Though I’ve never considered football to be my favorite sport, on this day – at this time, three and a half quarters into the evening’s game – it was the only thing on my mind.

The game: Miami vs. Dallas, November 25, 1993.

A snow covered field. Drifting in through the stadium roof’s iconic rectangle hole, the snow added a new dimension to the game. Mistakes were made, they might say, and it was evident by the abysmal 14-13 score.

The Dolphins – an improbable 8-2, despite the loss of Dan Marino in the fifth game of the season – trailed, but this was no surprise. They were on the road, against the Cowboys (who, unknown to everyone, would go on to win the Super Bowl). The Cowboys, at 7-3, were considered a far superior team, despite the record.

And at this point, the game was nearly wrapped up. Pete Stoyanovich’s kick had just been blocked, the ball landing close to the end zone. Dead ball. Three seconds to go. Cowboys ready to celebrate.

Enter Leon Lett.

I was returning home to an empty house, my father still at Thanksgiving festivities across town. On the radio, I had heard the set-up, the snap, the kick, the block. And, as I got out of my mom’s car, I heard a hold up. The Cowboys had fucked up. And the Dolphins may have another chance.

I ran to the front door, hastily waving goodbye to my mother. I ran in the house, switched the television on, and watched, mouth agape, as they replayed Leon Lett’s disastrous error, his snow-driven slide into the football allowing the Dolphins to get the ball back for a second chance, Stoyanovich wisely using the confusion to clear off a path to the football, a stunned Dallas crowd awaiting what could only be bad news.

Finally, a second set-up. A second snap. A second kick.

But this time, no block. Dolphins win, 16-14.

I broke free from the house. Running down the street, kicking up snow, ignoring the cold against my bare arms, I ran down the street. Cheering. Shouting. SHOUTING AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS to no one in particular. My friend Steve, who happened to be walking down the block for a pre-planned sleepover, looked on as I went ballistic with joy.

The Dolphins would proceed to lose every game from there on out, while the Cowboys did the opposite, winning every game through the Super Bowl.

Later that night, after my father came home, Steve and I attempted to quell my football buzz by walking to Kmart in the middle of a mild snowstorm. That it was open was a surprise, but I barely noticed. My mind still ran wild with the possibilities.

It was my first taste of a meaningful comeback, and it came equipped with an elation that no amount of snow could cool off.

Sure, it’s not as original as I had thought – it was in the to 100 for baby names in the mid 2000′s, though it’s been dropping in recent years – and there’s always that damned GMC behemoth, but all in all I still think it’s perfect. I can’t imagine her being called anything else but Sierra.

Nothing else would fit.

Thankfully, we had a girl.

I say thankfully because, well, we never really managed to nail down a suitable boy name. They were all just “okay.” We had several chosen, ready to anoint upon birth, not knowing what the final answer would be until seeing Baby Boy Vilhauer for the first time. And, again, thankfully, we didn’t need to make that decision.

Which brings us to today.

For us, it seems as though girl names are infinitely easier to choose. We’ve already got a girl name picked out – a beautiful name that harmonizes with Sierra and sounds nearly classical with Vilhauer. First and middle name. Chosen. Done and done.

But for a boy? Nothing.

I think of this because we have an appointment today for an ultrasound. The ultrasound where we can discover the gender of the baby. The ultrasound where we could, if so moved, determine what our future will hold – a couple of beaming girls or a pair better suited for mixed doubles.

We’re not quite sure if we want to find out. Why spoil the surprise, right?

One reason is the name. What if it’s a boy? What if this perfect girl name is trashed in the name of an extra Y chromosome? And, what then?

Boy names are by nature more difficult. Clever names seem too cutesy, and the typical seem so generic. I wasn’t a typical boy growing up – as in, I wasn’t tied to cars and sports and the other things boys are expected to discover and latch onto – so I’m not sure what a name is supposed to represent. I was named after my father’s dog, after all. True story.

It’s been mentioned hundreds of times before, of course – a name is more than a word. It’s an identity that sticks with a child for his or her entire life, from birth until adulthood, along for the ride, written and mispronounced and branded onto every item that he or she encounters throughout every single stage of growing up.

And I think that makes the decision so important. I wonder what goes though the minds of those that use child names as some kind of personal fantasy, as some kind of joke or reaffirmation of ideals. I wonder why a Miami Dolphins fan would name their kid “Phin,” or why someone who was enamored with marijuana would name their little girl “Sweet Leaf.”

We hope that Sierra finds the beauty in her name as she grows up. We hope she understands every aspect of the word – the naturalness and creativity, and the historical aspect of her middle name: Dawn, a female version of my grandfather’s name, Don.

