Stepping down. Pushing away.

Mood: Relatively sane. Regretfully sober.

Losing is really hard. I've lost thousands of poker hands. Many of them more memorable than the big wins. I played on a soccer team in my early teens that lost every game. 0-14. We struggled to get on the opposing side of the field most times. We scored 4 goals all season.

More recently, I played softball with a group of good friends. We spent 4 seasons together and had a good amount of fun. We played hard most nights; and lost most nights. After playing together for a few years, we solidified as a team and began to win. We took 3rd place in our division the last year we all played together. I remember every loss of that season very vividly, however, the wins are fuzzy and distant.

Today, 10-10-2010, was supposed to be a day of grandeur for me. A day when monkeys would leap gleefully off numbered backs, and streaks of futility would become history. Today, the stars aligned, and my two favorite sports teams played on television, back-to-back. However, both of my teams lost in spectacular fashion. Both of them imploded, cursed by bad management, and wasted talent, both of them living the cliche'; too little, too late.

Where was I in all of this? On the couch, on the floor, in the rocking chair, in the kitchen (as far away from the TV as I could possibly be, and still see the action), pacing nervously wearing a carpet track that I can still see. For 6 hours I roamed in the vicinity of the action, not wanting to miss a second, but wanting to run away all the same.

At some point within the late afternoon hours, I said to myself out loud, "There is going to come a point where I can't take this anymore." And here I am; reaching that very point.

I've spent the better part of two decades engrossing myself in every major sport; the personalities, the statistics, the scandals, the unlikely victories and the devastating losses. I have spent countless hours, days, weeks bemoaning a tough lose; replaying them in my head and second-guessing every managerial or coaching strategy. There were times when I thought I might never get over it; that I might never be able to let things go.

So here I am, a 32 year old, married, father of 3, unable to get over what is essentially childrens play. I have personally played all the sports I follow in one form or another. Sometimes I was very successful, and others, I was glaringly awful. But what remains is this; it is only a game. It has always been only a game. It has never been anything more. A game; with lines, fields, players, officials, boundaries and goals. I have wept more in the anguish of my teams losing, than in the joy of the triumphs of my children. I have showed more passion in the heat of a football game, than I have in the undeniable talents of my wife. I have devoted more time and energy to these games, than I have developing talents and ideas of my own that have laid dormant for a great number of years.

Where does this possibly leave me? Well, it leaves me here at this desk, typing to a world of strangers (and a few friends); not in front of ESPN's Sportcenter, swearing inaudibly, eventually dragging myself upstairs full of vitriol and sadness at my losses. No, that's not me anymore. My heart, my mind, the things I hold dear to me, just can't take it anymore. I'm a fat man shoving my chair away from Thanksgiving dinner. The World of Sports is about to take a backseat to hobbies, and individuals, that take precedence; and frankly, should have taken precedence long ago.

So, fair well my dear friend; I shall watch from afar, and will never be able to completely let go of you. However, I have given you a good many years, and life will certainly never be the same living it without your companionship. The boys of summer will have played their last game in the twilight of fall, and the men of the gridiron will grapple with each other into the wee months of winter. As for me, Lord willing, the sun will rise all the same.