Redemption

It makes for good TV I suppose but four years hence, is Super Bowl XLVI really a rematch?  Are there really some unseen forces at work in this year’s Patriots playoff run?  Will the 2011 “Three Games to Glory” DVD end with a slow-motion montage of highlights set to Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song?”  (More likely Boston’s “More Than a Feeling.”)  It’s undeniable that emotion plays a part in the outcome of NFL games.  Not as much as a good game plan well executed on game day, of course.

“I think we’ve talked about all that. It was a long time ago. I have a lot of comments on the record after the game and everything else. You can go back and look at all the things that happened then or some other year.”

-      Bill Belichick, responding to a question about David Tyree’s catch in Super Bowl XLII

Cheating Cheaters from Cheatertonia

I don’t know if you’ve heard this before but the Patriots are cheaters.  True story.  Bill Belichick is an evil, amoral, sadistic, godless, ruthless (where’s Ruth?) creature whose only joy in life is crushing your childlike belief in the notion that cheaters never win and a winner never cheats.  He cares nothing for fair play, Jesus or if that was your bologna and pepper-jack cheese sandwich in the lunchroom fridge even if you wrote your name on the bag.  He eats kittens for breakfast.  Belichick and his minions, Brady, Matt Light, Vince Wilfork, Jerod Mayo, Gronkowski and the rest, relax in whirlpools filled with kitten blood.  And anyone who has ever seen even one episode of “Scooby Doo” knows Robert Kraft is really Old Man Smithers in a rubber Robert Kraft mask.

An Embarrassment of Riches

A co-worker swung by my office today.  He asked me if I felt bad about the way the Patriots won.

“No,” I answered, without hesitation.  Because I didn’t feel at all bad about it.

I feel pretty good about it, actually.  Why shouldn’t I?  Do you think Bill Parcells and the New York Giants felt bad when Scott Norwood’s 47-yard field goal attempt went wide right?  Did the Steelers hand the Lombardi Trophy to the Seahawks after Super Bowl XL because the referees made not one, not two, but three terrible calls that tipped the game in Pittsburgh’s favor?  No?  Yeah, I didn’t remember that happening, either. 

Hey, I’ve known loss.  Losing hurts.  I’m not going to miss rolling in it when it’s a win. If you’re a fan, you don’t make the waves, you just surf them.   

Hang ten, bra.

Shanked

Foot.  Ball.  Fate.

Indefensible

Order has been restored.  Defense still wins championships.  Well, not yet, of course.  Pigskin Pundits and Bobbleheads seemed very much like self-righteous, puritanical church deacons pointing to the fall of those sinners in Green Bay and New Orleans as a sign of what happens to those who ignore the fundamentals of their faith.  They will be struck down by God’s own zone blitz.

Perhaps I should say order has nearly been restored.  The New England Apostates have yet to be dispatched to Pigskin Purgatory.

Semi-Final Thoughts

After such knowledge, what forgiveness?  That – with props to T.S. Eliot and apologies to Billy Shakespeare – is the question. 

“…Think now

History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors

And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,

Guides us by vanities.”

-      Gerontion, T.S. Eliot

Opus 63: My Name is Michael and I am a Patriots Fan

The first team that I ever hated was the Oakland Raiders.  As a young boy I rooted for the Denver Broncos PE (Pre-Elway).  The Raiders would routinely roll the Broncos.  I feared the Raiders.  And I hated them.  They were savage, inhuman, unfeeling, bloodthirsty creatures from a drive-in motorcycle vampire movie. I was young so I cut myself a little slack.  I was clearly irrational when it came to the Raiders.  I can see how crazy that was, because I am no longer a child, I’m an adult.  I’ve got a house, a family, two cars, a high stress job I may or may not survive (I like my chances), a kid in college halfway around the world and two indoor cats.  My name is Michael and I hate the Jets.