I am a Bengals fan, and I always have been. Snicker if you will, but I’m not ashamed to admit it. I was born and raised in Cincinnati, and I am true to my hometown teams. I’m not one of those annoying fair-weather fans who started rooting for the Cowboys or 49ers or whoever the most successful team at the time was when they were young, despite the fact that they have never been anywhere close to Dallas or San Francisco or wherever. No, I have stuck by the Bengals through thick and thin (although all I can really remember is the thin), and I am proud of it. I am fully aware that I drew the short stick in the lottery of home team rooting interests, but I won’t let that get me down. Year after year, I bravely spent the Sunday afternoons of my fall and winter cheering on a team that vaguely resembled an NFL franchise. And I was happy to do so, because I knew that all this suffering would pay off one day.
However, I have learned that rooting for such a bad team for so long took a toll on my ability to be a fan. Don’t get me wrong, I love football, and I watch as much as is humanly possible. But watching a Bengals game is a dramatically different experience for me than watching any other football game. For Buddhists, existence is suffering, but for me, watching the Bengals is suffering. I am deeply invested in the outcome of Bengals games. (The only other time I cared so deeply about who won a game was Super Bowl XXXVI, when the Patriots beat the heavily favored Rams. And that was because I hated the Rams so bad, with Kurt Warner’s disgustingly overt Christianity and dyke-ish wife, and Mike Martz’s smug look on his face that you just wanted to smack…But I digress). For so long, I have watched a hapless team make terrible mistakes at crucial times. I have watched them snatch defeat from the jaws of victory more times than I care to recall. I have watched botched field goals and botched punts and botched trick plays and botched regular plays and botched coaching decisions and botched drafts choices and…well, so many botches that the word has lost all meaning. The point is, I was conditioned to expect failure.
This season was supposed to be different, and it was. Marvin Lewis was in his third year as coach, and his influence on the franchise was obvious. After two years of 8-8 records, I, and many other Bengals fans expected them to take a big step forward and end their drought of 15 years without appearing in the playoffs. And wouldn’t you know it, they did. They pulled off a record of 11-5, won their division, and made the playoffs. But it wasn’t as happy as I would have hoped. Despite their success, I still had the same feelings during their games. I harped on every mistake. I lamented every missed opportunity. I briefly enjoyed those 11 wins, but couldn’t get past those five losses. I was always expecting the other shoe to fall. In week 12, with a 34-0 3rd quarter lead over the Ravens, I let myself relax. I conceded the win. I answered a phone call from my girlfriend, which I never did during games. I finally allowed myself to enjoy my favorite team, and what happened? Apparently, the Bengals also began to enjoy themselves and let the Ravens score a few times. The Bengals won, 41-29, and the game was never really in doubt, but I learned a valuable lesson: It can’t ever be easy.
So I approached last weekend’s playoff game against the Steelers with much trepidation. The last time the Bengals were in the playoffs, I was 11. I didn’t know how to react. I am a realist; I knew they probably wouldn’t win the Super Bowl, but I at least wanted a good showing. I wasn’t sure if I could handle a first-round drubbing at the hands of the Steelers. If they lost on the road next week to Denver, I could deal with that. But they had to beat the Steelers. I wanted them to win this game. I needed them to win this game, for my mental well-being. All day Sunday, I paced around nervously, drinking lots of water, obsessively cleaning my apartment, just waiting for the game to start.
And when it did, it couldn’t have started better. On the second play of the game, our quarterback, Carson Palmer, the Golden Boy, the Savior of the Bengals, completed a 66 yard deep bomb down the field. But my excitement turned to despair as the camera panned back to Palmer, writhing in pain on the field. A replay revealed what had happened. One of the Steelers linemen lunged for Palmer and hit his knee, bending it in an unnatural position. It was obvious that he had torn something, and that he wouldn’t be back to play in this game. I was furious. I wanted blood. I wanted the Bengals to take a cheap shot on Steelers QB Ben Roethlisberger and break his fucking neck. I wanted them to knock Jerome Bettis’ fat fucking ass out of the game. I wanted Marvin Lewis to go over to Steelers coach Bill Cowher and break his grotesquely enlarged jaw.
However, my rage subsided as Bengals backup QB Jon Kitna led them down the field. Oddly enough, my anger transformed into relief. You see, if the Bengals lost with a healthy Carson Palmer, I would be devastated, and my worst fears would be true. But with Jon Kitna, I knew the Bengals couldn’t win, and even if they did, it would be a pleasant and quite unexpected surprise. I was at peace with the Bengals losing without their stud, because I knew that they may have won with him, but I wouldn’t have to face the possibility of them losing with him. With Kitna, I know it’s a loss. And for the first time that I can remember, I was able to sit back and enjoy watching a Bengals game.
You may wonder why I put myself through this, and I don’t really have a good answer for you, other than this: I care. I care deeply about the Bengals. It may not be rational, it may seem kind of crazy, but I do, and nothing could possibly change that. So now all I have to do is sit back and wait for the next time the Bengals are going to be in the news: the NFL draft, April 29-30. On a side note, my exams start the day after the draft ends, and I’ll give you one guess as to what my biggest concern will be that weekend.
