Inside HOKIE SPORTS | Vol. 10 No. 6 | June 2018

10 Inside Hokie Sports I was standing on a dance floor, swept away by an odd feeling—comfort. For Laaser men, that rarely happens, if ever. God blessed my family with certain talents. Rhythmwasn’t one of them. But sure enough, that was the feeling, coupled with contentment and happiness. All while “Fly Eagles Fly,” the dreaded fight song of the Philadelphia Eagles, blared above a screaming crowd. This needs some context. I grew up a diehard Minnesota Vikings fan, and that’s exactly what happens to your emotions when you grow up a devoted follower of the purple. They die … hard! I was a little too young to have witnessed four consecutive losses in the Super Bowl, but that hasn’t spared me the pain. The near misses generally come right about the time you have written them off. In 2009, the author of years of divisional heartbreak while with the Packers, Brett Favre, turned into a Minnesota mercenary and almost led us to the Promised Land only to break our hearts in an even more cruel fashion. His late and inexplicable interception handed the New Orleans Saints the NFC Championship. Drew Brees went on to claim his lone title. In 2000, the Vikings went in as road favorites in the NFC Championship game against the New York Giants. I felt pretty sure we were going to win that one—41-doughnut is how the game is now known in the great white north. As the story goes, Randy Moss got distracted trying to get his friends on the sideline before the game, and in that moment, Kerry Collins’ body somehow became inhabited by Joe Montana. And then there is ’98. That year is all you have to say where I’m from, and people will shake their heads in shared loathsome memory. Led by Denny Green, the ’98 Vikings had a video-game offense. In his rookie year, Moss was the most dangerous deep-threat the league had ever seen. Future Hall of Famer Cris Carter caught nothing but touchdowns, Robert Smith ran the rock, and Randall Cunningham came out of retirement for one last ride. It was a glorious ride. I was a freshman in college. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was at the prime age for getting my heart ripped out. The Vikings went 15-1 and set the NFL’s regular-season scoring record. They were unstoppable. The Atlanta “Dirty Bird” Falcons weren’t expected to have a chance in the NFC Championship Game. They shouldn’t have. It was going to be a Nordic coronation. And then everybody panicked. Green played the clock not to lose. Cunningham woke up from his season-long dream. And still, it was there for the taking. Placekicker Gary Anderson hadn’t missed a field goal all season—46 in a row! As he lined up the 39-yarder that would have put the game away, Will Smith’s “Miami” played in my head. We were heading to the Super Bowl—to smash John Elway and the Denver Broncos. Wide left. I can still close my eyes and see that kick. I remember where I was. I’d like to with Jon Laaser Fly Eagles Fly tell you that I have let it go, but that wouldn’t be true. It eats at me. I loved that team. I loved that time. And just like that, it was gone. The “Greatest Show on Turf” St. Louis Rams broke the Vikings’ scoring record a year later, and except for those painful memories, it was as if the ride had never happened. Losing your innocence in sports is much the same as losing the innocence of your youth. You only have to be jilted once, and there’s no going back. Am I jaded? Without question. However, I’ve discovered that sharing a common slight can be bonding. So it has been for my wife, Renée, and me. She grew up a dyed-in-the-wool Philadelphia Eagles fan. While my fandom could be classified as torturous, hers was just plain, old disappointment. Sure, there had been some hope through the years, but ultimately their fan base was still best known for pelting Santa with snow balls. Don’t bring that up around her, by the way. Since our teams didn’t cross paths much, we found our way generally to supporting each other on Sundays. I fired up “Fly Eagles Fly” for her when the birds scored. She tried to get the timing down for the Skol chant when the Vikings found the end zone. As we counted down to our wedding, both the Eagles and Vikings were having great seasons. We joked about a collision course, but we both knew that one, or probably both, would blow it before that point. After