The ghost of Carson Palmer is still in my closet. Tucked between a sweater I never wear and a tattered collared shirt that doesn’t fit anymore and it peers out ominously at me from time to time. It’s a reminder of my baptism as a Cincinnati Bengal fan. I was too young to remember Kenny Anderson. I can barely recall Boomer Esiason. I lived through David Klingler, Jeff Blake, Neil O’Donnell, Akili Smith and Jon Kitna. False hopes and half starts in my relationship to the boys in black. I was a fan, yes, but being as young as I was I couldn’t grasp what that really meant. Generally you become a fan due to three factors: 1) Proximity to a city, 2) Familial legacy and 3) An unspoken bond with a team you develop as a child. These things seem superficial and arbitrary when you first start, but you cheer because in one way or another it feels right. I remember how my father seemed blind to it all. He was a fan of Cincinnati despite the losses, embarrassments, and obscurity and I felt out of place. In my heart of hearts, why couldn’t I love them like he did? Something was missing.

When you’re on your own and away from the traditions that raised you, you realize that it’s in your control to keep them or give them up. Through my first year in college I could have become detached from the time constraints that go into making a sports fan. I would have had my Sunday afternoons to myself, a new three hours every week in the winter to do with what I wanted, but I made the decision to keep the ceremonies alive. And on January 8th, 2006 I received my Bengal Baptism. Carson Palmer gave Cincinnati hope. He was the ‘golden boy’ from Southern California who led the Bengals to heights unseen in my lifetime. Eleven wins on the year and they looked for number twelve against the Pittsburgh Steelers in the AFC Wild Card game. After the longest pass in Bengal’s playoff history was completed the camera panned back to reveal a crippled Palmer, huddled on the turf grasping for his knee. I then dropped to my own knees. The world went silent. I don’t remember the announcers talking on television or my friends’ conversations around me, but I remember the feeling in the pit of my stomach. The rabbit had died. The Bengal’s would go on to lose the game and this pain, this anger, this disappointment, this was my rebirth. I was built up all season only to be knocked down by the cold reality that is sport. You can walk away and choose not to indulge the sickening feeling in your soul and turn it off for what seems like the short term betterment but you don’t and you keep your eye on the carnage. You become reborn, transformed, and on the other side you are someone else. Your baptism is forged when you can connect personally, emotionally, spiritually with your team. You identify with a player, a coach, a story and you know you are all in. Some of these baptisms are pleasant; you become reborn in the light of a championship or an emotional win. But some, like mine, are baptisms by fire.

We don’t admit it, we don’t like to talk about it, but we love pain in the sports world. It reminds us of how tough we can be. The real sports fans don’t quit when the going gets tough. We don’t jump ship and root for the winner; we wallow in our misery because while we’re sulking, we have hope. We see a brighter future a season or two away. We’re reminded of the unlikely heroes. The captivating underdog stories they make movies about. We dream of the way we will celebrate that one big win as Lombardi once said, "laying exhausted on the field of battle… victorious." The hard truth is that this may never come. The good guys don’t always win and sometimes the pain is the only thing we know. The sun comes up in the morning, the world moves on, and we’re here wearing our orange and black on game days because we’re tough, we’re battle tested, we’ve been here before and we’ll be here again.

The best, it seems shockingly enough, lose more than they win. Because even if they are champions at some point, the loses are inevitable. We’re not perfect, but we’re honorable and we’re dedicated and we’re loyal. We’re Bengal fans because it’s meaningful to us. We’re tied tighter together by the loses and we’re unquestionably realists because we know after the big game is won, we have to keep going and like anything else live with the inevitable decline.

That’s true love.

What was once your proximity to a team becomes a pride for your city and the times you have persevered, won, or just survived through. What may have started as familial legacy becomes an unblinking light towards home and how you were raised and a reminder of those who love you and taught you. What began as an unknown bond you realize now is your destiny for who you are and what you will be. I’ll probably sell the sweater I never wear at my next garage sale and give away the tattered collared shirt to anyone that wants it, but the ghost of Carson Palmer stays with me. A reminder of my Bengal Baptism.





