On NPR this morning I listened to a story about an Italian football fan that was accidentally shot (twice) and killed by a cop during a football riot. And this is the second such killing in Italy in the past couple of months. This story should have astonished me. After all, I would have cried out in shock if I heard the same story in the context of a Star Trek convention or a cat fancier’s competition. But I have learned that when it comes to football (of both the European and American variety) regular people turn into vampires thirsty for the sweet pain, and often blood, of their foes.

An ice pick in the eye is a more pleasant sight to my boyfriend than the sight of his beloved Colts failing. I have seen him gnash his teeth in terror, drop to the floor in spasms of misery, and claw the air in an agony of pain over what to me seems like more of an “well, that’s just too bad” situation. The season has barely started and his constitution is already shot. After the crushing blow he received last night my boyfriend could hardly sleep, had horrific nightmares, and woke up with a broken spirit. I predict that most of his workday will be spent writing tortured blog entries and commiserating online with other Colts fans, talking about what went wrong like a group of abused housewives comparing bruises. I wish I could stage some sort of intervention, wean him away from this destructive habit that can only end in being gunned down by an overeager cop (if history is any indicator), but I know I will be rebuffed.

The funny thing is that outside of the sports arena my boyfriend is as unemotional as a robot. He treats me like a crazy person when I yell at other drivers and once, finding me in tears over a particularly sad novel, actually suggested I should not read so much if it was going to upset me. But he thinks nothing of doing a jig of joy in a room full of people when the Colts have done well and even less of throwing remote controls or cats around when they do badly. I actually feel sorry for the Colts at time, thinking of how many household around the city must, at this very moment, be cursing their name. They won the Superbowl last year, which I hear is pretty good. Are they never to know peace? Will anyone every say, “Well, that was a rather bad game, but they did so well last year, I think I’ll layoff them for a while. Maybe send them a fruit basket shaped like a football.”

However, I will concede that the jig, especially when other sports fans join in, make it all worth it.