Even If We Win, We Lose

In life, there are certain milestones that every man looks forward to. Some of them are small and simple, like finally being able to grow a beard or mustache. Others are monumental, scoring your first touchdown, sharing that first kiss, losing your virginity, getting married, or eventually bringing a child into the world. These moments define us. They’re the victories in the game of life that tell us we’re doing something right, that we’re moving forward.

But then there’s the Miami Dolphins. And when it comes to this team, even when we win, we somehow manage to lose.

See, with a good football team, there’s no better feeling than watching them win on Sunday. But when your team is as bad, pathetic, and downright embarrassing as the Dolphins have been for most of my life, even wins feel like losses. They don’t fill you with pride, they fill you with agony. They don’t give you peace of mind, they trick you into believing something that isn’t real.

The Dolphins are like a drug, and winning is their most dangerous dose. I haven’t seen them win a game this season, but I already know what it’ll feel like when they do. For a brief moment, I’ll be ecstatic. I’ll convince myself that maybe just maybe things are finally turning around. But like any high, it won’t last. The crash is inevitable. Winning for mediocre teams is a trap. It breeds hope, and hope leads to optimism. And optimism leads straight to heartbreak.

And trust me, I’ve had my heart broken by this team far too many times. I know the script before the movie even starts. I’ve looked ahead at the schedule, and I can already predict the pain. If the Dolphins win tonight, it won’t matter. They could rattle off three in a row, end up 4-3, and land themselves in the same miserable place they’ve been for the last two decades, football purgatory. Stuck in the middle. Not good enough to compete, not bad enough to rebuild.

The truth is, in the long run, it might actually be better if we lose. If we start 0-4 and drop games to every division rival, maybe just maybe the owner will finally wake up. Maybe he’ll find the guts to fire the general manager who has somehow survived 20 years of failure without a single thing to show for it. Maybe he’ll move on from a head coach who clearly has no control over the locker room. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll finally part ways with the $54 million quarterback who disappears in the moments we need him most.

But that’s the curse of being a Dolphins fan, the more we win, the more we lose. And yet, when the team takes the field, I can’t help myself. I’ll root for them. I’ll cheer. I’ll believe. Because just like a drug, I know the hit will feel amazing in the moment, but deep down, I also know I’ll regret it in the end.