If you haven't noticed, I'm into sports. Sports are kind of my bit. Just as The Fiancée, who is tasked with tolerating me and my silliness on a daily basis.*

*-I'm consistently amazed at the disparity between her and I. She is a second grade teacher, doing yeoman's work to improve the society in which we all live. I am tasked with criticizing the split-second decisions of 17-year-olds under extreme duress. So, there's that.

I can get into basically any sport. I think it goes without saying that high school and college football are brilliant in my mind. NFL? Love the product, even though I do not have a rooting interest (no, I don't root for the Cowboys). Baseball? Love it at every level. Basketball? College and professional both have their place in my life. Hockey? Though I don't follow it as closely as I want, I enjoy it and can follow it if I so choose.

And then, there's soccer.

Recently, I've found myself drawn to soccer. On lazy Saturday mornings, I'll flip over to Fox Soccer Channel and watch whatever game is on, be it some Italian match or an international friendly. I'm intoxicated by it, and I think a lot of it can be drawn back to my love of football and baseball, my favorite sports to watch.

As in football and baseball, soccer seems to rely so much on the little things, the minute details that separate the teams. Sure, there are teams that are leaps-and-bounds better than their counterparts, but in general, whenever you watch a truly competitive soccer match, it's the micrometers that make the difference.

Beyond that, I have slowly started to appreciate the intrinsic strategy that goes into soccer. The need for a team to succeed together, but the ability for a single individual to rise above all else and lead his squad to triumph. Sound familiar?

I think, more than anything, my recent burst of soccer enthusiasm is due to the similarities I see between it and the soccerI already enjoy watching. Football's a game of inches; baseball's a sport that requires a sense of patience and perspective to enjoy; and soccer, in my view, contains all of these qualities.

And yet...I'm having trouble diving headlong into soccer.

Don't get me wrong: I'd love to become a hardcore soccer fan. I think I'd truly enjoy it, following the ups and downs, the twists and turns of a season as opposed to whatever pops up on my television screen on a given lazy Saturday. And those that I know who are truly into soccer seem to genuinely enjoy it. The revelry, the support, the passion is something that I think is largely unmatched among the popular American sports, and it's something that I'd really like to become a part of.

But as far as I can tell, there are two things keeping me from jumping in with both feet:

Issue No. 1: The soccer calendar

Here in America, we have specific seasons. April-October is baseball season. August-January (up yours, February Super Bowl) is football season. November-June is basketball season. October-June is hockey season.

Soccer season is...when, exactly?

It seems to me -- and please, by all means, correct me if I'm wrong -- that these clubs simply never stop playing soccer. And the concept of playing in two or three or five different tournaments concurrently is mind-blowing to me in a lot of ways, in that I don't know which tournament is "the one they really want to win."

In American sports, it's simple: NFL players want to win the Super Bowl, NBA players want to win the O'Brien Trophy, NHL players want to hoist the Stanley Cup, and baseball players want to win the World Series. But the strangeness and, in large parts, ambiguity of the soccer calendar makes it difficult to discern the "regular tournament" from "the big one."

And that's not even to mention the different leagues, the different classifications. I know true soccer fans are laughing at me right now -- not that I'm not used to it -- but the enormity of the entirety of soccer worldwide (the rules, the dates, the structure, the players, all of it) can be extraordinarily overwhelming.

Essentially, I need a primer, which is embarrassing to admit. I need someone to lay out for me, in simple American terms, the soccer calendar. If I could finally grasp exactly how the soccer season lays out, I think I would feel more confident devoting time to following it.

And then, there's...

Issue No. 2: I don't have a team

I know I mentioned earlier that I enjoy the NFL's product immensely without the benefit of rooting for a team. But I think the American culture -- one engulfed in football so thoroughly -- makes that an easier task than becoming a truly respectable soccer fan without a team to support.

And beyond that, supporting a team appears, at least to me, to be half of the fun. The passion, the pageantry, the support: that's what stands out more than anything to me about soccer, what attracts me to the game.

And yet here I am, a man without a team. And, really, a man without a league.

The easy choice would be to pick a team in the English Premier League, the world's most prominent soccer federation. And true, the EPL appears to be the easiest entry into the soccersphere: it's the most readily accesible on television, has the most recognizable players and appears to have the biggest overall fan base. It seems like a fine place to start.