And we hope that, no matter what happens, Baby #2 finds joy in his or her name. Because it’s important. We realize that.

That’s what makes the decision so difficult.

Last season, I rooted for them to lose. I stayed mum about their only win. I watched Minnesota Vikings games because they wouldn’t show Dolphins games. Which is okay, because I’d probably have watched Minnesota Vikings games anyway. The Dolphins were that bad.

I came into this season without a peep, uncharacteristically, figuring they were already sunk. After all, they entered the season with someone else’s discarded quarterback, with the same team that won only one game the year before only without the Pro Bowl players they had depended on for so long.

I felt no need to write about them. Despite my blind loyalty to the team, I had nothing to say. Nothing to say that hadn’t been said before, that is.

They began the season 2-4. The NBA season was ready to strike up the band. And so my attention waned.

But they won against a hot (at the time) Buffalo team.

And they won again.

And again.

Going 8-1 over the next nine games, they found themselves back in the playoff race. Not just the playoff race, but the division race, holding tiebreakers over the hated Patriots and needing just a win against the hated Jets – the team that handed the Dolphins their first loss in the first game of the season, at home, in Miami.

It was Brett Favre’s first game in Jets Green. It was Chad Pennington’s first game against his former team. And now, the two quarterbacks meet again, their fortunes reversed, the Dolphins riding a wave of success while the Jets have watched their division lead boil away to nothing.

To this game. To this win.

It’s on television, which means this is the first Dolphins game I get to watch. It’s the first meaningful game since 2001, which means there’s something to play for.

It’s a chance for the playoffs, which means it’s the first time I’ve been able to sit down, shield my eyes, and hope for the best since Dan Marino was throwing the ball.

It’s kickoff. And I’ve got a game to watch.

Really? ELI Manning?

I didn’t see that one coming. Not at all. But it was pretty great.

I thought I was ready to welcome the Patriots to the “Perfect Season” table with the 1972 Dolphins. I figured that we were cursed, that perfection had to be shared before the Dolphins had a chance. I was tired of Mercury Morris, of Don Shula, of Jim Kiick and Larry Czonka and the rest of the team, popping their champagne, rubbing their long past achievement in the nation’s collective face as if the team was somehow relevant again.

But when it came down to it, I ended up rooting for the Giants.

Let’s just say old habits die hard. Congrats, New York. You guys earned this one.

I love this post from Where’s My Jetpack? regarding the woeful Miami Dolphins. They need more than a new General Manager and Coach – they need an entire re-branding campaign.

From the post:

We’re talking about dolphins. Gentle, playful, cute, always-smiling dolphins. This is not a good football animal mascot like a bear, lion, bronco, jaguar, bengal, colt, eagle, ram, charger, seahawk, panther or falcon. The only animal mascot in the NFL with a weaker image than a dolphin is a cardinal. And the Cardinals have sucked forever. One of the original names floated for the franchise was Sharks. That says football.

Well said. There’s more fun where that came from – check it out.

Well, so much for that.

I’ve been rooting for a hated rival to go undefeated. At the same time, I’ve been rooting for my team – the team I grew up following and still claim as my own – to lose every single one of their games. There is a curse, I’m convinced, that makes the Dolphins worse and worse every season. The Perfect Season Curse.

The only way to break it? A completely defeated season by the Dolphins, and an undefeated season by someone else.

Unfortunately, one part of that dream died today. The Dolphins beat the equally horrible (yet, in terms of wins, statistically better) Baltimore Ravens in overtime.

I’m sort of crushed. Now I really have nothing to root for.

Yet, at the same time, I feel bad for Ravens fans. How shitty must they feel?

On a more positive note – the Dolphins are only 13 games behind the Patriots for first in the AFC East!

I always have. I remember at a young age ranking all of the teams in the NFL. I loved lists, and I was just beginning to understand football. I placed the Dolphins at the top, naturally, because that’s the team my father rooted for (and still does) and I placed the Buffalo Bills – the Dolphins’ natural enemy, obviously – at the bottom. Dallas was second to last. Pittsburgh was third to last.

Tonight, though, I’m rooting for them – both because I desperately want the Perfect Season Curse broken and because Ben Roethlisberger is on my fantasy team.

This is what professional football has broken into – both for good and bad. Sure, we root for our team. But we also root for everyone else, depending on the day – or more specifically, depending on who’s starting, or what the point spread is, etc. etc. Loyalties and rivalries are thrown to the wayside, with individual stats taking hold and Monday Night Football gaining even more momentum as the ultimate “make the lost bets back” game.

