As I was making my daily trek up the Hill to my office at Helen Newman Hall I became distracted by a slight bulging apparent on my right moccasin. Slightly concerned, I removed my shoe (or “slipper,” as my boss prefers to call them) and was deeply chagrined to discover that the entire right half of the lovely faux-something (Leather? Suede? Very unclear) had separated from the sole. Truly tragic.

I really don’t have any other footwear.

Sadness at the potential loss of my favorite Minnetonkas, some bitterness since they are seriously not that old and a sense of very real frustration because I don’t know how to fix the situation, except find a a cobbler and ask him to spend the same amount of money to repair them that it would cost me to buy a new pair from the Bon-Ton.

Interesting, I thought to myself, that is exactly how I feel when confronted with a losing sports team.

I know, I should be used to this lovely phenomenon by now. I mean, I am a hopeless fan of Philadelphia teams. Yeah, yeah, we might be in the Series right now, but each victory brings with it the haunting memories of so many, many past defeats. 10,000, to be exact. We made the cover of SI. Awesome.

Sadness. Bitterness. Frustration.

And so it is with Cornell teams as well. Although it is technically my “job” (notice the quotation marks, as I wouldn’t want to imply I get some kind of meaningful “compensation” for my work) to cover these teams, ultimately, I do become attached.

Maybe this is a bad thing.

Like farmers working with baby animals they will eventually have to slaughter, perhaps I should maintain a healthy distance, not get to close. “No, Billie, do not name all of the baby piglets.”

Because honestly, there are few things as painful as watching a team start to lose its momentum, watching as it struggles, battles for points, watch as players and coaches start talking about “next year,” even though there are still games left in this season. Games that will have little to no impact on the top rankings. Games that will still need to have headlines, captions and stories.

Sadness. Bitterness. Frustration.

Sometimes the turning point is subtle, with a few rhetorical tweaks that alert the interviewer of a change in mindset. Words like “rebuilding year” (always a favorite quote) definitely become a greater part of the conversation, as does talk of “effort.”

As a reporter and or editor, this becomes a difficult situation. At first, you want to feel sympathetic towards the team, really you do. You want to write stories that are hopeful and optimistic, full of rainbows and sunshine language that accentuates the positive. This is the first stage.

In the next stage — the bitter stage — you want to write tough love stories, the kind of stories that the team captains will post in locker rooms and on team bulletin boards, the kind of stories that will serve as motivation, as “just the thing we needed” to pull themselves up by their bootstraps (or Teagle sweats … or whatever) and turn that season around. That’s the second stage.

And then comes that third stage, the stage after the tough love has not helped and the next two home stands are against the first, second, third and fourth-ranked teams in the league. In this stage you don’t know what to do. The upper and sole of your favorite pair of moccasins have separated and you are 25 minutes away from home.

People say good things come in threes. Sadly, this adage does not hold true for the three MBS Stages of Sportswriter’s Grief. (And that's trademarked, by the way.)

On a more cheery note, the Phillies finally closed out the inning; they will live to fight another day. Also, I just googled “Ithaca cobblers” and there is actually a shoe repair shop in the same shopping center as Northside Liquors. Perfection.