We lost epically.
The final score was 121 to 120. We lost by one point.
It was devastating.
I have been sitting here, pouting, trying to find some wisdom to share, or at the very least, a funny story. But, honestly, I've got nothing.
The month before, we had our clocks cleaned by The Raggedy Rollers. It wasn't so bad, actually. I even wrote a post about it. Quoth me: "I am such an excellent loser".
Last month I had an excellent attitude. This month? Not so much.
One. fucking. point. It makes me madder than a boiled owl.
I should be getting some perspective. As a team, we played beautifully. Our walls were, at some points, objects of art. My girl Cakes and I were joking that we should get tee shirts made with the word 'Front' printed on her back and 'Wall' printed on mine. I got to experience the sublime moment of holding off a jammer so long that she finally flapped her arms in frustration and called off the jam.
I like forcing jammers to chicken dance.
Also, the team we played has been around for a couple of years while us, a mere six months. This was our fourth game. We are just now beginning to understand the idea of teamwork and how it applies to those weirdos in the same colour jersey. I think, with time, we will be formidable.
But one goddamn point!
I don't think the other team knew how much danger they were in when they came by to shake my hand and hug me. Hugging? Really? All the self control that I have developed over six years of parenting suddenly came extremely relevant as I struggled not to give them a little extra bone-jarring jerk in my handshake or accidentally bump my helmet a bit too hard on their face.
Did I just confess to that?
Don't worry, I just smiled and hugged, even though it nearly killed me. Don't worry, smiling and hugging nearly kills me in civilian life too. I'm just not cuddly. And I would never grievously harm another player off the track. I don't even like hurting people on the track. I am a nice fucking person, goddamnit!
I am also a believer that if you start with the actions, the conviction will eventually follow. (No, no, conviction as in belief, not as in jail time. Geez, you really think badly of me.) Fake it until you make it. If you could see me now, you could see my smile (not somewhat plastic-y) and watch me blow kisses (not in a vaguely sarcastic manner) at the general direction of the other team's hometown. Chant with me: I am a good sport. I am a good sport.
I am a good sport, damnit.
Because I am a good sport with access to the Internet, I did do a bit of looking around to see how other people believe we should behave after losing the game. Even if it's only by one point. This article was my favorite, on a site ironically dedicated to Being A Man. Though I fail the dangle test, I thought there was some good information in there for us all.
As for processing post game feelings of rage, injustice and failure, well, I'm taking a three prong therapy. The first is going to practice and working my ass off to get better for the next game, because I'm pretty sure a win would help with the sour taste in my mouth.
The middle prong is chocolate.
The final is picking up on the heart of my team, and listening when they tell me to get over myself. The lovely ladies who all stood up and chanted, 'We're number two! We're number two!' Moping about this loss (one point!) takes away all the sweat, blood, and bruises we acquired while earning 120 other points. The effective walls, the excellent jammer killing, the unsurpassed teamwork. The same ladies who, when we realized no post-bout group shot was forth coming, insisted somebody get a fucking camera and take a picture of us.
Because we are awesome.
|RDRDA's Nightshades July 23, 2011 by Papa Razzo|