An Open Apology to the Arizona Cardinals
by Rycke Foreman
Dear Team, Coaches & Staff:
I am so sorry. I realize how completely inadequate you think those words must feel after last season, but you can't imagine how much more pitiful and meaningless they will be after I explain myself--what I've done to you...
I just hope you can forgive me in your hearts, as I know your loyal fans will forgive what they think is your loss. I'm a fan, and I was excited. But I can tell you right here and now that the Arizona Cardinals did not lose Superbowl XLIII. Warner got the ball to Urban and--
Well, I'm getting ahead of myself. I don't know how else to say this, so here it goes: It's my fault you guys lost. I don't know how or why--unless Rod Serling is standing around the corner or my crazy ex really conjured up something with that kooky voodoo she liked to dabble with--but it's my fault.
My friend Brent was the first to notice it. I was stuck at work during the first two games when you won, but caught week three and four when you lost, then missed your wins week five and six.
At first Brent gave me a lot of grief about not being a true fan, but then he started kidding me about staying away, 'cos when I didn't watch, you guys won.
So then we watched the Panthers' game in week eight, and he said it again. But there really wasn't any kidding to it. He asked if I'd skip watching the St. Louis game the next week. I said, "C'mon, Brent--it's the Rams." But he didn't cave, and finally convinced me by agreeing to wait to watch the games with me, later. And it worked. So we did that for the next couple of weeks.
But my birthday is November 23rd, and I still didn't really believe in the curse, and you were in the playoffs by then anyway, guys. I'm so sorry I watched that one. What a miserable 40th birthday present: the realization that you may, in fact, be your favorite team's curse.
Thanksgiving wasn't exactly my fault, either: Yes, I watched the game, but I was at the in-laws, and her dad wouldn't turn it off or let me leave. I swear I vowed from that point on to never watch another live game.
So the Minnesota game was just bad circumstance. I walked into a corner market, and the clerk was watching it on a little five-inch screen. I should've left, but my wife really needed...well, the things I was there to get. The only time my eyes even flicked toward the screen, Warner was picked.
I don't know what happened in New England, though; I guess it's tough to have a perfect season, even when bad luck isn't looking out for you. I swear I didn't leave the house or let the kids turn on the TV all that day. That game almost convinced me that it was all some crazy, lottery-winning-odds coincidence then, but I just couldn't take any chances on the Championship games, and I didn't.
And Brent was a real pal through the whole thing, too, waiting it out with me, true to his word. He's a rabid fan--jerseys and face paints and steering wheel covers--but he stuck it out. I think mostly because he believed it, and he really believed he was helping you guys, too. He even turned down a ticket to the Conference Championships.
So I talked him into going to the Superbowl party. He was going to wait, watch it with me afterward--it was sort of a ritual we had, by then, anyway--but I argued even harder than I did when he turned down the Eagles' game tickets. He wasn't the loser who had to wait on history...
So he went. I did a lot of pacing. I tried to read. Brent was supposed to call, let me know when it was over and he was on his way. Those four hours stretched into a whole new weekend for me.
When Brent finally called, he was screaming. "They did it! They did it! He got it to Urban and Fitzy laid out--hell, I dunno who, but he just laid 'em out and Urban jammed it in, buddy! It's a touchdown!" Everybody in the background was cheering and shouting and clapping and laughing.
I did that crazy winner's arm-flailing prancy-dance all the way into the living room and turned on the TV. I got swept up in the moment. I'm so sorry, guys.
But the score was 27-30.
But of course, that isn't exactly how it turned out, now is it?
When my TV finally opened its fuzzy electric eye, there was six seconds on the clock and Warner was in the pocket. I thought it had to be a replay, that I was going to get a glimpse of Urban's heroic run, actually share in a winning moment with my team, live (well, nearly), for the first time since mid-season--but the ball floundered out of Warner's hand and Pittsburg pounced on it. The ref signaled a change of possession.
My mind was just beginning to grapple with the inconsistencies of my dueling realities when, suddenly, Brent groaned. I'd forgot he was on the phone. Okay--I'd forgot I was on the phone. Utterly and completely dumbfounded, I asked "What?"
