A Memoir of a Viking's Fans Darkest Moment

     At the time, everything was just better. Candy was sweeter, sleep was sounder, even school was somewhat bearable. The Vikings were winning. What a concept. Walking around Minneapolis, you could just feel something that hadn’t been felt in a long time. This feeling was crashing through Minnesota like a tidal wave. We were a game away from the game of all games, the pinnacle of the football world, the one and only Super Bowl. Standing in our way, the mighty Saints of New Orleans. 
     
     This is the one thing I had dreamed of since I started watching football all those years ago. I wanted to see the Vikings make it to the Super Bowl. It would mean so much more than what’s just on the surface. With a Super Bowl berth, there would be no more annoying Packer fans gloating and snickering about “how bad the Vikings are and how high and mighty the Packers are”. It would feel so good to rub it in their pitiful faces.  

     My hopes were high. Higher than waking up Christmas morning hoping I see the new thing “I always needed”. We had two super humans in Brett Favre and Adrian Peterson, each arguably the best at their positions in the entire world. Favre, the wily veteran was a magician with a cannon of an arm. Every throw was a new trick he'd pull out of his helmet. Adrian Peterson was the Picasso of football. Whenever he touched the ball, he would create a new work of art with his long strides, and lightning quick cuts and spins. Those two on top of a brick wall of a defense, we had to beat the Saints, right?

     It was finally gameday. The air was thick with anticipation. I couldn’t even feel the sub-zero temperatures when I went outside to get the morning paper. The day seemed to go 100 miles an hour. The instant I put the sports section down at ten in the morning, it was seven at night and it was about time for kick-off. I was with the only man in the world who was even more excited than I was. My dad had been there through the thick and thin, up and down, left and right. He hadn’t slept the night before, and I don’t believe he had any plans on sleeping that night either. I could see the bags under his eyes from days of anticipation and exhaustion. He tried to mask it with coffee and sugar, but I could tell that this is something he’d been waiting on for almost a decade. As soon as their kicker ran up and booted the ball through the end zone, time went from 100 to zero. Every second was more exciting than the last. The already unbearable anticipation became almost uncomfortable. Instead of being loose and enjoying the game, I became cramped in a wide-open room. My dad had the same look on his face. This, the penultimate game, was as good as any had been all year. By the time halftime rolled around, the game was tied and it had been felt years since kickoff. My dad and I were released from our cages of excitement, only temporarily though.     

     The action was back as soon as it had finished. Time wasn’t dragging, it was allowing my father and I to absorb every detail of the game. We could see every emotion given off by the players and coaches, every blade of grass being crushed by the cleats of these gladiators of our time. Every play was a new chapter in a best selling novel. The game could be comparable to a Broadway play, every movement so scripted and precise. The epic conclusion we had all been waiting for was upon us. With only minutes left, we had a chance to march down the field of battle to win. With every yard gained, the smiles on our faces were getting wider. We were within reach of our ultimate goal. Mere seconds remained, and we were in range for a last second field goal by our unheralded kicker, Ryan Longwell. Longwell was as automatic as it came from this distance. In an effort to make the kick even easier, coach called for one last play. It started like all other plays. Brett Favre took the snap and rolled out to his right. He saw a receiver streaking across the field and wound up for one last throw. As soon as he released the ball, time slowed down to the point were everything in my world was slow motion. I looked over at my dad. He was in a trance, his hands clenched to the couch. I looked out the window to see the snowflakes had paused midflight. Finally, I looked back to the television. It was in this moment that every single emotion I had felt the entire season drained from my body and I felt nothing. I watched in despair as a defender bolted out in front of the pass and intercepted it. I could do nothing but look at the screen in utter anguish. It was over. Everything we had worked so hard for had been taken from us in one awful moment. Overtime was looming, but our best shot at toppling the Saints had just been ripped away. My heart had sunk to my feet. I was numb with disappointment. I managed to catch a glance at my dad before he got up and walked to his room in defeat. His expression was a mixture of agony and helplessness. I watched as a stream of tears made their way down his tired face. As soon as he was out of earshot, I crumpled into the couch and bawled.     

     It was a time when everything was just sour. Candy had lost its luster, sleep was hard to come by, and school was more unbearable than ever. The Vikings had lost. It was this way until my dad told me something that every Vikings fan had grown eerily accustomed to hearing, there is always next season.