"Hell may have no fury like a woman scorned but heaven hath no sweetness like a sports fan vindicated." - Samcat

Friday, September 09, 2005

Sports Bigamy

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(photo from Boston.com)

If Tedy's smiling, you know things are gonna be all right.

I am a cheater. A two-timer. A flip flopper. I love two things equally and when they coincide, as they did last night, I find myself torn between two extremes. Summer breezes or winter blizzards? Extra points or extra bases? "Welcome to the Jungle" or "Dirty Water?" I develop such a split personality that I cannot focus on just one of my two loves. Marianne's friend Dave observed last night as I watched the Pats and checked the Sox score on Gameday, "Which one do you love more?"

"I don't," I said, "I'm an equal parts Pats and Sox girl."

"That ain't bad," he said.

"Not usually," I replied, "Because usually, the Pats are just starting up when the Sox are making me cry. So they're a good respite."

"But not this year," Dave said.

"No," I said, "Not this year. This year, things are different."

But, as we all know, the more things change, the more they stay the same.


Memo to John Madden, Al Michaels, et al:

Stop with the on-air Brady worshipping. It's going to make people hate him. If they don't already. And I want none of that.

K, thnx, bye.

Although I maintain that the only reason one can possibly hate Tom Brady is because they are not fortunate enough to have him on their team. Meaning, of course, that their scouts and GMs and coaches could not see the promise in a sixth round draft pick and instead went with bigger and alledgedly "better" guns in the draft. Shortsightedness comes back around to bite 'em in the ass, eh?

Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, I don't want to hear about how Tom Brady's the Derek Jeter of the NFL. I don't want to have to listen to people try to convince me, against all reason, that Brady's not that good and that he can't hold Manning's or, if we're being completely delusional, Roethlisberger's jock strap. I don't care how much people insult him. He's my guy. For real, he can be gay, sleeping with every available female in six states, a complete and total idiot, unable to read and/or kick puppies in his spare time and I'm gonna back the guy because he brought us the rings. And one thing I know for sure, Jeter never would have said hi to anyone named "Bubba" on national television. So there.

That said, all y'all Brady haters can just, well, go do whatever it is you do when you're not busy hatin' on a sixth round, three time championship winning quarterback. Eating babies and hating fun, I'd assume. You have fun with that. And as soon as Peyton steps on the field this weekend, you can rest assured that the talking heads will have moved on to the Manning glad handling. Again. Some more. So...neener!

*sticks out tongue*

Oh, the game? Oh yes, there was one of those, wasn't there? I get my dander all up when someone gets on my boys. The thing is, I can't get too overconfident with these guys. I've reminded myself time and time again that though we may win the big game, we only win it by a margin of three points (for real, check all the Super Bowl scores) so nothing is going to be a cakewalk. But, I mean, these were the
Raiders. Their fans dress up like they're attending a GWAR reunion show. Clearly, we are not scared of these freaks.

And, for the most part. We were not. Some early hiccups on the part of the newly formed and no doubt getting it's feet wet defense notwithstanding, we shored things up in the later goings, particularly in the third quarter when we allowed the Oakland offense less than 40 total yards.

I say "we" by the way, because I can't not. Because, like Tedy Bruschi on the sidelines, I'm ready to suit up, grab a helmet and get in there and start crackin' skulls.

Oh, speaking of Tedy:

Addendum to the memo to John Madden, Al Michaels, et al.

Unless you're Hines Ward, there is no crying in football. To that end, kindly do not narrate every Patriots third down defensive situation this year by saying, "This is when, normally, Tedy Bruschi would have made a great play," or "You know, this defense is really going to miss Bruschi."

We know. We are aware. We can see him on the sidelines in his little blue shirt with his blow dried hair. We do not need to be reminded that he is not playing. We also do not need to cry. This is football, dammit! And there's no crying in football.


I would also like to point out an observation from Jay during last night's game because it's a phenomenon worth drawing attention to. Why, he wondered, do so many quarterbacks have names befitting male soap opera stars? Think about it, there's a Trent, a Donovan, a Brett, a Kerry, a Byron, a Carson, a Daunte, a Chad and two Drews for crissakes. Surely this means something. What, I don't know. But something. Theories?

As for the Red Sox, because they also played last night, things didn't go down so well. I only saw up till the fifth inning or so because the boys in blue got all my attention after that seeing as how it's a brand new, shiny season for them. Perhaps the Sox missed me? It's possible considering that they could not rustle up more than a handful of hits against a guy that, if I remember correctly, they knocked the stuffing out of in last year's ALDS. He also spells his name in a kicky fashion, (Byrd? What's up with that?), and was therefore deserving of our torment. Alas, it was not to be.

However, it's not all doom and gloom in the baseball side of my brain (and the world) as the Yankees seem to have found themselves a real live nemesis in the Tampa Bay Devil Rays (*snerk*) as they dropped last night's game 7-4 and the season series 11 games (Tampa) to 5 (New York). They also dropped to a half game back in the AL Wild Card Race. And so, things remain...at stasis.

The more things change...

Of course, what this all means for the Sox is that no matter what happens this weekend during the showdown in the Bronx, including an improbable sweep by the Yankees, we'll still be in first place. Nevertheless, here's hoping we lay the smack down, but good and come out of that godforsaken place trailing tattered pinstriped uniforms and picking our teeth with the bones of second basemen past.

Bring it.