Yet I'm not married to the EPL. I can recognize the quality of play going on in Italy, in Spain, in Germany, in other parts of Europe. I know there are great teams all around the world. The problem is...I don't know which one I should adopt.

And I am, very much, open to adoption of a team; I think it would be an excellent way to truly delve into a sport that excites yet puzzles me so. But there is one overarching ground rule:

I can't root for an elite team. Frontrunning is, to me, one of the greatest sins of sports fandom, and I won't succumb to it. It's just not in my DNA. If I were picking up baseball for the first time, I wouldn't root for the Yankees; that's nothing against the Yankees, but jumping on the bandwagon for the big win seems...like cheating.

Someone -- I choose to attribute it to Abraham Lincoln, just 'cause -- once said that sports are more about losing than winning, and if the team I root for is winning all of the time, how in the world am I supposed to understand and appreciate the sport?

So I'm open to adopting a team, but it can't be one that is always winning its respective league. A strange request, I know, but what else did you expect on this blog?

So there you have it: I'm itching to get into soccer. I think it could be a very cool addition to my onging sports fan portfolio, and would give me an opportunity to expand my sports horizons beyond the borders of the United States. But there are two big things standing in my way: general lack of structural understanding, and general lack of a rooting interest.

If you can help me with either, it'd be much appreciated.

In the meantime, I'll be aimlessly flipping to Fox Soccer Channel, while The Fiancée rolls her eyes.

A couple of days ago, I made a comment on Twitter that I had a story, and that I would blog about it as soon as I could.

So, here we go.

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My Wednesday proceeded as most other Wednesdays in my life proceed: an odd mix of equal parts hectic and equal parts calm. At work -- I'm the associate editor of Dave Campbell's Texas Football, if you didn't know -- we're in the middle of one of our busy seasons, putting together our Winter Edition (which hits shelves on February 1 and is available for pre-order on TexasFootball.com, OK, I'm done shamelessly promoting my product).

So, on Wednesday, after a few days off for the holidays, we were in full-go production mode. 5 p.m. came and went, and it wasn't until 5:30 that I got out of the office. I was really, really looking forward to my workout; that's always been a great stress relief for me on long days.

I drove the 1/4 mile to 24-Hour Fitness, changed, and hopped on the treadmill. Did my cardio, did my weights, did my usual workout -- maybe about 10% harder than I normally do -- and walked back to the locker room thinking, "You know what? That was a really good workout."

I got to the locker room and started feeling...strange. Out-of-breath. A little lightheaded.

I sat down on a bench in front of my locker and tried to catch my breath. I couldn't. I put my hands on my head while sitting down and breathed deep -- to no avail. I couldn't catch my breath or regain my equilibrium.

Before we continue, a note: I have a specific eating regimen that I've followed for the past few years, ever since I dropped a bunch of weight (or, as I call it, ever since I killed Fat Greg). I eat breatfast around 8am, an apple around 10:30am, a light lunch around 12:30, a snack around 2:30, then dinner. It helps me control what I eat, as my biggest fear is Fat Greg coming back from the dead. So, yes: I hadn't eaten since 2:30pm, and it is currently about 6:15pm.

So: back to the locker room. I decide that I need to go splash some water on my face. I stand up, and whoaaaaa, now I'm really lightheaded. And dizzy.

I stumble over to the bathroom portion of the locker room. I just need to splash some water on my face. I know that'll fix it. I approach the sink. I lean forward with my arms outstretched to lean on the sink counter.

I...well, I miss.

I go falling -- fainting, really -- into the sink counter, face-first. Well, that's not quite accurate. Call it mouth-first.

When I get my wits about me, I'm sitting on the floor of the bathroom. My mouth tastes like pennies, which I recognize as the taste of blood. I run my tongue along my teeth...and they're not all there.

A couple of 24-Hour Fitness employees come in to help me, asking me questions, bringing me water, taking down an incident report. A few minutes go by before I call my fiancee, whom I inform that she needs to come pick me up.

I stand up after a few minutes and look in the mirror. Oh man.

Three of my front teeth have parts that...aren't there. My left incisor (I've spent a lot of time in a dentist's chair lately; I've learned this) is 3/4 gone; my left front tooth is half gone; my right front tooth is missing a chunk. I have a huge gash on my top lip, another one on the inside of my bottom lip, and my chin really, really hurts.

