Incoherence And Madness In The Heart Of Hell

The game against the Cowboys literally just ended, and as soon as it did, I ran away from the world so I could vainly attempt to exorcise the horrible demons that are eating my soul. This is that attempt.

That game broke me. Mentally and emotionally, something inside me snapped and it’s either write a bunch of incomprehensible gibberish here or shave my head, stalk out to the nearest street corner wearing only one of those giant sandwich board things and start bellowing shit like “Through the fire, we are cleansed!” over and over and over again. It’s a special kind of torture, being a Lions fan. This is no secret, but the events of the past few weeks have felt excessively cruel and ridiculous even by our warped standards. I’m not even mad at the team. Not really, anyway. I’m not going to sit here and nitpick and bitch about the little things that keep the Lions from climbing over that tiny little hill that feels like Everest that separates us from the glorious future of our dreams and keeps us penned in the rancid hell that is our past. After all, it doesn’t really matter. Not when Fate hates us so completely, so utterly, that I’m pretty sure if the Lions somehow managed to play the perfect game, someone with a sniper rifle would just shoot the ball out of the air as it soared into the waiting arms of St. Calvin.

I mean, come on! How many different ways are there to lose a game? How many different ways are there to destroy a man’s soul? Oh Lord, how many? Have you ever seen something like that parade of bullshit before? I mean, that was fucked up. John Wendling overcame that uniform on his back to make yet another great play on a punt, keeping the ball from bouncing into the endzone, only to watch helplessly as a Cowboy picked it up off the ground at the one yard line and then returned it all the way for a touchdown. It was at that point that my mind kind of broke and I’m surprised God didn’t turn me into Dracula given the amount of unholy cursing that I did.

Still, I was at least somewhat human and my brain told me that this was a game that was still ours to win, no matter what Fate had in store. After all, the Lions had completely dominated the first half and had just forced the Cowboys offense to take a holding call in the endzone resulting in a safety. It was amazing the Lions only had a 12-7 lead following said safety. They were moving the ball down the field pretty much at will while the Cowboys, following their initial drive, had failed to gain one damn yard of offense. Shit was looking up, weird, inexplicable Fate buttfuckings aside.

And then Jerome Felton fumbled.

And then Jerome Felton fumbled.

AND THEN JEROME FELTON FUMBLED.

AND THEN JEROME FELTON FUMBLED.

AND THEN JEROME FELTON FUMBLED.

AND THEN JEROME FELTON FUMBLED.

And my brain was devoured by werewolves from hell and the entire universe felt like it had just been sucked through a black hole and I literally crumpled to my knees and bellowed “Why?” like it was a scene out of some ridiculous movie, my hands outstretched, my face pointed towards the heavens. And Fate just laughed at me, told me to sit my ass back down and then spent the next quarter and a half of football pissing in my face while I wept and begged for mercy.

But the Lions fought back – they did – and I’m proud of them. They went right back down the field after those twin soul crushers and scored a touchdown to pull back within two points. And they kept fighting, and they kept fighting, but then Marion Barber converted a 3^rd and 15 run and I had to restrain myself from punching the wall, which ended up resembling some sort of sad outtake from the making of Army of Darkness or something. Seriously, I had to look utterly possessed. I am surprised my head didn’t swivel around and I didn’t start grunting in some weird hell tongue and vomiting pea soup all over the room. It was awful.

And still, the Lions didn’t give in. While I was thrashing about, wondering if I could synthesize lithium from a can of spray paint and an old lighter, they once again stuffed the Cowboys. And then Marion Barber’s hair – HIS FUCKING HAIR – cost us the game. FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!

Indeed. I am actually amazed at Jim Schwartz’s restraint. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had charged the field right then and there and demonstrated exactly what happened on each and every human being in the stadium. I would have watched that for hours, just Jim Schwartz, all crazy as fuck running around Jerry Jones’ monstrous ode to hell pulling everyone’s hair while frightened Cowboys fans screamed and stampeded towards the exits, followed by a night of Jim Schwartz rambling through the stadium, hundreds of pelts in his hands, naked and feral while the National Guard stormed the building and Jerry Jones screamed over the loudspeakers for everyone to calm the fuck down. I would have understood that. I would have said “Right on, Jim. You don’t have to take that shit.” That’s how fucked up my head was by the time that happened.

Of course, the Cowboys then scored – but not before the Lions got them to a third down because Fate just can’t stop fucking with us – and that was pretty much that. For the rest of the game, Jim Schwartz just spent his time accosting the officials and pantomiming pulling hair. He looked like a crazy person, but in my wild eyes he was the sanest person in the stadium. Yes, Jim. Together, we will pull the whole world’s hair! Fuck everybody!

