Today should be one of those days where my door is shut, my headphones are on, and my light is off as I fire death glares at any human that dares enter my office of misery. But it’s not, and I’m feeling good today even though I spent 48 hours in the cess pool known as Las Vegas. Thanks to one of the most absurd final 5 minutes I’ve ever witnessed, this obnoxious Cowboy fan is riding the endorphin train that departed late Sunday night right into the work week. What a joke. I’m NFL trash.
Had things played out differently, I’d be inconsolable. Going into the 4th quarter, I was already envisioning my own personal Monday hell. A crushing Sunday night meltdown, our stud receiver broke his fucking foot, and I woke up in a cold sweat twice last night? That’s just too much to handle. Because I’m a sick individual, I’d have spent the first hour in my office reading about where it all went wrong, and where the team goes from here, all while streaming local sports talk radio so I can hear Darrell in Plano rant about the secondary. It would be therapeutic.
After any primetime Sunday loss, the entirety of my Monday is spent avoiding certain characters in the office because I just can’t handle it. There’s Dan, the Eagles fan, that’s been trolling hard ever since Philly won the preseason Super Bowl. Sam Bradford looked good? Guess what? I don’t care about Sam Bradford. Then there’s the other Cowboy fans that want to recap the entire game, play by play. Their heart is in the right place, but I’d rather be alone at my desk trying to put the pieces back together than in the break room. You can’t cry in front of coworkers.
It’s not that I’ve lost the will to fight; In fact, it’s the opposite. You catch me me on the bad side of a Cowboy loss, I’ll got toe to toe with you for the next hour. I take it personally, dammit. If this team is going to suck, what the hell am I supposed to look forward to all week?
I know some guys that cope with a soul sucking loss by diving head first into a mountain of work, but I’m just not built like that. Yeah, I’ll try, but my group text is comprised entirely of degenerate Monday morning quarterbacks who think they know what personnel moves need to be made after every loss. So naturally, every 2 minutes I’ll glance over at my phone to see that anxiety inducing message icon with a little “15” next to it, and there goes the next 20 minutes of my life.
“Have to establish the run earlier.”
“Fuck this team.”
“Why didn’t we draft a safety?”
“I blacked out after the game”
“I think we’ll be fine once we get healthy”
“I called in sick.”
We did it. We cracked the code. Someone get Garrett on the line.
By the time I’m over a loss, it’s 2:30 p.m. and I’ve accomplished nothing more than replying to a few emails. And by replying I mean responding, “Thanks I’ll look into it and get back to you.” That’s what we call an email punt, and I’m the Ray Guy of email punting.
But that’s not how it played out this time. I skipped into the office with my head up and chest puffed out just daring someone to make a comment. Was it just one game against what is predicted to be a very average team? Yes. But for this week, I’m riding high. It’s embarrassing how much this matters. We’ll see what kind of shape I’m in next week..
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