A last-minute touchdown. My team is destiny’s friend. Fans, music, tension. Victory!
The Giants—my Giants—have won Super Bowl.
It makes me want to swarm into the streets. I want to cheer. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, “The Giants win the Super Bowl! The Giants win the Super Bowl!”
And then I want to throw a brick through a Duane Reade window and steal a small humidifier.
I’m not sure what a victory against the odds like this does to me. My shrink says I’m just a passionate fan, using joy from my teams’ victories as a replacement for the joy I lack in my life.
But I say, who doesn’t want to flip over an ’03 Civic in Times Square after a win like this? Who doesn’t suddenly get the old clichéd “mob mentality” and roam about urinating on the homeless and shattering glass?
It’s as natural as the birds and the bees.
I used to live in Detroit. Man, those were the days. If the Pistons won anything, you could bet the hands on your stopwatch that I’d be out there making new acquaintances while lighting fires, throwing punches, and running from police. Fun times.
But the past is the past, and now I’ve got a new team. My team.
My New York Giants, who for some reason haven’t set foot in the state of New York since the preseason. But that matters little to me now. Hand me a torch. Throw those rocks. Smash that pane and let’s steal us some stuff!
The Giants win the Super Bowl! The Giants win the Super Bowl!