I was digging through an old notebook the other day when I stumbled upon something troubling. Here’s the entry from December 2, 2024:

How was my Thanksgiving? It was crappy, thanks for asking. It was crappy for one reason: The New York Giants.

I fell into a dark place, which is not where you want to be when celebrating stuff like family and thankfulness. Thanks, Giants.

I’ve called myself a fan of this franchise since 2007, and during that time, they’ve never hurt me like they hurt me last Thursday. They lost 27-20 to the Dallas Cowboys (the team I’d hate most if the Philadelphia Eagles didn’t exist), yet the game was a lot less close than that score suggests. The Giants committed 14 penalties, which should add up to a felony. Worse, after a bitter Google search, I discovered the Giants haven’t beaten the Cowboys since 2016.

So there you have it. An eight-year octuplet of shellackings. And after the latest, which took place on one of the most fun-filled, joyous days of the year, I must ask myself why I care so much. Why did the outcome of a game I did not even bet on put me in such a bad mood I considered accepting the hangover guaranteed by a third snickerdoodle martini?

The answer is, of course, the nonsensical and self-inflicted form of torture known as fandom. We select our teams or players, then latch on like parasites in the proverbial colon, munching whatever nutrition or junk our host ingests. In the case of the Giants, mostly junk.

Have I mentioned this is nonsensical? It is. It makes no sense. My viewership or absence on Giants telecasts does nothing to affect the outcome. I can’t jinx them—no one can jinx them—because there’s no such thing as jinxing. No matter how hard we believe, believe this: The game transpires irrespective of us.

We should know all this by now, but we sports fans don’t. That’s why the word “fan” is derived from a more pejorative term: “Fanatic.” It’s a socially acceptable form of derangement.

Imagine, for example, your coworker arrived on Monday wearing a styrofoam cheese block on his head. We’ll call this hypothetical coworker “Reginald.” Reginald drinks Bud Light after Bud Light, complaining about the price between chugs, and he’s also been screaming and/or applauding and/or heckling you, all depending on your actions. At some point, Reginald removes his shirt to reveal the coarse rug beneath.

“Go Pack go!” he roars.

Reginald would, of course, be fired within the hour. But teleport Reginald out of the office and into Section G at Lambeau Field and he’d fit right in. Hell, they’d put him on the jumbotron.

Such is the overwhelming strangeness of sports fandom. I can only speak to it in my native United States, though I hear it’s even more voracious in other countries. And isn’t that adjective telling? “Voracious.” It sounds like a modifier for a predator in the jungle, yet it suits fans, too.

It’s nonsense. All of it. There’s no reason to feel happy or sad or anywhere in between about a team winning or losing. It’s no different than buying a shirt with the word “Heads” on the back and George Washington’s face on the front, then flipping a quarter and feeling depressed because it came up tails.

Deep down inside, I think we all know this. And yet, we delude ourselves anyway.

And that’s where the entry ended. I must’ve gotten a notification about the Giants doing something dumb. Happens all the time.

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include 10 books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

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