Somewhere in this fucked up haze, Mike Pereira appeared on the TV screen and yammered about horse collar tackles and pulling people down from behind vs. the side and blah blah blah and I spent the whole time wishing I was a mutant of some kind that could incinerate him with lightning from my eyes and then eat his soul while God wept and begged me to stop. Why him of all people? Why did that asshole, who’s terrible withered face will always be linked in our brains to the outrageous “completing the process” fiasco against the Bears, have to appear on my television screen with his lizard tongue and burrow his devil words into my brain? Why why why???

And the whole time, while my brain was caving in on itself and my spirit was screaming at me and packing his bags and saying shit like “So long, asshole, you’re on your own!”, the Cowboys fans – the most deplorable fans in the world – took heart and cheered and some asshole banged on a drum in some strange corner of the stadium while a pair of painted whores robotically gyrated on either side of him and somewhere up in his booth, Jerry Jones clapped like the devil and lorded over this terrible hell. I am shocked the field didn’t catch fire and some 100 foot tall lizard demon didn’t rise up and eat St. Calvin. It was horrible.

My brain on fire, melting in the terrible heat of this hell, I tried to force myself to get a grip. After all, it’s just a football game. There is nothing odd here, nothing supernatural, just two shitty teams playing football. After all, somebody has to lose, so why not your dudes, Neil? And then the Lions managed to get the Cowboys down to a fourth and one – but not before a hysterically stupid horse collar penalty starring Julian Peterson – and well hell, let’s get the ball back and try to at least make this respectable. And then Jon Kitna rolled out in the Drew Stanton Memorial Bootleg and strolled into the endzone while all of hell cheered and the symmetry of it all was so beautiful that if I wasn’t trapped on the inside of this fucked up and cruel labyrinth of pain, I would almost have to admire Fate’s gnarly handiwork, and the expert demon craftsmanship that built this maze of misery. But I am trapped inside of it and so instead of beautiful, it is horrible and cruel and I am forced by it to face what lies at the heart of that terrible labyrinth, the fucked up and horrible truth, which is that my team is supernaturally cursed and hated by Fate and maybe in some alternate universe St. Calvin gets that catch against the Bears, Charles Woodson is called for pass interference in that game against the Packers, Shaun Hill completes one fucking pass on the final drive against the Eagles, Matthew Stafford’s shoulder is not made of glass and bees, Drew Stanton just falls to the turf, Julian Peterson holds up and doesn’t hit Ladanian Tomlinson, John Wendling successfully downs the ball and the ref realizes that Ndamukong Suh grabbed Marion Barber by the hair and not the shoulder pads. Maybe. But in this universe, none of those things happen because Fate hates us and we are doomed to wander in the desert forever and . . . WHY??? WHY???

I am dangerously close to shutting off that part of my brain that cares, dangerously close to retreating behind a layer of dumb snark, because it might be the only way that I can get through this. Most of you already have, I’m sure. Most Lions fans said fuck it the moment that ball left Drew Stanton’s hand and hit the turf against the Jets. But I don’t want to do that. Because as soon as I do, that’s it. I’ll be gone as a fan and I won’t come back for a long, long time. I know this about myself. I know that I can’t take rebuilding again. I can’t take turning it off and waiting until it’s time to start over again. I can’t take the next Schwartz, the next Mayhew, the next Stafford. I have to believe in what is there now because the alternative is simply too terrifying. But the horrible side effect of that is that I have to sit here naked and raw, my heart and soul open, and watch shit like what just happened today. I don’t have a choice, because the only other choice is to basically renounce my fandom and . . . and . . . GODDAMN, you know?

It is just such an overwhelming feeling, such a burden, to know that Fate will eventually pop up and kill you in the most horrifying and cruel and weird way each and every week. I hate it, and I want to just say fuck it, throw up my hands and maybe take up tai-chi or bullfighting or noose building. But I can’t do it. The part of myself that is an eternal optimist refuses to let me and so I watch the Lions lose each and every week and I have to sit there, miserable and watch Jerry Jones and his skeletor face celebrating in his private luxury box and I have to listen to the announcers talk about how this team is more talented and things really are different and blah blah blah, they are so close which just makes it that much harder, that much more painful, and I close my eyes and I look for an answer, any answer, but there are no answers, just the relentless march of Fate and Time and in those moments, as yet another miserable game comes to an end and the forces of Hell celebrate, I feel the terrible weight of both of those things, of Fate and of Time, and the world of my dreams feels so impossibly far away and then I breathe and I open my eyes and I tell myself maybe next week. Maybe next week. I just don’t want to be sitting here, five years from now saying “Maybe next week.” But what choice do I have? So . . . maybe next week.