Or, Just Move to a Competent NFL City Near You

My wish for you, America: That you experience one World Series and one Super Bowl in your lifetime.

Not at my city's expense, of course. Which makes me championship-greedy, because I've had both. I'm from Cincinnati. Oh yes, we were competent once, and young. There was a Reds World Series in 1990 in which we swept the Oakland A's, and to this day I cannot look at Jose Canseco without pointing and laughing. And not just for the usual reasons, either.

There was a Super Bowl after the 1988 season, which didn't end so nicely. It began well enough, with the Ickey Shuffle and other various and sundry city-wide ridiculous things that, like purchasing a cowboy on vacation in Montana when you actually live in Manhattan, seems like a charming idea at the time, but in retrospect is utterly humiliating.

Exhibit B: The Who-Dey Rap.

This was the era of the tape deck, and the local FM powerhouse had put together a block of Bengals-related songs for tailgates and parties and general self-loving. "Get your recorders ready," the D.J. said at one point, pissing off an entire cadre of music copyright lawyers a full fifteen years ahead of time. We were at that point where the sports team carries us beyond ourselves, when their victories are our victories, their defeats our defeats, even though all we'd done to secure the win was live in the general metropolitan area. When a few hundred thousand people in a concentrated area reach that point, facts fade, meanings twist to the purpose. Riverfront Stadium in those days was called The Jungle, and therefore, a Guns N' Roses song about bleeding,drug use, and dying in a city must serve.

May such shared joy come to you as well.