Because in my world, every day is Valentine's Day.
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