“It’s not nap time; it’s game time.” As I’ve commented many times before, the beauty of living on the West Coast is enjoying early game times. None of that stay up until midnight loaded with adrenaline and then try to sleep silliness. Today’s game starts at 9:30 a.m., enough time to get my run completed, have breakfast, send my wife off to work, write a few words, and put on my game face. Once she pulls out of the driveway, she doesn’t have to deal with my embarrassing temper fits once the ball is tipped-off, and I will have probably cooled-off once she comes home. Only the dogs and cat will need to cover their ears during my explosions of rage. There may be time in the afternoon for that retirement nap, but this morning I’m wearing my Game Face.

It’s a game that I haven’t played for over 30 years and never well, yet I would never make those kinds of mistakes on the floor. It’s simply not tolerated! This comes from a guy who once dribbled the wrong way down the court. I am proof of the phrase, “the older you get – the better you were.” I’m typically mild-mannered but not in front of a television set. No one can see me as I stomp my feet, wave my arms in disgust, and spew foul words like an uneducated truck driver. No one wants to watch with me any more, as I become someone else. The game face is really a mask that hides my true identity. I become “The Haunted I.U. Fanatic.”

Evil spirits take over my body as I rant about the opposition. I begin to hate my friends who might support the other team, and secretly wish them Ill-will. I’m jealous when these traitors win and I lose, although it’s really the fault of those “useless” players that I supposedly support. They are the ones who can’t do anything right and keep me from enjoying the glow of victory. They “screw-up” all the time! In reality, however, it’s probably more embarrassing to watch me than to watch them. They’re on camera and I’m not!

I don’t paint my face like some fans I know. Sometimes I don’t even wear my team colors because I’d be stuck in them if they happen to lose, a painful reminder of their failure to execute under pressure. However, I do like to take credit if they win. Maybe it was the lucky socks that I wore, or the fact that I simply took the time to watch them play? However, I rarely savor any victories because there’s always another game or season to worry about. A loss hangs heavy on my shoulders, and I wonder if there was anything else I could have done to help them win? Perhaps, I was just too optimistic and underestimated the opponent?

There is a certain high that accompanies every I.U. victory, and a rock-bottom low associated with the unmentionable. Other emotions like anger, frustration, hate, pity, and jubilation come into play. I can’t say that I ever feel confident behind my game face. We can be riding a wave of exceptional play only to hit a brick wall. I can even feel little joy in winning if we played poorly or got a lucky break. It’s tough being a fan with only mental powers to control the outcome of a game. It’s a helpless feeling when you’re sitting in the living room and the team is playing thousands of miles away. Can they hear your thoughts and screams that far away? Or should I raise my voice louder and scare the neighbors, as well?

It’s Game Day and I’m in my Game Face. Certainly, if the players were as well prepared as I am, there would be little doubt about the outcome. There would be no turn-overs, stupid fouls, or missed free throws. If it were me, I would play the perfect game, but instead I’m on the couch. It’s too early in the morning to drink and I’m a nervous wreck. I’m “The Haunted I.U. Fanatic,” waiting to see if my entire day will be ruined by another heart-breaker. Or, will I put on another Game Face tomorrow, and go through the same round-ball insanity?