The Rose Bowl was Jan. 1. It is now Jan. 7. I am still not okay.
I want to rant*, complain, cry and generally let it all out. But nobody who is listening gets to respond; this is my time to whine. Heaven forbid anybody continues to try and lighten my mood and actually make me laugh or smile. How dare you crack a joke! Why would you ruin the perfectly horrible mood I'm in? All of a sudden that person is the worst person in the world, beneath Glenn Beck and homeopathic doctors and the people who post up at the only spot at the bar where you can actually get a bartender's attention, and hold it for their own, even though they're not even drinking anything.
*Insert Joe Posnanski Posterisk here: I'm prone to ranting. And when I get real fired up, the rants toe the line between pure, verbalized hate and sarcastic humor. The intent is usually the former, but the impact comes off as the latter. For instance, here's the explosion I went into on the bus ride back from the Rose Bowl to the media hotel:
"Life is just a series of small victories designed for the sole purpose of building you up to this amazing state of hope and expectations, simply so it can tear you down and devastate your soul until your chest becomes a hollowed-out black void where your heart and dreams used to be. Santa Claus isn't real, true love is a lie and you always, always die alone."
Or the little eruption that came after Hunter Wendelstedt's non-call of what I thought was a pretty obvious strike three to Lance Berkman in the seventh inning of a 2-2 ballgame in the ALDS back in October. The non-call led to the wheels coming off for the Twins in that game.
"How do you not call that a strike? It was clearly on the corner, I don't know how you don't call that a strike. It ruined the game for the Twins. Hunter Wendelstedt lost that game for Minnesota. What a shitty umpire. You have like three jobs and you've just botched one of them. I hope Hunter Wendelstedt gets cancer. Actually no, I hope his entire family gets cancer and fights a long losing battle to disease, all the while he stays healthy and watches them slowly fade away until they're all on the last brink of life, when all of a sudden they go into remission and are better and it's the most joyous thing in all of the world and then, on the car ride home from the hospital, they all get hit by a fucking bus and he gets to watch them die in a fiery car wreck."
I harbor no love for Mr. Wendelstedt, as you can see.
The point is, sometimes you've just got to let a funk run its course. Eventually, the pain subsides and soothes and everything is put back into perspective. Eventually.
But until that point, there's a kind of sick pleasure in feeling down. I might not be the worst-off person in the world, but can I feel like it for just a bit?
I'm not okay with Phillip Welch missing that field goal, or with all the penalties the Badgers took, or with all the drops, or the over-thought game plan that got away from the run, or the decision not to use timeouts at the end of the first half. There's no one reason to point to in the game that explains why the Badgers lost. Remedy any one of those things and maybe the game turns out differently.
I've said that the only thing you don't want to still be asking at the end of the season is the question, "What if?" In this case, it's "What if (insert any of the things from the graph above)?" It would mean UW won and I got to experience a Rose Bowl win as a student and there would be no real regret at the end of the season. You finished winners, you finished on top.
Had TCU simply taken UW to dummytown and won by 30 points, there would be no "what if?" It would have simply been that the Horned Frogs were indeed a better team and showed it beyond a shadow of a doubt. But that's not what happened. Instead, the Badgers have to wonder if they made just one more play, what could have happened?
Looking back at the NCAA title game in men's hockey, you can say that Boston College dominated Wisconsin, especially in the third period. But it was a 1-0 game until the third and Michael Davies had a breakaway earlier in the game that would have tied it, but the puck jumped his stick and he never got a shot off on John Muse.
What if the ice was better and Davies never lost the puck? You can't say for sure. But the one thing you can be sure of is that a hypothetical victory is always more comforting than a close loss.
"What if" is the worst question in life. It reminds you that you failed at something. It reminds you there could have been something better.
So for a while, I'll keep asking "What if?" I'll lay awake at night and be spiteful, disappointed, sorry and bitter.
And it will almost feel okay.