After you receive your new clothing, a teammate will immediately ruin it with champagne. After that, the league will roll out a dais for you to stand on. It may be tiered, with the highest tier reserved for superstars, and the lowest tier reserved for people like the equipment manager, the team exorcist, and Darko Milicic. Multicolored confetti will drop.
At this point, you’ll probably want to go hug your teammates, friends, and family. You cannot do this for another three hours. First, you must do 346 interviews for various national broadcast networks and local affiliates. Be sure to tell them you shocked the world, even if the world really wasn’t paying much attention. After that, the commissioner will give a three-minute speech no one listens to. Then, he will hand the league’s championship trophy to the trophy’s sponsor, usually a VP at Lextro Body Spray, who will then hand the trophy to your team’s owner, whom you will probably be laying eyes on for the first time. The owner will then hand the trophy to the coach, who then hands it to the MVP, who then hands it to his chauffeur, who then hands it to his friend, who then hands it to a tiny Guatemalan woman named Inez. After about 157 minutes, the trophy will eventually be handed to you. It will be very shiny. Savor the moment, my friend. There’s nothing in the world like it.
Q: What if we lose?
A: Shut up. Don’t say a fucking word. Don’t even look at anyone when the game is finished. Keep your goddamn head down and walk straight to the locker room. There, your coach will tell you he loves you (a lie) and is proud of you (also a lie), and that you’re a great group of guys (a lie if Terrell Owens is on your team). He’ll also swear you will all be back to avenge this loss next year (he’ll have a five-year deal with Seattle by the next week). Then, he will exit the locker room for a solemn, three-minute interview with Jim Gray. Then, you pack your shit and leave. Don’t shower. Don’t change clothes. Just get the hell out of there. You’ve already been relegated to history’s discount rack. Find a drink as fast as you can. And learn how to perform under pressure.
That Billy Joel song was so prescient: pressure.
Superstar athletes are widely admired for their ability to thrive under intense circumstances. And make no mistake, the pressure at this level is high. Many people may scoff at that notion and say, “Pfft. It’s just a game. Try paying the mortgage! That’s pressure!” These people are morons. No one watches you try to pay the mortgage. If you default on that shit, you get to keep that shame all to yourself. No, athletes must perform at their peak with millions of people watching and judging. You think Mr. Barely Supporting His Family could handle that without reaching for the Paxil?
In fact, I’d argue that athletes face more pressurized situations than any other group of people on the planet. Even more than soldiers fighting a war? Oh, yeah. If you get killed during a war, you’re a hero. If you survive, you’re a hero. Where, I ask you, is the pressure in that? Sounds like a win-win to me. Throw in the standard U.S. military pension of $500 a year (with vision coverage!) and that’s a pretty sweet deal, my friend.
Try having to make the winning putt at Royal Troon. Now that’s a real bitch. You got everyone staring at you — fans, family, friends, TV viewers, reporters, sponsors, wildlife, ghosts, indifferent cameramen — and just waiting for you to shit the bed. Make it, and you’ll be bathing in White Grenache for the next week. Miss it, and you’ll find yourself teetering on the precipice of a deep psychological black hole, one very few athletes manage to climb back out of. It’s the same as getting your first DUI. You’re never the same. Ask David Duval, or Bill Buckner, or Scott Norwood, or Nick Anderson, or Ray Finkle: failing under pressure can destroy a man, or even turn him into a woman. You need to be able to calm yourself and phase out all distractions, both physical and mental. Visualize with me . . .