it’s a mitzvah!

My connection to Arizona is tenuous at best.

When I was a kid, my dad would go to Phoenix on business every few months and come back with a brand new wardrobe of Suns and Sun Devil gear for me. At the same time, I dreamed of going to ASU some day, for the simple reason that I knew it existed and it made me seem worldly to other dumb-ass 11-year-olds. See? Dubious.

This had nothing to do with me choosing to root for The Buzzsaw That Is The Arizona Cardinals.

I’m from Toronto and, as such, I grew up without an NFL team. It’s not uncommon for people from the city and surrounding areas to adopt the Bills, but watching Buffalo play while I was growing up accomplished little more than killing any desire to watch football ever again. My dad, a fan of Toronto sports to the bitter end, basically just enjoys the game, but tends to support the Cowboys, Colts, cancer, genocide and bologna sandwiches. What the fuck, Merv.

I, too, watched the NFL for many years without a team to call my own, though with enough affinity to keep track of various subplots and storylines as well as, you know, a real love of the sport. Last season, however, I decided that watching without a vested interest–gambling notwithstanding–detracted from the experience somewhat, and I needed to choose a team. I came up with a set of criteria that served to create a rigorous process of elimination:

No teams from Texas. Sorry, just couldn’t do it. I’ve spent some time in Dallas and generally enjoyed myself there, but just on principle … no dice.

No teams from Florida. Same thing. I’ve never actually been to Florida, though, and maybe barring a visit to Miami (l’chaim!), I’m perfectly content to keep it that way.

No teams too painfully midwestern/rural. My girlfriend used to live in Batesville, Indiana, and claims–aside from the benefit of supposedly cheap gas–that the place did little more than sap her will to live on a daily basis and bestow upon her the booze-tooth that I know and love today. Regardless, this stipulation eliminated a host of cities, including Indianapolis, Kansas City, Cleveland and Cincinnati. I’ll hold my own KKK rallies, thank you very much.

Tennessee is out. This one was up for serious debate: An underachiever with a stud quarterback coming in seemed like a half-decent team to back. However, I had to nix this choice, and for admittedly nebulous reasoning. See, my uncle Barry … he’s a crazy person. He’s got a good five years on my dad, putting him a little over sixty, and the guy wears this disgusting piece of fur on his head that is fooling nobody, calls my brothers to ask them “what kind of pussy” they’re getting, occasionally asks if I want to play rhythm guitar for his band, and, to relate this back to the issue at hand, fucking thinks he’s Elvis. He dresses like him. He goes to conventions and stocks up on every piece of insane memorabilia possible. He’s gaining weight and, God-willing, is on the precipice of picking up a soul-crushing barbiturate habit. The point is, the less I have in common with this pile of crazy, the better–including an affinity for anything from Tennessee.

(Jack Daniels comes from Portland, right? Right.)

No recent Super Bowl contenders. So long to Seattle, Pittsburgh and Carolina. I wasn’t going to be that guy.

No traditional bandwagon teams. Patriots? Bears? Broncos? Redskins? Packers? Giants? You’re all cut. I wasn’t about to be that guy, either.

No teams that will serve only to break me and turn me into a pathetic shell of a man. Look, Buffalo, I’m sure you’re very sweet, but it’s just not going to work. Maybe if somebody gives me some tickets, I’ll come visit some time. You Jets fellas, though … just stop calling. Please. I got the restraining order against Detroit, and I’m not above a second one.

Personal choice. I really stuck my neck out and assumed everybody and their mother was going to be cheering on the Saints last season. Just a hunch I had. As for Minnesota, they were a strong contender, but I had a feeling that they really peaked with the Sex Boat. Lastly, I’m nowhere near gully enough to pass as an Eagles fan. Sad but true.

Of the remaining teams, I narrowed my options to San Francisco, Oakland and Arizona. On the brink of picking Oakland, my girlfriend reminded me that she and her family were from the Bay Area, and are, to a person, hardcore 49ers fans. Since I was, at the time, the Canadian asshole that none of them had met, I could have either (1) gone with San Francisco and been immediately identified as a transparent kiss-ass and/or homosexual, (2) chosen Oakland and been instantly reviled, or (3) declined a Bay Area team and taken my chances with Arizona.

Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit by giving total credit for my newfound allegiance to the Cardinals to the rooting interests of these people. They were a perpetual loser, true, but there was some upside with Leinart getting drafted, the Edgerrin James signing, and, uh … Leinart getting drafted. At any rate, the season started, and that was that: The Buzzsaw was my team.

Things got off to a tepid and disappointing start. This was unsurprising. And then it happened: Monday Night Football. Cardinals versus Bears. A first half that infused my penis with the glory of God, diamond shavings and delicious Oregon whiskey. All apprehension was tossed aside while I watched Arizona decimate what had been, to that point, a vastly superior Chicago team. Up 20-0. Holy crap, yes.

Then the second half started and that whole heartbreaking collapse thing happened. You know, with the inability to score or make use of Rextasy’s abysmal play or … Christ. It still hurts. In a lot of ways, that was the first NFL game that really meant anything to me, and the quickness with which it regressed from bliss to prison rape still haunts me.

But then Denny Green came out and crowned their asses, the clouds parted, Jesus winked, and it all made sense. A better trial by fire, you couldn’t have scripted: glorious peaks, crushing defeats, and a perfect, hilarious rant that defines an entire season.

Who the hell else could I cheer for?