The love of football is a funny thing. A strange caricature of interpersonal love; different, yet the same in so many ways. The heartache that a fan feels over a loss is as deep and painful as a sudden and unexplained breakup.
Unable to hear others belittle our beloved, we close our ears to their criticisms, yet we long to hear their name spoken.
We cannot bear to see others blissfully in love. It rubs acid into our fresh and excruciating wounds.
We feel loathing and jealousy towards football's new lover, those vile Patriots. Rationally they are worthy, a better match than even we are, but jealousy consumes us, and our shameful thoughts and words are more vile than the new mistress herself.
We promise ourselves that someday soon, our lost love will return to us, with proclamations of regret and devotion, even if these promises are not only unlikely, but irrational, obsessive, and masochistic.
As a literal and metaphorical fog envelopes Baltimore on this cruel and dreary Monday, I cannot help but still feel love and devotion to my Ravens. I am not only proud of them for the season that they've shared with me, but I cling to the hopes, however unlikely they may be, that next year is OUR YEAR, and I will not hesitate to forgive them for their errors, and welcome them back into desperate, albeit loving, arms.