We’ve all been there. No one is impervious to the random cruelty that is a brutal playoff loss. It happens to some more than others, but nevertheless it eventually comes for us all. It’s been several hours since OG hit that three with .5 seconds left in regulation. The Celtics were about to go up 3-0, a likely death sentence for Toronto. Instead, the revived Raptors find themselves in a 2-1 series. Hope anew. A rose burst through the concrete and breathed new life into their season.
It’s easy to spiral, but it’s best to maintain your composure in an attempt to save your sanity. Because there will be other, more devastating losses on the horizon. There is no doubt about that. So it’s best to have a routine, a go-to pick-me-up for when God abandons his children yet again. This tried and true method works for me, hopefully you may find this guide useful while attempting to navigate your future sorrows.
Step One: Delete the victory tweet you had typed out in anticipation of going up 3-0 in the Eastern Conference Semi-Finals. It serves you no purpose any longer.
Step Two: Post the video of the game-winning three that was just hit against your favorite team in your favorite player’s face to the social media brand account you run so that millions can see an instant replay of your heart getting torn out of your chest a la Ralph Wiggum.
Step Three: Put down the knife.
Step Four: Scroll. Endlessly scroll. Get extremely angry at every take you see come across your line of vision. Type out dozens of responses and delete them without ever sending them. Do not - and this is important - get fired.
Step Five: Shut off the television. Another basketball game has come on, without your consent, and the last thing you want to see is the sport you love that does not love you back. Maybe tomorrow we can try this again. But the wound is too fresh tonight.
Step Six: Put down your phone. Lean back. Put your hands on your head. Find a nice spot on the ceiling. Begin your stare. Blinking? No sir. Just staring. Maybe breathe a couple of times. But mostly just stare. Think about every play that went wrong over the course of 48 minutes or 60 minutes or nine innings. Begin blaming people. Blame yourself. Blame your parents for being born. Put a blood hex on the referees. There’s plenty of blame to go around.
Step Seven: Get in the car. Drive to Chick-Fil-A. Sit at the drive-thru for five minutes waiting to order until you realize they’re closed even though you see workers inside. Drive to the McDonalds next door. Ravage their menu. Acquire the parcel. Leave the drive-thru. Go to the Taco Bell two doors down. Crunchwrap Supreme the minimum. Finish your McDonalds before you get to the Taco Bell pickup window so that they don’t judge you more harshly than they’re already judging you for being at Taco Bell at 11 pm. Acquire the parcel. Drive to the 7-Eleven parking lot. Finish your Taco Bell. Buy a log of dip. Get back in the car. Drive home.
Step Eight: How the fuck did he make that pass???? There were POINT FIVE seconds left and this motherfucker throws an Aaron Rodgers Hail Mary to an open receiver in the corner and he somehow catches and shoots the ball all in such a fluid motion that it takes up less than .5 seconds of real world time???????
Step Nine: Illicit Substances. Dealer’s choice. You know you better than anyone knows you. Treat yoself. You need it.
Step Ten: Hug the porcelain as recompense for what you've done to your body since the game clock struck zero. You'll be there for a while, might as well take out your phone and write this blog.