Note: This came to me via e-mail from frequent commenter/friend of the blog/thunderheart/my dude, UpHere. I loved it so much that I asked him if it was okay if I posted it as its own blog post. He said okay, and well . . . here we are. So without further ado, I give you the words of UpHere:
Assume for the sake of argument that being born a 2 ½ hour drive from the Silverdome and becoming a Lions fan is the equivalent of being briefly incarcerated in a southern prison for “sawring the hehds off pahkin meetahs”.* In neither case, given a modicum of common sense and a brief eye towards psychological self preservation, is this a life sentence. In one set of circumstances, the sane person practices saying “yes sir” and “no sir”, sleeps on their back to avoid developing an rectum that resembles the Detroit-Windsor tunnel and they ride it out for six months. In the other, they bang their heads against the wall in youthful ignorance before admitting defeat and buying a Roethlisberger jersey by age 10.
What though, if you were a different kind of person? One with a perverse, contrarian relationship with the broader world that biochemically prevents capitulation. One who rejects the logical course of action precisely because it’s the logical course of action. That person rages against the arbitrary treatment by prison guards, digging a six month stint into a torture-fueled multi-year canyon with sheer stubborn, stupid will as the only tool of excavation. And that person stays a Lions fan, says “Fuck it. I make my stand here”.
I am such a fan this morning. I refuse, in my anger and humiliation at fate and fat blowhard opposing coaches to be cowed, whether I should be or not. I will stand here, mouth off, and believe in the Lions no matter how many road gang bosses stare me down and whip the shit out of me, no matter how many nights of sweltering solitary confinements in jungle heat (that might be an Alec Guinness reference from River Kwai, but shut up for a second I got a head of steam up now).
And yeah, maybe this course of action takes my sentence from socially cautionary six months to a lifetime of Job-like persecution and random shoulder injuries caused by stiff breezes. No matter. I make my stand here. I will eat the 50 eggs and I get my ass kicked and I will be there every Sunday with my Stafford jersey and a bitter hatred for the status quo and my place in it. Who’s with me?
* Those too young to be familiar with Cool Hand Luke can probably stop reading now and go play with Facebook or something. Make sure to inform everybody that you’re tired today and remember that the entire world’s been waiting patiently for more cute pictures of your stupid cat.