The raison d’être for favorite number being 31

There hasn’t been a perfect season in the NFL since the 1972 Miami Dolphins, Joe DiMaggio’s hit streak of 55 consecutive games hasn’t been duplicated, Wilt Chamberlin’s record of 100 points in a single NBA game hasn’t been matched, Lance Armstrong won . . .

I can tell you that Indiana Pacers have been in the NBA since 1982, and that Reggie Miller is currently 13th on the all-time scoring list. If asked, I could list the last 10 winners of the Vince Lombardi Trophy (Colts, Steelers, Patriots, Patriots . . . Broncos). With great conviction, I can describe the scene in 2004 when “The Hammer of God” Mariano Rivera was on the mound with a one run lead with four outs left to go until . . .

I have probably seen over 150 Colts games and at least 250 Pacers games, and there was a time in high school when watching “PTI” and “Around the Horn” could be considered a de facto personal pillar of Islam (yeah I know it is non sequitur to have personal pillars of Islam). I saw the last game in Market Square Arena and the first in Conseco Fieldhouse. I was watching Jim Mora live during his infamous playoffs post-game interview. I can recall watching Bryon Scott, Verne Fleming, Chuck Perkins . . . but why does this matter? Would my life lack meaning, without these golden calves?

The sporting events I have attended, the others I have watched via various broadcast media, the perusal of sport focused periodicals I have engaged in, all the information I have mildly retained observing journalists and former athletes describing upcoming and already completed athletic competitions: was all of this an advantageous use of my time?

Why do we continue to be impressed by those achievements of athletes? We stand staring in awe at a wide receiver who can delicately place two feet without touching a white line, we purchase official team apparel to demonstrate our loyalty, and we banter the word “we” when describing the exploits of our favorite franchises. This naturally is another logical fallacy because your support of a professional franchise is in a sea of saturated support for the same franchise. The only way to have an honest effect on the outcome of the game, as a spectator, is to attach a self detonating device to portion of your body.

In sports’s defense, it does provide a means for group of individuals to collude that wouldn’t collude under any other circumstances. We can all participate in Blue Friday, exchange awkward head nods at other fellows wearing clothing that isn’t being used for purpose it was developed, and exchange stories about back in the day with people . . .

I probably exchanged in verbal communication with a plethora of individuals about the activities of similar attired persons. In hindsight, all of those conversations contained fast amount brevity regarding originality, wit, and substance. These conversations are just slightly more engaging then describing upcoming weather systems of the world.

Finally, would we be better off as a society if there wasn’t a mechanism for large segment of the population to live vicariously through an elite group of individuals? What about the preverbal hoops a person must pass through in order to become a member of said elite groups. Naturally, these hoops are in the form of the various inferior organized (and unorganized) leagues that provide foundations for future generations. Regrettably, nobody informs to these aspiring athletes that “the hoops” fuse to form a massive separatory funnel that has been sealed; only a trickle can get through. At least somebody should have the decency to tell most kids they are in the organic layer. However, a perk of being in the organic layer is that you have can retell all of your glory days while in high school. You can describe how you tackled this guy in a vicious matter, about all the rules you broke, about the time you busted your knee and lost your scholarship, but most importantly you can patronize anybody while watching the sport that provided you with the peak of your existence. I prefer to live like Sisyphus, except without that asinine boulder.