There are emotions on the line when we root. The tendency is to think we’re blessed when we get the outcome we want, and victimized when we don’t.

Well-adjusted adults with lives and intimates—a.k.a. ‘hope’—are well beyond the point of pouting like children when their teams fall; instead, a steely—yet fatalistic—feeling takes over. Color me prey to this phenomenon. I’ll tell you here that I may be cursed: my teams never win.

Well, “never” is somewhat hyperbolic, but isn’t everything just so painfully Shakespearean and tragic when we’re venting? Oh, shudder. I’m feeling faint. Forsooth, what fun is it to air grievances on an even-keel?

It may surprise that my predicament has far less to do with my hometown teams than you would think. Lucky me! I’m from Colorado—a phantasmagorical wonderland of sun and slopes that Texans constantly “yee-haw” over.However, the motherland has recently become marred with copious sports baggage. You know, a merciful God wouldlevel Denver’s pro-sports venues with tornados or aliens, but he, she, or it, is allegedly away on business. My outpouring, however, is barely about The Mile High City at all—desensitized as we’ve become to losing, at everything, save being fitter and healthier than the rest of you. 

Sports fans care to varying degrees about big game outcomes even when our beloved teams are on ice, don’t we? These stages force us to draw from our well of visceral associations with particular teams, players, cities and states. For instance, I always wish failure on the Indianapolis Colts because A). Peyton Manning always embarrasses my Denver Broncos, B). Mellencamp, and C). I’m banned from Indiana. But wait, didn’t the Colts lose the Super Bowl in 2010? Yes, but I’ll never forgive them for winning it in 2007.

Having sampled my thought process, I want to sketch my 21st century lowlights: Sarah Palin. Excuse me, wrong section. One such catastrophe just took place in Major League Baseball; in fact, it inspired this commentary. My favorite ballplayer today is Milwaukee Brewers’ centerfielder Nyjer Morgan. He was a very respectable outfielder and lead off man for the National League Central champion Brewers, but that’s not the point. The man’s got looks, personality, plush–“Tony Plush,” also known as the pseudonym Morgan gave himself. Who does that? A six-foot-tall, 175lb black man from San Francisco who played Junior level hockey in Canada does that. He’s singlehandedly started brawls, taunted opposing fans, delivered many a candid, funny (and oftentimes quarrelsome) sound byte, and dubbed the game’s sacred cow, Albert Pujols, “Alberta.”

My hero.

The National League Championships Series that Milwaukee just lost to the St. Louis Cardinals perfectly embodies my sense that, when it comes to sports, I can root no right. Cardinal’s left fielder Matt Holliday is a five-time All-Star. He’s also a no-good snake in the grass who abandoned his former team, my Colorado Rockies, for mo’ money, no problems. I never liked St. Louis before Holliday and I downright resent them now. In summation: T-Plush gets jobbed and Holliday–the pasty ogre– gets rewarded with his second World Series appearance. This is a sick world.

Want more proof? Steelers quarterback Ben Roethlisberger is a greasy galoot who can’t control himself around women at bars. Translation: two Super Bowl Championships.  Philadelphia Phillies fans are absolute hoodlums whose rap sheet includes chucking batteries at visiting outfielders, purposely throwing up on little girls, raining bottles on umpires and getting tasered for fun. Translation: five straight playoff berths since 2007 and a World Series championship in 2008. You see? I have principles. I stand against all of the above, and forjustice. But where is it? The system is broken; and you expect me to just sit around and watch?