My Addiction

My father first got me hooked when I was just six years old. I have spent the better part of twenty five years trying to beat my addiction. But with each passing year I realize that I will die before I am able to kick the habit. Though my Dad got me started and I am now an adult, he still keeps me stuck in my habit. He’s my pusher, my supplier.

Every time I take a hit, I reach unheard of highs, experiencing the greatest feelings of wonder and amazement. But before the night is over, I usually bottom out, feeling like I am going to cry because of the pain. I struggle to get out of bed to go to work the next day. Each time I vow never to go back, but I know that my promises will be broken within a few days, and I will go back to the well, hoping against hope that the next time the good feelings won’t be lost.

Yes, the Utah Jazz are my addiction, and my father is my pusher, giving me free tickets to games, just to keep me going. But other times I work to support my habit, because I have to pay the cable bill in order to get my fix.

I don’t blame my Dad. I am sure he didn’t know how much I would be affected. It started out so simple. In the early eighties the Jazz were terrible, and when they lost no one cared. We just enjoyed being there. When they upset Magic and the Lakers we thought it was as good as it would get. But the days of Adrian Dantley and Rickey Greene were just the gateway for me, to get me started, wetting my appetite. Then came two guys, John and Karl, and I was hooked for good. A guy named Sloan and another known as ‘Horney’ sealed my fate.

Each year when they would get bounced from the playoffs I would walk away saying, “Next year. Our time is coming.” I eagerly waited for the pre-season to start. Then in 1997 and again in 98 we had our big chance. Both years I knew that I would fly high in victory, and not experience the painful rebounds. And both years I was devastated. Since then times have been tough. I have been looking for the good stuff, but have been unable to feel the highs that were so regular back in the good old days.

But this year was different. No one was hurt, and it was our turn to make some noise again. They started 12-1 and looked for real. I had finally found the good stuff again. But just like always, the energy I found in the excitement gave way to depressing lows when they hit the skids recently. They start good and when they start to cave in I turn off the TV in disgust, vowing to kick my habit. Why should I go back to them when they make me feel so low? But I already know that I won’t keep my promise. And even when I claim I am not going to watch, I TiVO the event.

My dear wife has tried many interventions, but to no avail.

When my Dad gave me the season opener tickets against the Rockets I took my son. He’s not hooked yet, and might not ever experience the self-torture I expose myself to. I may be lost, but there is hope yet for him.