I do not gamble. I do not drink excessively. I floss a minimum of four times daily. I have my chocolate cravings under control.

But, I do have one crippling addiction…sports.

Not just watching sports.

Living and dying by my chosen teams and players.

Every season, I make the same vow, “This year, I will stay calm. I will not let a group of strangers in uniforms dictate my blood pressure and day to day emotional state.”

And by Week Two of the NFL season, I’m screaming at the TV like it owes me rent.

Here’s a rapid fire break down.

Tennis: How Is This Polished and Relatively Restrained Sport So Emotionally Crippling?

Oh sure, tennis looks civilized. Frequent displays of preppy white clothing and Lacoste tops, strawberries and cream, a polite clap from the audience. Meanwhile, I’m at home pacing a groove into the rug because some 23-year-old just netted an easy volley on break point.

“Calm down,” I tell myself. “It’s just a game.”

Then again, so was the Cold War.

Football: Giants or Cardiac Arrest

Football, specifically NY Giants football, is a masterclass in emotional whiplash. One minute, we are mounting a game-winning drive. The next, we are punting on 4th and inches because we cannot make a first down by running up the middle consecutively unsuccessfully…screen you overpaid morons!

By Sunday night, my family knows the drill. If the Giants lose, don’t talk to me. Don’t even breathe near me. Just slide a bag of frozen mini Snickers under the door and hope for better luck next week.

Baseball: Pinstripe Penance

Baseball is supposed to be slow, meditative, relaxing. Really? Tell that to me in the bottom of the ninth, two outs, full count, bases loaded.

At that moment I’m sweating like I am the one standing in the batter’s box. And when Volpe strikes out after the Yankees closer Williams gave up the lead for what feels like the 20th time this season, my whole mood goes south faster than the bullpen ERA.

Why Do I Do This to Myself?

People ask me, “Why keep watching if it hurts so much?”

Because once in a while, Coco Gauff pulls off the impossible, the Giants defy the odds and win a Super Bowl, the Yankees hit a walk-off homer and grab the World Series title.

Sports gives me a high that nothing else can touch. Not even a Birkin bag or a gift certificate at the impressive, unbelievably expensive Plenitude restaurant In Paris.

It is hope. Irrational, delusional, utterly addictive hope along with the glorious thrill of victory.

The Ugly Truth

Sports is not a hobby for me. It means everything. Always has.

Seriously, full disclosure this has been happening since I was four years-old…no exaggeration.

I swear I continually commit to not allowing the losses to ruin my week, my marriage and my life.

And then a fumble, a missed free throw, a bad strike call, a ball that sails out of the court…boom. Week ruined.

But I bounce back, bloodied and bruised.

Same place, same couch, same seat in section 21.

Because a lifetime investment in hope is the most dangerous drug of all.

And sadly, I must admit, my name is Toby and I am a sportsaholic.