Easy Eli, the Helmet Catch, and the Psychosis of Being a Fan

My turn.

Without hyperbole, without exaggeration, and without even a split-second of hesitation, I can honestly write that last night was one of the most exciting nights of my life, and one I really do not think I will ever forget. In fact, other than the night I got engaged, and the day I got married, it may have been the very best.

Open Bar and I share an affinity for the same teams, so his discussion below about our previous experiences supporting a team that wins a championship pretty much says it all. Mets in 1986, Giants in 1987 and 1991. And nothing else.

Until now. Last night was simply perfect: watching the game with a dozen good friends, plenty to eat (side note: amazing, amazing chili out of Open Bar. Well done, sir.), lots of beers, a come from behind victory for our beloved G-Men, and a post-game celebration with friends and strangers at three (or was it four?) bars right in the heart of the winning town.

I can't get enough of it. I've watched SportsCenter all day, read every paper in New York, cover to cover (even the Sun), and scoured espn.com for tidbits of information, pictures, and interviews. I've also watched the Helmet Catch about 17 times (side note: I am going to do a separate post polling our audience about naming Tyree's catch. "The Catch" is already taken, as is the "Immaculate Reception," so I think the "Helmet Catch" will work).

There's a football on my head!

And yet, I couldn't help but contrast last night's elation, and this morning's joyous hangover, with the utter devestation I felt just four months ago watching the Mets' season implode, or the year before that, sitting at Shea, waiting for Beltran to hit that curveball. I keep coming back to a fundamental question about being a sports fan: why on earth do I care this much?

I am an adult, I have a job (usually) in a field that is totally unrelated to sports, I am intelligent, and generally pretty responsible. Eli Manning doesn't know who I am, and has no obligation or reason to care. Plaxico Burress will never ask me for my autograph. But despite all that, I am absolutely devestated when "my" team loses the big game, and numbingly elated when they win.

I am sure there is an explanation. Something about in-group/out-group theories in psychology, about wanting to feel part of a team, about the vicarious thrill we get from seeing others succeed. Or maybe it's the camraderie that is shared by fans in the stands or in the bar, the excitement of predicting, criticizing, and wondering. To be honest though, even though I wonder about it sometimes, when all is said and done, I don't care why I care. I just do.

It might be that it is a little silly to get so invested in it, to jump up and scream like idiots because some guy caught a football three thousand miles from here. It may not be worth getting so down when your team loses, which all but one of them is guaranteed to do every single year, in every single sport. It could be that there are better things to do with a Sunday afternoon than sitting inside a dark bar in a random town because there is just no way you are missing a game.

Maybe, but the Giants just won the Superbowl.