This past Friday I was at the Lions game with the kid. As games go, it wasn’t our best. The defence was kind of sleepy and the offence seemed to be hurling themselves at the Eskimos like lemmings over a cliff.  There were moments of brilliance, but sadly more moments of ‘arrrrrgh’. Sure, Arceneaux scored a spectacular TD, but Jennings got hammered with his short yardage attempt. Harris was dependable, but Lulay just wasn’t finding his receivers. So with seven minutes left, Lions down by five, I looked at my 5 11/12-year-old, our 35-minute ride home, and his 7am wake up the next day and thought, “Well… This game is over… Crazy P has sung… It’s time to head”. The kid was sad, because he wanted to see the Lions win.  His Lions win.  But I made a choice.

Don’t say it. Just. Don’t. Say. It.

I got him tucked into our car, headed over the Cambie St bridge accompanied by the sound of his delicate snores and decided to listen to the last few seconds of the game on Team 1040…. just to drive the nail into the coffin, I suppose.

And this is what I heard.

“And with 53 seconds left in the game, it looks like the Lions will win it!”

Wait… WHAT THE? THE LIONS WILL WHAT? WHAT IN THE NAME OF GODZILLA AND ALL HIS LITTLE LIZARDS IS THIS?

The Lions are a clutch team Erin you dumbass… Of course they would win it. OF COURSE.

Crap.

I can never get those seven minutes back.

The number of people who have said “Wait… You did WHAT? You know the Lions bring it in the end. YOU NEVER LEAVE BEFORE THE END’ is outstanding. My lecture my mother laid down was worse than the time I was caught stealing a carob bar (yes, I stole a carob bar when I was eight. I lived on the island and was denied sugar for most of my young life. A CAROB BAR WAS LIKE BLACK GOLD. But that’s another story)

Was I a bad fan? Perhaps. Would I have loved my kid to experience the joy of a stadium of fans exploding with a win? Heck yes.

But empty regrets get me nowhere.

So instead, I will express my remorse in verse.

“Seasons of Loss” (apologies to Season’s of Love from Rent)

Three hundred sixty thousand milliseconds
Three hundred sixty thousand moments, oh fin
Three hundred sixty thousand milliseconds
How do you measure, measure a win?

In touchdowns, in passes
In time outs, in cups of beer
In inches, in tackles, in field goals, in gin
In three hundred sixty thousand milliseconds
How do you measure, that game that they win?

How about yards?
How about yards?
How about yards?
Measure in yards

Seasons of loss (loss)
Seasons of loss (loss)

Three hundred sixty thousand milliseconds
Three hundred sixty thousand moments to get pissed
Three hundred sixty thousand milliseconds
How do you measure, that win that you missed

Sigh… Never again *shakes fist at sky*

Never again