"Aw, c'mon," he said. "That was a forward pass." Everybody in the background had quit cheering. I could hear people saying "...see his arm moving forward..." and "No way!" It was like they were reacting to what I was seeing.
Which they were, somehow...
I asked what was going on, and it seemed like Brent was really lost for a minute. Then he asked what I was doing on the phone with him. I started to explain that he'd called me, but he cut me off.
"Are you watching the game?" He repeated himself immediately, nearly screaming it: "Are you [expletive deleted] watching it!?!"
Again, I tried to explain that it was my phone that rang, but he wasn't gonna have it. He was so pissed. But he called me--it's in my cell phone records as a received call. I checked. I won't embarrass myself or his family dropping all the F-bombs he spilled through the lines that day, and I really couldn't tell you much of what he said, anyway. I was numb and in shock, but even then my mind was reaching for something...
Something substantial...it was like it was on the tip of my brain's tongue...if I'd just give it a minute, clear my mind...just a little time...
Exactly.
Time.
How could Brent have thought the game was over? Excited as I was, it had to have taken five or ten seconds to dance in from the living room, then the couple of seconds it takes for the tube to wake up...
You guys should have been going to Disneyland. Instead, you guys had possession at six seconds and counting...and then the ball was on the ground.
I had the phone in one hand, the remote in the other. Both felt vague and insubstantial--I was hardly aware that I was holding them. Nothing was adding up; everything was slow and somehow distanced, as if I was underwater. The ref announced that the play had been reviewed, and the ball belonged to Pittsburg. The score was 27-23, and in Pittsburgh's favor. And of course the Steelers would just kneel. How the hell did Urban get to the ball?
I don't know if it was an accident or muscle memory or the fact that I was just beginning to wonder exactly how one might manipulate time itself, but I think I thumbed the fast forward button on the remote.
The images flicked and jumped, skipping a few fleeting moments in time. It wasn't for more than a handful of seconds, but--
Even if the other thing wouldn't have happened, I'm not sure I could have judged how long... It was all such a confused, jumbled heap, like breaking into the flow of a spider's mind. It was like seeing around and beyond every corner, seeing the whole of eternity at a glance...that other thing. My mind is still reeling...
All this time I've been writing, I've been debating: do I include the next part? Do I lay it out here on fourth and long? Even without it, this whole thing is so crazy and surreal. It feels like I'm trapped in a déjà vu nightmare, like time itself had twisted out of reality's grip for just a moment, and for some reason I had to grit my teeth and hold on while the rest of the world slipped through without a hitch. I've never fainted in my life, but last Sunday I was swaying on my feet, had to batten down and clench the jaw, hold on for a few while it all blew over.
When I finally felt stable again, I was staring at the phone. It was on the floor. The TV had caught up to real time, by then...and it sounded like Brent had, too.
I couldn't tell what he was saying, but he sounded normal again. He didn't sound like a rodent escapee from Saturday morning cartoons anymore.
Yes, I was under emotional duress, confused, and on the verge of fainting, but I swear to any and everything you hold sacred that, if and when I pushed that fast forward button, it wasn't just the images on the TV screen that sped up. Brent's voice did too. All the background noise did too. And the goldfish in the bowl next to the TV--
Wow. I was hoping that would look a little less crazy on paper than it sounded in my head. Hah. Guess this really isn't my week...
And I don't know what else to say, how more to convince you that it's my fault. I have failed you, my team, and I just don't know how to convey how truly, deeply sorry I am. But I have faith that all your fans know, whether you've got rings on your fingers or not, you still have the hearts of champions beating against your ribs...
I hope you'll understand my decision to remain anonymous. I'm leaving Phoenix, anyway. I couldn't help but chuckle when I was offered a job in Detroit, and I just might take it. Who knows? It would be nice: The Lions' record comes with the offer of guilt-free football.
So, yes. Maybe.
Maybe.
Truth is, I've been thinking about Pittsburg, too. Lots of work there for a guy like me.
Yeah, Pittsburg...
And I wouldn't miss a game.
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