It was 10:30 pm Saturday night. I had shut my door in hopes of drowning out the memory of what was still echoing out from my family’s communal television. But a shut door is not enough to block out the inevitably irksome hyperbolic commentary of one Gary Danielson, nor can it barricade me from my own haunting visions. Visions of my gators getting infinitesimally near a tragically impervious goal line again and again...and again. All like some sort of sick mathematicians method for teaching the definition of a limit.
(For the ‘striving to be relevant’ calculus teacher at Alabama: “Pretend like the function F(x) represents the Florida gators, and the limit is something that they comes REALLY REALLY close to, but never actually reach, which, in this case, would be the endzone.” )
When physical distance and tangible barriers are not enough to stop the influx of misery (nor attempts at trying to reteach myself calculus), I turn on the vocals of one Ben Gibbard, of Death Cab and Postal Service fame. You know, the one whose voice makes you think “oh wow, maybe suffering through bouts of depressions brought on by tragic illness and death really can be kinda fun and whimsical....as long as I can play acoustic guitar... or have a synthesizer handy”
But even Ben’s ethereal tones couldn’t mask the ever approaching grumblings of emotional disturbance.
A gator loss has the ability to take a healthy vibrant youth and descend her into a state of immunocompromised vulnerability. Defenses fail, and sudden blasts of sentiment, as if mimicking Trent Richardson, come rushing into one’s consciousness .
And at what point did I realize that my internal walls of stoicism had been breached?
Well, it was sometime after I took the potent combination of Ben Gibbard + Benadryl in hopes of lulling myself into a despondent coma, and yet some time before the coma actually arrived, when I realized the depths of my susceptibility.
I believe the message I typed out was something along the lines of “There is nothing like a gator loss to ‘bama to make me realize how much I miss you.” My finger hovered over ‘send’ for a solid minute. And then, in a heroic act of self-preservation and vanity, I deleted it.
And to whom was I texting this heartfelt message?
Chris Rainey? Though that might make sense, I think he’s actually legally not allowed to text these days...
Maurkice Pouncy? I mean, really? What would have been so hard about turning to Mike one day and being like “ok bro, today I’ll let YOU snap the ball in case you end up the center for the gators after I leave for the NFL following an episode of questionably inappropriate interactions with an agent.”
Tim Tebow? I’m pretty sure the judge told me the restraining order applied to any and all forms of communication.
No.. it was, sadly enough, to my ex-boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend who had just broke up with me .... over G-chat.
And THIS, my dear friends, is what such a gator loss brought me to. Doped up on antihistamines and drowning in a crimson wave of effusive desperation, my pining self nearly professed my loneliness to a guy who rejected me... in an instant message.
And so, my dear gators, I sincerely beseech you, WIN. Not for that glory of domination, nor that pride of defiant victory. No, not for these things, but for something much greater. Win not because the world expects you to, but because somewhere, a girl sits grasping onto the last vestiges of her self-worth and dignity, the threadbare shreds of which seem unlikely to withstand the emotional tumult of another loss.
But if you do lose, can you at least be sure to not tell me over Gchat.
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