Team Humanity

Fall weekends when I was a kid revolved around raking leaves and watching college football games. I preferred raking leaves.

My father went to Dartmouth, which had a very strong football team. My dad was what you’d call a rabid fan, and I almost don’t mean that figuratively. Something cutthroat came over him when he was spectating, and he’d loudly call upon god and Dartmouth to not merely beat but decimate their opponents. I found his bloodthirstiness unbearable, so I would secretly root for the other team to come from behind. Occasionally they did, and, convinced it was my fault, I’d feel horribly guilty and disloyal. Most of the time they wouldn’t, and I would have to put up with my father’s cheerful whistling all the way home from Hanover or wherever we happened to be freezing our butts off.

I only wish the stakes in the Middle East were as inconsequential as college football, as fleeting as my father’s moods, but bitter war is bitter war. Grown-up me is catastrophizing loudly (how can I not?) while my inner child quietly holds out hope that humanity, now down, isn’t out.