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By Max Weiss | January 14, 2025, 03:01 pm
“Pressure is a privilege.” —Tennis great Billie Jean King
“Pressure makes diamonds.” —General George S. Patton Jr.
“Pressure sucks.” —Me, right now
I’m sitting on my couch feeling anxious, flushed, and slightly nauseated.
A bout with COVID? A nasty case of the flu? Nope, I’m just watching my beloved Ravens in the playoffs.
Here’s the crazy thing about the NFL playoffs: Every year, all you hope is for your team to get there and then, if the sports gods are willing, that they go on to win the Super Bowl. And never once, as you wish and hope and pray, do you think to yourself, “And if they DO make the playoffs, I will be a miserable wreck and in a state of complete and utter misery the entire time.”
Take Saturday’s game against Pittsburgh. It started out pretty comfortably. As the Ravens went up 21-0 at halftime, I actually felt some tension release from my body. We got this.
Then at some point in the third quarter, Pittsburgh QB Russell Wilson found a groove. He wasn’t just dinking and dunking his way down the field. He was getting big chunks of yards on majestic, accurate passes that landed perfectly in the outstretched hands of Steelers’ receivers. The offense had found a flow.
Suddenly, it was 21-7. Then the Ravens answered right back on a Derrick Henry 44-yard scamper and I yelled, “IN YOUR FACE!” at the TV screen.
Then Pittsburgh scored again—and quickly. I had barely blinked and it was 28-14.
Dear reader, I’d like to say that I was calm and realistic in this moment. We were up 14 points at the start of the fourth quarter. We had demonstrated that we could score on their defense. We have two of the best players of all time—Lamar Jackson and Derrick Henry—in purple and black.
But in reality, what I thought was: Oh my God, if we lose this game after being up 21-zip at halftime, it will be the most upsetting, depressing, demoralizing sports loss since the infamous Billy Cundiff game against the Patriots (IYKYK).
Indeed, it wasn’t until the clock showed all zeroes that I was able to unclench my shoulders (and various other body parts) and breathe freely.
But was I jubilant? Ecstatic? High-fiving strangers in the street? No. I was upset that we had let them back in, given them hope. The Steelers had outscored us 14-7 in the second half. Did it reveal a softness in our secondary? A lack of killer instinct? Were we trending in the wrong direction?
If you had told me before the game that we would win 28-14, I would’ve been thrilled. But the pessimist in me worried. (I also worried about Lamar’s tender ribs. Love you as a runner, my dude, but stay safe out there.)
The post-season anxiety is always there, but it’s much more pronounced when your team is favored. Every time I hear some pundit picking the Ravens as Super Bowl champs (it’s a sexy pick right now), I scream, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” at my screen.
It’s not just that the Ravens are good and have something to prove, it’s the Lamar of it all.
Talking to my friend Travis, I confessed that I wanted the Ravens to win for the team, for Baltimore, for Harbaugh. But mostly I wanted them to win for Lamar.
The idea that the only way you can cement your legacy is by winning a championship is one of the more asinine tropes in sports—and yet it persists.
Despite the two (soon to be three) MVPs (don’t screw this up, AP sports writers), the all-time quarterback rushing record, the dazzling statistics year after year, Lamar still apparently has something to prove. The sentiment expressed over and over again is that he can’t win the big one. (Never mind the fact that we were one Zay Flowers goal line fumble away from being just three points down late in the third quarter of last year’s AFC championship game against the Chiefs.)
I want that monkey off Lamar’s back. I want Lamar to silence the naysayers, the doubters, the haters. Yes, I want this for Lamar more than I want it for myself.
Nonetheless, to quote Stanley Tucci in The Devil Wears Prada, I will gird my loins and watch Sunday’s game against the Bills. Was I hoping for Denver? Yes, yes, I was. (Especially since everyone will see this as some sort of referendum on Lamar vs. Josh Allen, even though Lamar already beat Allen earlier this year and his stats are demonstrably better in virtually every category. Aaargh.)
“To be the best you’ve got to beat the best” —Annoying people
“I prefer a weak opponent, thanks” —Me
“To be the best you’ve got to beat the best” —Annoying people
“I prefer a weak opponent, thanks” —Me
Come Sunday, I will sit on my couch. I will pray to the football gods. I will wear the same outfit I wore last Saturday. I will have my throat in my mouth. My blood pressure will reach unhealthy levels. I will be in agony.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
<br><br><a href="https://news.google.com/rss/articles/CBMigwFBVV95cUxQNEV5Q0FzQ1Zwa1FIUUdsejZQaEpHLVhBU01EVVJhbVdUb1o2YTAzc28xTWJnLXBEZVVxeFowZk8wa2hfbnU5T3B2bWx3R216YzJyNDdzQzdTZmtyZ0lXMk8teGllQjZ1NFdWWTdHSzhDUGZ4bjVJM2s5ekZTdUJVWlVvZw?oc=5">source</a>
