From the perspective of the fan whose team is in a hole the size of Jerry Jones’ ego, summer in the NFL always offers a sense of relief and, to a lucky few, hope.

    Pledging your allegiance to a team who hasn’t tasted playoff success for two decades is like kind of like that time in elementary school when all your friends got to work together and you paired with the kid who had a tough time digesting all the paste he was choking down.

    All your friends are having a great time making sparkly posters and winning Superbowls, and you’re stuck with cutting construction paper with those stupid plastic scissors. Come on Mrs. Teacher, who uses these?

    Children who root for horrible teams, that’s who.

    In my youth, I yearned to sit at the cool kids table — now I yearn for my team to be good. At least competitive. I’m not asking for much. Yet every fall, my dreams shatter, and I’m back at the table with the kids who eat their boogers.

    This is what makes the summer so great. It seems like every offseason begins with a sense of optimism for each team. From the final whistle of the Superbowl to opening kickoff in September, we all seem to drip with an emboldened (and many times unwarranted) confidence. We pound our chests and proclaim to the sky that the football gods will be good to us. “This is our year,” we say. “We’ve waited long enough. Our team owes us.”

    Sure, in my lifetime, there have been times when my team has had decent regular seasons and a smattering of division titles. But it’s never enough. Every season ends in a disgusted double-middle-finger pump at the televsion, a few slammed doors and an overaggressive drive to the hardware store to repair the one you slammed too hard.

    This scene of failure is a stark contrast from the anticipation in the picturesque days leading up to opening kickoff. For us, this is always the best time of the season. Anticipation carries a lot of weight, and it’s usually up to the success of the team that determines how that weight is distributed.

    This anticipation is the best part of the season. Right up until the moment you plop down on your couch that first fateful Sunday, you feel great. With a wide-eyed look of newborn wonder, your team begins to play.

    It’s all downhill from there.

    Perhaps I’m too cynical. After all, when my team last won a playoff game, they had Joe Montana slinging the rock and Marcus Allen pounding it between the tackles. I’ll give you a moment to Google it so you can feel bad for me.

    Look, I love football. Fall is my favorite season because it means I get to watch what I think is the best sport in the world. But, like many of you, the memories I have begin and end with disappointment. For those few months of anticipation leading up to the beginning of the season, I find clarity, because I convince myself that this is the year I make the trek to the table where the students aren’t sticking crayons in their noses and rocks in their ears.

    And I’m let down all over again.

    I find myself eager, yet petrified, to find out which table I’ll be forced to sit at.