And as a football fan, I’m all for it. I’m rooting for Pittsburgh tonight. All because I have a drafted the rights to use the statistics of a handful of professional football names. All because I need 48 fantasy points from their starting quarterback. All because I am pretending – like a couple of kids playing house – that I’m a real life NFL general manager.

What a weird concept.

To think I usually hate the Steelers.

Another pathetic loss. Another wasted week.

These Dolphins are horrible. 0-9 horrible. The worst team in Dolphins history horrible.

Yet, I’m pleased.

See, I am completely convinced that the Miami Dolphins are suffering some sort of reverse curse – a problem stemming from their 1972 perfect season – and that they will not overcome the curse until another team goes undefeated or, in a worse case scenario, the Dolphins themselves go COMPLETELY defeated.

It boils down to arrogance. I shudder whenever I think about the 1972 team’s tradition of toasting each other when the last undefeated team in a season loses. Imagine, a bunch of aging footballers popping champagne, celebrating another team’s loss, rubbing an already downtrodden team’s nose in its own shit. I find it to be troublesome – an act that gives the Dolphins a bad name, a cockiness that is no longer warranted, like a co-worker bragging about the women he slept with back in college.

Former coach Don Shula denies this happens. But he’s covering something up – the players are still arrogant about the record, and I have seen footage of the 1972 celebrating with my own eyes. Really, we as Dolphins fans deserve to be cursed. We cheer this 1972 team on. We live in the past. We celebrate with them. We’re just as horrible.

I feel that this curse is complex. As the 1972 season falls further back in history, the teams have become even worse. It wasn’t as strong in the 70s – hell, they won another Super Bowl in 1973. In the 80s, it was a curse of success – of nearly making a huge run. In the 90s, it was the false hope of life after Marino.

Now? The curse is utter torture. The Dolphins, once a proud franchise, is now a laughing stock, a coaching and quarterbacking turnstile designed to give the Bills, Jets and Patriots two free wins each season.

So it’s no surprise to me that I find myself rooting for the rival Patriots to go undefeated. And that I root for the Dolphins to lose every game. I feel that’s the perfect remedy for the Perfect Season Cockiness – a perfect storm that will break the curse and send the Dolphins back into the throes of success.

Regardless of how it’s broken, I hope it happens soon. Dolphins aren’t supposed to drown. But we’re all drowning out here.

It begins to wear on you. It’s true. This Dolphins season has been less than savory. After starting out 0-5, the Dolphins are causing must of us who root for the team – for whatever inexplainable reason – to give up hope.

And not just for this yea. The future looks bleak too. With a defense that averages 52 years of age and one of the worst offenses in the history of football, there’s really nowhere to go but up.

Unfortunately, we can’t help but think “up” is a long ways away. We’re not floating close to the ceiling here, fighting to break through. We’re in the floorboards, a tell-tale heart just scratching to make it above the floor again.

The funny thing is that, after a while, you begin to embrace losing. I’ll forever root for the teal and orange, no matter how outdated their uniforms look and how many quarterbacks it takes to get a win, but I find myself rooting for losses, cheering for the difficulty of defeat instead of screaming for a win. The Dolphins are the only team to go undefeated throughout a season. Could it be that, 36 years later, we could see another unheard of feat – the totally defeated season?

The extremes are easy to root for. There’s a gamers high that is often associated with winning. It permeates all of sports – an aggressive loss of inhibition that causes fans to lose touch with reality and claim their squad the greatest. And at the opposite end, there’s a feeling of release. The games ultimately don’t matter – the stress of backing your team is dropped, and you can be a lovable loser, pitied by your friends and understood by your opponents.

Winning is stressful. It’s hard on fans. Losing, however, is expected. It’s easy. It’s relaxing to settle, so settle we must.

No – the real difficulty is being right in the middle – the .500 club, the win one, lose one (or even worse – win six, lose six) territory. This the territory of the Minnesota Twins. And this is the territory of my beloved Pacers – a team that has settled into mediocrity after several years of contending. Now, they’re an also ran – too good to get a decent lottery pick, but too bad to ever even sniff the playoffs.

So it’s odd to find myself torn between rooting for wins and rooting for losses. The Pacers are as vanilla as you can get – a boring team with a new coach in a lame division. They’re already matched up against two Eastern Conference powerhouses – the only two remaining, actually: Detroit and Cleveland. They have little chance of making a splash.

And I’m trying hard not to give up, already, before the season starts. But, even though they won their first preseason game tonight, I can’t help it. I’m already expecting the worst.

