Skol Vikings

Little flags had sprouted from driver and passenger-side windows. A familiar blond Nordic gentleman with horns appeared everywhere; in offices, shops, and email signatures. Our towns smelled of purple, and every conversation was on the brink of a digression including the words "AP," or "stadium noise," or "pocket." We knew the curse. We didn't talk about it. We pretended it could happen this year, as if the Earth's rotation would suddenly stall and the sun would never rise. Inside, we knew we were living on borrowed time. Every moment remaining before kickoff became a treasure infinitely more valuable than the one before. We knew it was only a matter of time...

The narrative is ancient, or might as well be. Its tendrils creep into the soul of every fan. It begins for us like clockwork in the waning days of summer. In these days, when the first flake of snow is still an impossibility, its harmless and mystic appeal lures us. "It's only a game," we tell ourselves. "Maybe this year." Oh, the numbing sensation has not left our extremities, not since 98, or before. Perhaps back to the 70's. For some, those horrors have been shoveled over, buried deep within our psyche like our first unfortunate clown experience. We somehow approach each new season with blind enthusiasm, like lemmings, plunging to enjoy the cool water splash around us and the promise beyond. There is heartwarming charm in such simple naivety.

For a few games...

Then, in our frenzied dog-paddle, as our noses strike against the waves, we look back to find ourselves surrounded by water as far as the eye can see. Half-way through the season there is no turning back. Destiny has consumed us. It tells us to keep swimming. We do. We remain riveted to the goal despite knowing the pain we are sure to endure. Will it be a fumble on the 5 yard line, or 12 men in the huddle? What easily-avoidable fluke will do us in this time? We know our warriors will outperform their opponent in virtually every way, but in those crucial moments will they throw an interception, take a knee, or miss the shortest field goal? Only time will tell. It will remind us that justice is a myth, that there is no God, and that we are all floundering rodents about to drown in a vast oblivion. There is no escape. There is no relief. We turn away, but already know the result. We knew it before the first glimmer of hope existed. It could not be stopped. Any apathy is false and contrived. We asked for this. We were doomed from the beginning.

There is some twisted honor here as in this cold, desolate month we refuse to yield only to the elements. We demand more than perpetual darkness and sub-zero temperatures. We require more demoralization than the repeated blanketing of freezing rain, black ice, and high gas prices. We refuse to accept anything less than the complete crushing of our spirit. We ask to be bemired in an inescapable crevasse of hopelessness and despair with no possibility of escape. As Minnesotans, this is not only our challenge, but our identity. It makes us who we are, and drives us ever-further within–to engage with ourselves in that inevitable dialogue that insists to know the meaning of all this. Why go on? Why continue breathing? How can purpose exist in a universe of complete chaos and unpredictability.

But, it is not complete chaos, far from it. There is solace in one crucial thing: the consistent and inevitable crushing pain we can depend upon this time of year. When it seems like nothing else can be counted on–when it seems as if all is utterly random and whimsical–this tiny shred of consistency reminds us that there is some semblance of order to the cosmos. It is not a glimmer of hope, but a nail gun pounding our feet to the pavement, grounding us to a harsh reality. It is a defensive tackle smashing no. 4 onto the turf over, and over, and over again. And yet, we ascend, and ask for more. We do it not for hope, but for punishment. We do it because this is who we are, and this is what we do.

Next time I see the little purple flags on minivans–next time I see our horned gentleman through the corner of my eye for days at a time–I will remember the season of 2009. I will remember driving home from my buddy's house over frozen ice in our arctic wasteland along with so many others. I will feel the characteristic tingle of dejection shoot up my spine and rip through my extremities. But, more importantly, I will remember seeing "SCOL VIKINGS" written prominently on a whiteboard in the office the morning after that day of reckoning. I will remember what we've been through, what we have endured, and that we asked for more. I will remember that when the ground opens up and the Twin Cities are buried under a mile of molten rock, there will be one thing left: a tiny purple flag stuck into the black, scorched Earth fluttering in that unholy blistering breeze.

SKOL VIKINGS!