I refuse to consider myself an NFL fan, especially when the only dictators are the teams’ owners whose only deity-bottom-line-dollar always permeates all decisions – buy, sell, trade star athletes as non-entities in a cattle auction.
It was only a week ago that I witnessed our legendary Pats’ quarterback, Tom Brady, grind into mince-meat the fanatic Christian, Tim Tebow, in the Bronco’s game. “Funny," I then thought to myself, “he didn’t fall down on his one knee sending his psycho-praises to heaven.” Replete with infinite confidence, I felt secure in my own personal prediction: Brady would do the same to any-now-New York Giant’s mouse-quarterback, Eli Manning. A vaccum of knowledge of Manning’s qualifications or NFL historical record-breaking statistics induced me to believe that he, in comparison to Brady, probably could not even spell “football” let alone actually play the game. New York fans would have a difficult time making the distinction between Manning and the luscious, well-groomed Indy turf when Brady got through with him.
As any sports’ fan knows, the first 10 minutes of any game usually establishes “the tone.” I witnessed myself, in total shock and wonderment, screaming at Brady committing the worst sin of any game: a Safety. My cataract eyeballs, I felt sure, were deceiving me. Brady, standing behind the goal line, could not have thrown that pass downfield with no player in the near-vicinity. Instant result: Giants-2; Pats-0. As the NFL rules mandate, to pour a gallon of vinegar into a gaping wound, the Pats would now have to also punt to the Giants. I mumbled a few additional vulgarities as I witnessed the smirks on the Giants’ faces. No soothing emotional balm would alleviate my already-stunned disbelief. The Pats were struggling defensively and offensively. In the abyss of my empty soul, it’s not so much that I wanted my Pats to win, but more so, I wanted New York to lose, if for no other deep philosophical rationale, the Giants were New York. What more reason did I need? A demonic omen continued to envelop my wobbly being.
I felt myself becoming optimistically cautious when the Pats made a comeback and took the lead. I consoled myself in yelling at the TV with such erudite comments as, “Eat your heart out, Giants. We’re the New England Patriots, not your local kindergarten team.” Such proud comments were quickly altered as the despicable Giants took the lead in the last quarter. Dante's Inferno was rapidly surfacing. Time was now of the essence. Brady would “pull it out,” regardless of the game clock ticking its last minutes – a then-solidified
belief resulting only in disappointment, frustration, and disgust.
I stood aghast at the game’s end. “The game needs to be played over with new referees!” I shouted at the TV as it nearly vibrated off its Chinese-plastered drywall. “The Giants cheated!”
How else could they have won?
WJK-Feb. 5, 2012
