In Spain, listening to people prattle on about politics was an interesting diversion. O.K., maybe not just a diversion; more like a case study, an alternate universe where history had run a different course and now a different set of factors controlled the political reality. Not unintelligible, just not the same. The PP, former party of Bush’s pal José María Aznar, could gain seats on Zapatero’s PSOE? Interesting, but I’ve got no horse in that race. José Montilla, a non-native speaker of Catalán, managed to lead the PSC to victory and helm the Generalitat, the governing body of Catluña? Even more complicated and less to do with me. Another soup of abbreviations and another axis of political alignment to worry about–so much to learn before I could even enter into an educated debate, let alone have an informed opinion.

Eventually I did, and I won’t say it wasn’t rewarding, but, in the back of my mind, I always knew I’d be leaving, and the results of elections couldn’t hurt me much. I said I was a Barça fan while I was there too, but if they lose the Liga I won’t lose sleep. While I was away, reading the political coverage on The New York Times Web site was like receiving dispatches from, well, a foreign land. It was oddly comforting. I could check in on the faltering “progress” of Obama’s health care initiative like a basketball fan checking in on his alma mater’s team: hoping there would be good news, but not passionately upset by repeatedly unmet expectations.

That distance can be healthy. The older brother of a high school friend of mine stopped watching his beloved Indiana Hoosiers a few years after he graduated. He’d punched too many walls over missed free throws to be much fun to hang out with on game day. Now, though, he’s a CPA, has a girlfriend and lives in Zurich. To my knowledge, he’s avoided an ulcer.

Trouble is sports and politics are different. Sure, those trying to predict the outcomes of either one struggle with an overwhelming amount of statistical information and a propensity to fetishize personal narrative. More than that, talking about politics involves so many sports terms it’s easy to forget that’s where they came from. Calling elections “races” or “contests,” talking about the final push in a campaign as a “fourth quarter drive,” or calling an out-of-nowhere prospect a “dark horse” candidate–all that comes from sports. Dark horse. That’s what’s came up this Tuesday and it’s what reminded me just how different these two areas of American life really are.

As a transplanted native of Indianapolis, I’ll be upset if the Indianapolis Colts don’t win the AFC Championship game this weekend. I’ve made an emotional investment in the team’s success, something that lets me feel a sense of belonging and in return offers elation with victory and despair with defeat. I’d wager that there’re folks in Vegas who might be upset as well–owing to, well, “other” kinds of investments. But that’s it. Emotional pain and frustration for people like me, some dollars down the drain for the gamblers. Elections are different. Elections change lives.

I don’t know how Scott Brown’s win in the special election to replace the late Ted Kennedy as Senator from Massachusetts will impact America. As a Democrat, I suppose I should feel like my team lost. Add to that, the loss to Scott Brown, a candidate who managed, with his straightforward name, pickup truck and general propensity for being shirtless, to win “the people’s seat,” as he calls it. When he takes his oath of office, he’ll also be doing away with the Democrat’s filibuster-proof majority in the Senate. Populist rage, a rejection of the Democratic agenda–that’s how this will be characterized in the media and, I imagine, by those who would see health care reform shelved for another 15 years, those who would be content with sitting around and thumbing their nose at the nation’s problems.

That can’t happen.

Maybe I don’t need to trouble myself with the minutiae that constitute a political blogger’s bread and butter. No need to punch walls, no need to give myself an ulcer, but I have to pay attention. I can’t enact the annual coping mechanism of a Raiders fan and self-impose a blackout of ESPN until next season. I can’t look away, because that means avoiding the front page of every major newspaper. That means looking away from the reality of this country in which we live. And I can’t do that.

So thanks, Massachusetts. Thanks for reminding me to pay attention, for reminding me to stay involved. Thanks for all that, but you can keep Scott Brown.