Anyone who knows me knows that I am a huge sports fan. What my favorite sport or what my favorite team is depends on what time of year you ask me.
But I can say without hesitation that for the last decade-plus, my biggest sports obsession has been my hometown Columbus Crew SC.
Columbus Crew SC. Known simply as the Crew until a re-brand a short year ago. Major League Soccer's first ever club. (As most of you already know, since only like six people actually read this blog.)
They opened the first ever soccer-specific stadium in this country in 1999, and I had a season ticket there for eleven seasons, before life and finances made that impractical. But my passion never waned. I'm a diehard.
We've gone through some lean times. We've gone through some great times. Some fun times. Titles. Including the big one, MLS Cup.
Nine days ago, we defeated the New York Red Bulls (or the NY/NJ Metrostars, or the New Jersey RedStarMetroBulls, or whatever the hell they call themselves now) to clinch something we'd never had before: An MLS Cup berth in our own stadium. Jesus H. Christ. We'd been waiting for this for twenty years. Yes, we'd won one of these things before, but it was during a period of time when MLS held its championship at a predetermined neutral site. Some of us made the trip. I was supposed to, and then my car imploded, and any money I would have spent on plane tickets went out the window (or out my rear brake lines, as it turned out).
I ended up watching that match at a big viewing party with a bunch of excited fellow Columbus supporters, and loved every second of it. But to this day, I still felt like the universe had cheated me out of the opportunity to have a once-in-a-lifetime experience. You can only experience your favorite team's first league championship once, and for all we knew, we would never get there again. We sure as all hell couldn't know that we would eventually HOST our own chance at glory.
Realizing how rare these opportunities are, I purchased a ticket for this match two weeks before we even knew we'd qualify for the game, let alone play it at home. I spent money I don't have to make sure I witnessed potential history. So when Portland defeated Dallas in an upset out west (Dallas would have hosted an MLS Cup against us had that been the matchup) and we held on by the skin of our teeth when a potential NY equalizer bounced off the goalpost in the final seconds, it was pure joy. It seemed like the fates were now working with me to provide a chance to remove that blemish from my soul.
For a week, the fact that we were in this position was a reason to celebrate. A party. An event. And eventually, it gave way to what I call the "Actually Have to PLAY" scenario. I've felt it before -- the inaugural match at the Stadium, the World Cup Qualifiers, the Open Cup Final -- events that you get pumped up for for days, weeks, or months, depending on the competition. You run through all the glorious moments in your head, until game time approaches, and you think "Son of a bitch -- we Actually Have to PLAY this game now."
I was so pumped up, because all of the events that gave me AHtP Syndrome ended up as wins. I was so excited that my hand started shaking when I touched the doorknob to leave my apartment. My legs were shaking so badly walking towards the Stadium that I felt compelled to whip out my cellphone and take a video to post to Facebook just to convey my excitement. I approached some visiting Portland fans and made nice (which was easy, considering how nice they all were) just because I had more enthusiasm than I knew what to do with.
And then, I went into the final turn and went headfirst into the wall.
It only took 27 seconds for it to go straight to hell. Crew SC goalkeeper Steve Clark, after receiving a backpass from a teammate and after leaving his brain in the locker room, had a Portland forward bearing down on him and decided that instead of kicking the ball towards the Atlantic Ocean, it was time to audition for So You Think You Can Dance. When he finally decided to kick the round thing that all soccer players chase all day, the Portland guy had his leg in the way, and blocked the kick straight into the net.
It sucked the life out of about 21,000 people instantly.
Six minutes later, a ball on the sideline went out of play and the players on the field had the audacity to stop playing. Because, you know -- rules. Unfortunately, the zombies in charge of calling that kind of shit somehow were too busy fantasizing about autographed jerseys or their fantasy football teams or humming Taylor Swift lyrics to notice. Portland snatched the ball in all the confusion, and seconds later, had taken a 2-0 lead over a shellshocked Columbus crowd.
Game over.
All our dreams crushed by two of the dumbest situations I've ever seen in soccer. After everything that led up to that moment, it died in seven minutes. We went down faster than Monica Lewinsky on the Titanic. Goddamnit.
When it was finally over, I just sat in my seat in stunned silence for a half an hour while all the presentations and celebrations were taking place on our field. Only it wasn't us doing it. Jesus Christ. I couldn't even get pissed at Portland's fans and vent off some of my sadness because they were all just too damn nice. I was just left to walk to my car with my head down, fighting off tears.
Even the next day, at work, I was just down in the dumps all day. There's only one other guy at work who even follows soccer, but they all know I'm a Crew fan, and they all knew about the game. The one time I wish they DIDN'T know, because I literally said "I don't wanna talk about it" three dozen times. I just couldn't go there.
It was literally one of the worst nights of my life. Not my sporting life -- my life. I know that sounds dramatic when it's only a damn game, but I can't remember ever being that disappointed after such buildup. I actually stopped by my sister's house at 8 PM that night because I thought a hug from my four-year-old nephew would be the only thing that stood a chance to cheer me up. How pathetic. A grown-ass man reduced to a spineless puddle of goo over eleven guys kicking a ball. (Well, ten guys kicking a ball and a goalkeeper. Jesus...)
It's going to be a long, cold winter thinking about this one. Because, son of a bitch... we didn't actually show up to PLAY that one.
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