The Tribune

Bahamians, like Renaldo Dorsett, admit to a Miami vice, addicted to supporting a team forever mired in mediocrity . . .

I’VE been cursed with this affliction for quite some time.

I’ve tried everything you can think of: self-help books, support groups, interventions, the thinly-veiled indifference of the reverse-jinx, deer antler spray, that uber expensive PR firm the PLP hired to come up with “Stronger Bahamas”… nothing works.

I’m well aware that I’m trapped in an abusive relationship. I watched “Enough” and I felt J-Lo’s pain, only there’s no wise old black guy to whip me into shape and help me fight this demon. But before we get to that, the first step in moving forward is openly admitting exactly what’s wrong with me.

My name is Renaldo Dorsett … and I’m a Miami Dolphins fan.

I was born at the apex of the Marino-era. The year was 1985, and in just his second season, Marino broke six passing records, won the league’s MVP and led his team to a Super Bowl. Despite that title loss to the 49ers, Marino was just 24 and there was room for growth. The organisation and his career was loaded with upside and the best was yet to come right?

Nope.

That Super Bowl dream never came to fruition and this lingering albatross of hope has hovered above Bahamian Dolphin fandom ever since. We’ll probably never be free of it.

This wasn’t the genesis of Miami Dolphins fans in the Bahamas. Far from it. The greatest era in team history - the 1972 perfect season and back-to-back Super Bowl titles - coincided with Bahamian independence, so I’m certain there were tons of DolFans around since we raised the Union Jack and spent shillings.

That generation raised their sons and daughters on Marino, Clayton, Duper, Higgs, Jackson, Offerdahl, Johnson and Shula. They were accustomed to winning division titles or, at the very least, being in the conversation. Those kids, like me, were fully entrenched during the post-Marino era and we grew fan legs of our own. We stuck around with Taylor, Thomas, Chambers, McDuffie, Williams and even Fiedler.

Then the bottom fell out.

Before I knew it, the joy of Ricky Williams chasing 2,000 yards was replaced by the depression of Ricky Williams professing his never ending love for weed. The head coach position was in a state of constant flux and the quarterback carousel continued with only stopgap solutions to fill the Marino void.

We don’t have to investigate much further: there’s no NFL franchise that succeeds without stability at head coach and at quarterback, it’s as simple as that.

We were given names like Wannstedt, Sporano, the usurper Nick Saban and an over-the-hill Parcells to lead from the sidelines. We were tricked into believing in Fielder, Lucas, Griese and Henne. We chose Culpepper over Brees. Long over Ryan,

Even if those two positions are tied together through cheating scandal after scandal, as long as they produce Super Bowls, its ok. See Foxborough, Massachusetts, for details.

We’re in NFL purgatory right now. Not good enough to be a contender, not bad enough to draft the hero we need. Just good enough to exist. Mired in perpetual purgatory ... forever and ever amen.

This brings us to where we are now, the eve of the 2015-16 season.

Hope still remains, but it’s tempered when I realised I can’t change the Dolphins, I can only change my reaction to them. No longer would they get me to believe “the culture in the locker room is changing” or “the front office is committing to winning now more than ever”.

If Drake taught me anything, it’s to know myself.

We’re a team that’s coming off successive 8-8 seasons. We just paid our relatively unproven quarterback over $100 million. We also gave Suh, the second coming of Albert Haynesworth (it’s only a matter of time before he stomps on someone and gets suspended by the way), another $60 million. The highest paid and least effective receiving core was disintegrated, which in theory sounds great ... until you realise we’re now completely dependent on a second-year receiver not named Odell Beckham Jr being the #1 option and a rookie receiver not named Odell Beckham Jr developing into a legit #2.

I’m completely unsure of this secondary, we don’t know how effective a rehabbed Brandon Albert will be at the most important position on the offensive line and we still don’t have a single linebacker that can provide the most slight bit of resistance in coverage. By the way, our head coach still has the demeanour of the world’s most passive guidance counsellor.

I know my truth, and after the Henne debacle I decided it was time to set new reasonable terms for this relationship. I’m not even sure how to pass this Dolphin lineage on to my son. He was born in 2009 and turns six, today. The last Dolphins playoff appearance was in 2008.

How do we believe, in one fell swoop, that all changes this year? Let’s look around the AFC East for a second.

The Bills have upgraded by adding one of the electrifying running backs of the last five years and a scrambling black quarterback that’s always all the rage in the NFL for a two-year window. The Pats have Brady back and can pretty much do whatever they want, legally or illegally, and the Jets lost Rex Ryan ... which has to be good for something.

The task of winning this division is daunting to say the least.

This is the pragmatic approach to being a Dolphin fan. We know and accept this. We would like to maintain this. We will also abandon this immediately once we race out to a 3-0 start. We will continue to be irrational because that’s what you do with the home team, and until the NFL moves a franchise to Cuba, this is our home team for the foreseeable future. We shop in Miami, we go to games in Miami, our kids are born in Miami, some of us lost our virginity in Miami, LeBron was in Miami.

I just got fired up writing that paragraph and imagined my spot on Biscayne Blvd during the float parade. See this is how the inescapable cycle continues.

I know my truth.

We’re the punchline of bad jokes. Our loyalty is applauded and our sanity is constantly questioned.

But we grin and bear it, because one day it’ll be worth it - and when that day comes, none of you will be safe from our collective obnoxious wrath. So again, for the 30th year, but what really feels like the 100th, I say… ‘Phins up and dear God help us all.

rdorsett@tribunemedia.net