There is a deadness to early February, a cloak of despair that settles over everything immediately after the first Sunday evening of the month. Once the tortilla chips are gone and the bean dip tray emptied, we’re left with the sobering reality of a life without football. (And no, the NFL scouting combine doesn’t count.)
People who aren’t football fans don’t appreciate the depth of pain one experiences as the Super Bowl post-game show ends. They insist we’re being overly dramatic when describing the end of the season, that we’re blowing things out of proportion. I don’t want to go overboard here, so I’ll place this in the context of Swiss psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and the five stages of grief she identified as the result of her work with terminally ill patients.