I take a swig of water, wash out my mouth, and spit it out. Not only does it hurt like hell, but when I spit out the water...well, it doesn't look like water. It looks like Kool-Aid.

The 24-Hour Fitness folks took great care of me until my fiancee picked me up. In the meantime, I called my mom (who is not a fan of these types of phone calls, let me tell you), who called my dentist, Dr. Mike Hardcastle. After my fiancee picks me up, my phone rings. It's my dentist.

"Hey man, how you doing?"

Well, not great, doc.

Dr. Hardcastle agrees to meet me at his office, which has been closed for two hours now. When I get there, he gets to work, with my mom and fiancee sitting in the waiting room.

I'll spare you the lengthy details of my evening, but suffice to say that x-rays were involved, a plan was developed, and well...OK, I'll tell you this one part.

Right now, as you're reading this, take your tongue and run it front of your bottom teeth. Feel where your lip meets your gum?

Yeah, mine wasn't there.

Instead, Dr. Hardcastle gave me 15 stitches along that area to seal up what was a huge laceration inside my mouth. But not before taking photos of it before he sewed it up, you know, for dental journals.

I went home, and the next morning, I was back in Dr. Hardcastle's chair, my mouth completely numb. Over the course of four hours, I get my broken teeth smoothed over and temporary crowns put on. I have another date with Dr. Hardcastle (who, by the way, is an absolute saint) on Tuesday to get two permanent crowns and one dental implant for my three teeth.

So, what have I learned?

1) I have the best dentist, mother and fiancee in the world.

2) Eat before you work out.

3) In the absence of No. 2, don't try to eat a sink.

When I started writing with any sense of professionalism, I swore to myself that while I wouldn't always be right, I would be thoughtful. So this is an exercise in attempted thoughtfulness.

Back a few months ago, when the first rumors of Missouri leaving the Big XII to join the SEC came to the forefront, I immediately disliked the idea. I didn't think Mizzou was a good cultural fit, a good football fit, a good geographic fit...really, just not a good fit at all.

But more than anything, the idea of leaving behind the Missouri-Kansas rivalry really irked me. Remember: I'm not Missouri born and bred; I'm a Texan. But when I was taught to be a Missouri fan, Lesson No. 1 was "We don't like Kansas. That's our thing."

The idea of Missouri leaving its roots -- leaving the Big XII, leaving what was left of the Big 8 -- just really did not jive with me. It didn't seem like the right move for Missouri.

If you haven't heard (for some reason), Missouri in fact left the Big XII today to join the SEC. My feelings on the move haven't changed: I didn't like it. I felt like it was a money grab for the university as opposed to embracing all of the things that the university has preached for years and years.*

*Remember when Mizzou sold shirts in support of the Joplin rebuilding efforts under the banner of "One State. One Spirit. One Mizzou"? Remember when, a couple months later, Mizzou screwed over Kansas City -- where roughly 1/4 of its fans live -- by leaving the Big XII? I found that particularly interesting.

But I was in the minority with my opposing view. 90% of people -- including most of the people whose opinions I truly value on matters such as this -- loved the move, thought it was absolutely the right move. Why, then? Why did I have such a polar opposite view of those whose opinions I value (and, quite frankly, usually agree with)?

So I set off to be thoughtful. I tried to really break down exactly why I was feeling this way. It wasn't really because I wanted to save the Mizzou-Kansas rivalry; that's far too minor, in the long run, to be so adamant about.

And I think I figured it out. I think I figured out the core reason why the Mizzou-to-the-SEC move bothers me so much and, frankly, why I've been viewing this entire situation so incorrectly:

Politics.

For anyone who knows me, you know that politics are my absolute kryptonite. I absolutely cannot stand politics. It seems to me that poltics are the biggest waste of time and emotion that our society has to offer.

My long-standing political view: the only thing more naive than believing that nobody is lying to you is believing that only one side is lying to you.

I think I had too long believed that while politics may rule other realms of life, surely not sports! And surely not college sports! And surely not my alma mater's sports!

But I, as I usually am, was wrong.

I think today served as a stark revelation to me that even the most apolitical things -- like college athletics -- are ruled by politics and politicians. People whose job it is to get things done for the betterment of their own situation, not the greater good.