It all started with Michael Jordan. Being a Chicago Bulls fan was easy. As a kid, I picked a team that had a chance to win the championship. And just like that, they won it. I was spoiled, thinking my team always had a chance, fooling myself that the opponents held some sort of spell over my team when I knew they had no shot.

And, when I realized what I had, I gave it away. I stopped watching sports and found myself drawn back into different teams – new favorites; no more Cardinals – now it’s the Twins; no more Bulls – now it’s the Pacers.

Those decisions have brought me heartbreak. The Pacers were very close for a while. Very close – several Conference Championships and a Finals appearance. And the Twins, well, they’ve created some amazing second half heroics in recent years.

But regardless of the surges they’d make, they would ultimately came up short, leaving me exhausted and somewhat betrayed. My lucky card never came in; my wishes never came true. The photo finish I always dreamed of is still just that – a dream.

So you’ll have to forgive me. It might be hard to watch a loser. But it beats going through the tulmultous ups and downs that accompany a mediocre team’s season – the maybes and the could haves and the almosts.

It’s easier to just accept loss. At least the only place my expectations can go is straight up.

Straight from the basement to the floor.

Kerrie and I sat in an Old Chicago in Sioux Falls, surrounded by Timberwolves fans, blasted out by cheers and pummeled by the sound of thunder sticks. The Timberwolves won the crucial game, 83-80. The score sounds ugly. The game was exciting.

The Wolves went on to lose to the Lakers in the Western Conference Finals. That same year, the Pacers lost out to the Pistons in the Eastern Conference Finals, thus barring my team’s entrance to the Finals for the first time since 2000. It was a summer of near misses in NBA basketball. High expectations, crushed.

The real significance of the game, however, is personal. That night, sitting there in front of a television that was hung from the ceiling, nursing several beers and inching closer to my goal of World Beer Tour completion, I watched a sports contest all the way through, from start to finish, uninterrupted, with my full, unbridled attention.

I haven’t done it since them.

I’m a sports fan poseur.

I don’t watch sports. But I’m a sports fan.

I’m attached to the words and numbers that create the bare bones of a sports contest. I’m latched on to the box score that serves as a numerical blueprint for reproduction of the game. I know names, not people; stats, not performances. I’m ashamed, but yet, I’m comfortable with it.

I don’t watch sports with an attentive eye. I have them on, sure, and I watch them for the most part, but I’m always focusing on something else. And, realistically, even those times are rare, what with the low level of television time I afford myself. I find that I don’t need to watch an entire game to get the gist of the contest. I listen to sports radio and get the blanks all filled in.

I’m a sports fan dedicated to the standings. I celebrate wins without seeing a pitch, a throw, or a single basket. I receive text messages and lament losses without even knowing how the loss transpired or if it was even a good game.

I live my sports life through newspapers, much like those years before Sportscenter lived, listening only to snippets on the radio, yet knowing enough that Pat Neshek should have been voted into the All Star game.

I’ve seen only two highlights from the Dolphins this year. I’ve watched only about 20 complete innings all Twins season. I’ve been known to go until the first nationally televised game without even knowing the play by play of the Pacers’ wins and losses.

I love sports. But I don’t know why I don’t take the trouble of watching them. I mean, I can’t count the number of times I’ve been at work and someone has come up to me to talk about a previous night’s game. I know all of the key plays. I know who won. I know who scored, and what it means, and how the standings are lined up and how the playoffs are falling into place. But when he says “Did you see that play?” I simply shake my head and avert my eyes.

“No,” I have to admit. “I didn’t see the game.”

I don’t know why – I’m fine with it any other time. I simply don’t make time to watch the games; they take too long and are riddled with boredom and long winded commercial breaks. To me, seeing sports live has ruined the feel of a television game. I’m so easily distracted while watching it on the small screen. I don’t get the same feeling I do when in the Metrodome or at the Arena.

So I live my sports life through stats, scouring the standings and adding up home runs and comparing scoring averages instead of watching the subtle footwork and guile and teamwork that makes sports fun.

I haven’t watched a single television game straight through. For over three years. I’m a poseur. A fraud. A fake. A sports fan with no sports, a paper champion, a slave to the reporters and a cause for worry.

But to me, I’m okay with it. The 1910 baseball season wasn’t televised. Only your local team was heard on the radio. And sports were still as rich as they are today.

It makes me think – what is it about sports that’s important? Is it the physical act, the actual movement of sport and the visual aspect that encompasses nearly every television at some point in time? Or is it the underlying story, the results and the hard facts and the relationships that aren’t even brought out during the live event. Is it the act or the result that’s important?

And if the act’s what matters, why is so much focus placed on the results?