Remember all that excited stuff I wrote about the beginning of the football season?  Yeah, forget it.  It’s over.  Sixteen weeks of doom and grief, coming right up.  The optimism lasted all of three hours, gone in a flash of inept offense and sloppy defense.

It’s funny, the wide sweep of emotion that can come with watching a football game.  I got to my usual haunt around 12:30, and everyone was so full of hope, wide-eyed at the prospect of a new season.  I ordered some beer and some completely irresponsible food and prepared for my team’s almost assured victory.  Come 4:00?  My food turned to ash, my beer like vinegar, dreams dashed on a patch of grass in New Jersey.

What’s that?  There are still fifteen games left?  Whatever.  Take that hopefulness away.  We’re dead.  At least it was quick.  Better to be put down now than to agonize along almost in contention only to have it ripped away from us. Just tear than Band-Aid off right now and be done with it.  Because that was the guaranteed win.  That was a bad team with a rookie quarterback.  And we couldn’t beat them.  How are we going to do against good teams with veterans under center?  I’ll tell you how.  Dismally.

Now, hopefully, I’ve gotten myself so low that any minute improvement will feel like a cause for celebration.  ‘Cause this feels like it’s going to be a season of small victories.

I reserve the right to completely retract this if the Bucs win next week.


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