It hit me when I remembered back to a report by the great Mike DeArmond at the Kansas City Star a couple of days ago. I distinctly remember this passage:

"Concerns over the amount of the exit fee that Missouri would have to pay the Big 12 and other legal maneuvering is likely holding up the decision. But MU donors have made millions of dollars in pledges to cover exit fees and expenses, according to the source, and it is anticipated MU would announce plans to make a significant stadium expansion upon joining the SEC."

Missouri, under pressure from its donors, made the move to the SEC. It wasn't the hundreds of e-mails that Brady Deaton said he took into consideration. It wasn't the "#Mizzou2SEC" hashtag trending topic on Twitter. It was the donors -- the ones with political capital -- getting what they wanted.

It was a truly stark realization, I think, because I've been extremely naive. I think I truly believed that this was a two-way relationship between my alma mater and I: I cared about it, and it cared about me.

But today, it became very evident that really, college sports is just another political arena. College sports is a business -- I've known that for a long time -- but more than anything, it's a business ruled by politics.

And I cannot stand politics.

I can certainly see the upside of moving to the SEC. I think I'm actually going to enjoy seeing my alma mater play against Georgia and Florida and Arkansas. In fact, the idea is actually growing on me.

And now I understand why all of the people whose opinions I so value are so polar-opposite to me in this instance: because they get it. I didn't. I was still in the first era of my sports fandom -- the happy-go-lucky, let's-go-team era. But for better or for worse, today was the ending of that era, and I tried very, very hard to hang on, but hanging on just wasn't going to happen. I get it now.

I think I found the core issue behind all of this. Today was, to me, a stark realization that the things that I enjoy, the things that you enjoy, the things that we all enjoy, are controlled by a very select few. And those select few -- as you would do in a similar situation -- will act in the best interest of themselves as opposed to their constituents.

Just like politics. And man, do I hate politics.

I think Jeff Sullivan, the outstanding blogger for SB Nation and Lookout Landing, said it best: if we were truly rational about sports, we wouldn't watch sports.

I'm still going to watch sports. But now, I'm going to make a real, tangible effort to just watch the games and not worry about anything outside of that.

Because on the field, there are rules that I understand. Outside of the field, well, I just don't have enough political capital to matter.

I've been thinking a lot about my grandmother lately. My mom's mom.

Her name was Valaree, but we called her Deedee. Born outside Winnsboro, moved to Dallas when she was 10, North Dallas High School graduate, met my grandfather while working at Adam Hats in Dallas, raised my mom and uncle in Dallas, one-time president of the Oak Cliff Women's Club. She, to me, was Dallas.

In her autobiography -- which I've been reading lately -- she mentions how she was a pretty good baseball player for a girl. She mentions how she would go with her parents and her younger sisters, Wandie, on the streetcar across the Trinity River to Burnett Field to watch Dallas' baseball team (then, it was the Dallas Steers of the Texas League). She mentions how she would get to spend time alone with her dad -- my great-grandfather -- because she liked sports, and her three sisters didn't. She mentions how she and my grandfather, Herman, would go to baseball games in retirement.

My favorite Deedee story takes place at a Rangers game. She went with my parents to the Ballpark, and they were seated in front of Zonk, a relatively legendary Rangers fan known for beating his drum during games. At one point during the game, while Zonk was banging his drum, she turned to him and exclaimed, "You're hurtin' my ears!" Zonk stopped drumming for the rest of the game.

Deedee died on my 21st birthday, in 2007. I was in Missouri at the time, and never really felt more distant from my family than when I got that phone call. It was her death that really made me examine my roots, made me remember how much Dallas and Texas is truly part of me.

Since that day in 2007, the Rangers are 395-336 (.538) in the regular season, and have won two pennants. Amazing, when you consider that in the previous 35 years, they played at a .482 clip and had never sniffed the pennant.

I know. It's an arbitrary endpoint and an arbitrary statistic about an arbitrary thing.

Last night, with the Rangers an out away from winning a championship, she was all I could think about. Not Neftali Feliz. Not Ron Washington. Not Michael Young or David Freese or Josh Hamilton or Eric Nadel or Tom Grieve or Johnny Oates or me.

Just Deedee, the girl who used baseball to steal time with her dad, the woman who told Zonk that he was hurtin' her ears. Just the woman who was, to me, Dallas.

It's an arbitrary endpoint and an arbitrary statistic about an arbitrary thing. But not to me.