A blood curdling and desperate wail of elongated “GOs” shatters the eardrums of every living being in a 3-mile radius, as if the Bison weren’t going to win all along. What exactly are you cheering? Inevitability? Do you also cheer when the sun rises? When your wife has her fourth glass of wine at dinner?
Would you root for this team with such fervor if they didn’t trounce all competition? Do you even care about football as a sport? Or do you only care about winning?
What exactly are you, personally, proud of? Did you complete the touchdown pass? Is a Bison victory a Herman victory in an otherwise listless life?
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Why is so much of your identity tethered to this boring football team? Where were you several years ago when they were not such tyrants? Is this a power fantasy? Has your inability to get your son to cut his hair and your kissless marriage really led to this being your only source of delight?
Every Bison quarterback is a stainless Messiah. Every Saturday is worship. You love these boys as if they were your own and yet they do not know who you are and they probably wouldn’t hang out with you if they did.
Being a fan of a team that outclasses every single opponent to the point of it hardly being fair is one thing, but being so demonically possessed and nauseatingly smug about mismatched beatdowns is borderline neurotic. Would you be here, screaming bloody murder, if victory wasn’t almost certain? You weren’t when I was in college.