I got two "Ohmygod" moments out of my sports teams over the 2008-09 seasons, both courtesy of my college's squads. One crushed me while the other was a joyful climax, and I'm perversely thankful for both. Yes, I'm still pissed about the loss. But falling short is a chance we all must take whether we follow a tribe of athletes or leave the house in the morning.

The soul-deflating moment came first when my beloved Syracuse basketballers fell to Cleveland State in December. The loss wasn't as bad as how they lost. My side was sluggish throughout and trailed near the end, but they managed to tie the game with a handful of seconds left. And then fate fucked them: a Cleveland Stater took the ensuing inbounds pass and won it at the buzzer with a successful three-quarter court heave.

It's a shot that a basketball-playing cyborg would miss 80 percent of the time, and yet the foe arced it so perfectly that it never touched the rim on its way through. And that made me sad. I found myself involuntarily exclaiming, "Ohmygod," one word, upon the buzzer sounding. I try to avoid spontaneous exclamations, instead working to be disciplined in my outbursts. But my brain and mouth conspired to react as I sunk in my recliner.

Thankfully, I got to shriek the same hasty phrase in a different context when my college's equally beloved lacrosse team came back to snatch this year's championship. They made me stress for it. Down by three with five and a half minutes left, it looked like it was time to analyze their 2010 hopes. The announcers were rightfully discussing how much a presumed victory would mean for their foes, and I was moving through whatever steps it took to get to acceptance.

But my guys didn't quit, which is probably one of those life lessons I should take away from sports. They netted two improbably quick goals to get themselves within one goal of tying. That was just the setup: they scored with about four seconds left in a dramatic endgame sequence where 1) a player stripped the ball from an opponent before 2) a comrade won it back in a miniature scrum and passed it to a teammate who 3) made a behind-the back connection to a buddy upfield who 4) heaved a turnaround pass that 5) deflected off a defender's stick directly into an attackman's cradle.

As for the sixth step, the receiving player dived while shooting desperately; like some sickeningly uplifting Disney flick where my team was the protagonist. It of course went in. "Ohmygod!" Their subsequent overtime win was an anticlimactic formality, although I still walked around with a goofy grin all day.

It was especially nice to see an Orange team triumph, as it put distressing losses from the past out of mind. But even my teams' occasional heartbreaking tendencies have brought me something worthwhile, even if only in retrospect.

Namely, it's bullshit to quit on one's favorite bunch of players even when they provoke hair loss and blood pressure spikes. Sporting events, like everything else on this astoundingly imperfect planet, rarely turn out as desired. But what sustains every fan is the unwavering belief that next season will be better, or at least less crappy.

The only genuine glory comes after suffering, which fans learn through brutal experience. Athletics offer more than a way to keep connected with one's home or alma mater: they're a way to experience triumph, even if it means dealing with truckloads of crap first. Peculiarly and wonderfully, that initial misery actually makes the ensuing wins even more precious. It's easier to appreciate something that's been denied countless times.

For example, giving up on following my college's sports clubs meant I would have missed a laughably ghastly 3-9 football season last year. But, I also wouldn't have gotten to watch the aforementioned basketball team's unimaginably fantastic six-overtime victory during the Big East tournament's quarterfinal this past March. The contest should have lasted around 2 hours but actually took around 3 hours and 45 minutes, and was enthralling for every damn moment.

There are other ways for life junkies to get their fix: one can get an occasional stirring reaction from leisure activities such as music, movies or novels. The difference is that sports are real-time, unscripted theater. Fans never know if they'll get to experience ecstasy before a game's over; they can only hope. In that light, shrieking at astounding volume in either frustration or elation at a television tuned to humans chasing a ball seems life-affirming. It's true even if my neighbors disagree.


Anthony Bialy is SG's no-jocks-required Sweaty Pursuits sports columnist. He follows sports religiously even though he's quite bad at them. He ran cross country and played rugby in college, and was horrid at both. He schedules his life around his favorite NHL team's games, and sadly lists his alma mater winning the NCAA basketball championship as his happiest moment. He likes other things besides sports, too, and requests a minute to think of them.