Vikings, I Could Quit You
It's mornings like this when I wonder whether it's even worth it. Why do I bother with this -- or any -- football team? Because clearly my beloved Vikings are going to squander the best shot they have had in a decade for a Super Bowl. At this point, they will be lucky not to end up playing a Wild Card game, when just a few weeks ago we were looking at cruising to 14 or 15 wins and a first-round bye.
How many times can I keep hitting myself with a 2x4?
Winfield, Favre, Williams aren't getting younger, and neither am I. The probability of no salary cap next season -- and maybe beyond -- is scary. And based on the vibe I got when I was home for Thanksgiving, there is zero change of getting a new stadium there. With no cap, and no stadium, you can bet your bottom dollar this team becomes the Twins of the NFL -- just good enough to break your heart year after year after year. Or, worse, they move to Los Angeles, and that is just ... wrong.
Any of those scenarios happen, I'm done. Just done.
Football has always been my first love, but I can quit it because I've done it before. Not with football exactly, but other sports. The North Stars moved to Texas in my youth, and that was easy: I quit them. The Twins won two World Series, and then started paying minimum wage. Easy: I quit them. The Timberwolves were one series away from going to the championship, then they traded Kevin Garnett for next to nothing. A little harder, but I quit them too.
Vikings? I can quit them. In fact, I have a plan.
Some Saturday in the next couple weeks, I'm going to an undisclosed location in North Jersey to join a friend of mine who is a brit and a massive soccer fan. There's some bar there that secretly opens at like 8 a.m. and all these expats gather to eat Brit foot, drink Irish beer and watch Premier League football.
It's like a speakeasy for soccer fans, and based on that alone I agreed to go. But now the stakes are higher. I'm wondering if I shouldn't look at this as possibly the first day of the rest of my sporting life? Soccer could be my methadone program.
It's possible. I was riveted by the World Cup last time, and have to say I'm really looking forward to it this summer. And there is something mighty appealing about spending hours eating, drinking and going bonkers for a 0-0 tie. Mighty appealing indeed.
Another perk? I might actually get to see some decent soccer on T.V. here in New York, which, due to NFL rules, blacks out almost every halfway decent game on Sunday because either the moribund Jets or mediocre (and painfully dull) Giants are playing a home game.
And if next year we're looking at the Wild Card-losing Vikings playing a capless season with a 41-year-old quarterback (or, worse, another season of Tarvaris Jackson) and a likely move to freakin' L.A. on the horizon.... bring on the bangers and mash. I'm done.
The most appealing part of this plan is that I can make a fully conscious decision about my rooting interests.
Growing up in Minnesota, I bled purple before I knew any better. As an adult, I can make a conscious decision to root for the biggest, baddest, wealthiest football club on the planet. I might have grown up cheering for the West Ham of American football teams, but as an adult I can choose to cheer for the Yankees of soccer. Life's too goddamn short. Chelsea? Real Madrid? Manchester United? Go baby go.
It could happen.
