Stanford, ranked #1 in the country and predicted by many to win the championship, lost in the second round ... again. The following is a timeline of my pain:
I guess my brunch with Mr. and Mrs. Michigan should've been a sign of the impending doom. They were in town for a wedding and wanted everyone to see Baby Michigan. So what was so ominous about that? Well, right before their wedding several years ago I saw Stanford, ranked #1 in the country and predicted by many to win the championship, lose in the regional final. Ironically, Mr. and Mrs. Michigan got married at Stanford Church. During their wedding reception, I got thoroughly soused and took over the bar, forcing all the guests to drink nasty-ass gin. I wanted everyone to suffer like I suffered.
70-67. It feels like I got kicked in the chest by an elephant wearing stilettos.
T calls from Hong Kong. He'd gotten up at 7:30 AM to catch the game, and now we were feeling dead inside on both sides of the Pacific Ocean. It's all because we'd gone to a school with a basketball team that was good enough to make us care, but not good enough to spare our expectations from a thorough bludgeoning.
"Why the fuck didn't we go to Harvard?" he said.
I finally convince myself it was only a basketball game, and only $10 (I was winning my office basketball pool up 'til this colossal chokefest.). Like I do every time my team loses like that, I officially swear off sports and declare that I'll be doing something more constructive with my time, like learning to make furniture or fighting crime.
I head over to Rog's girlfriend's place for a small dinner party. The food is quite good, and that massive sucking sensation in my internal organs fades a bit.
I go to a comedy club. After a couple of vodkas and many ethnic and gay jokes, I'm in a good mood. And I didn't make a single person drink gin tonight.
As we're driving back home, the No Doubt song "Don't Speak" comes on the radio.
"Don't tell me cause it hurts," sings Gwen. And just like that, the pain comes flooding right back.
"It does hurt," I mutter. "It hurts so much. Fucking Stanford."
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