Dismember the Titans
Born and bred ? I love living in New England. Granted, there are those times, when reviewing those roads diverged in the proverbial woods of personal memory and choice ? I sometimes bemoan the fact that I never packed my bags and left on a jet plane straight out to Cali. To snap out of it, all I need is a crisp winter?s day and a spackling of ice and snow upon every open surface ? to remind me that this area ? with it?s well-defined four seasons is a pretty interesting venue in its own right.
And if the environment doesn?t do the trick, there?s always the sportsmanship.
This Saturday, our beloved New England Patriots kick-off Round 2 of the AFC Playoffs ? hosting the Tennessee Titans at their home base (the still shiny bauble - Gillette Stadium). To prepare for this match up, the region has wedded New England sports with that finicky New England weather - throwing open the shutters and ushering in the Artic Express ? as volumes of the cold Canadian air have begun to seep into the region.
Despite the chill, the fans will flock.
There?s just something magical about sports in these parts. Of course, if I recall correctly my Varsity Blues and Rudy ? West Texas and America?s Heartland also have an affinity for pigskin action and Hobbit Halfbacks ? but that?s high school and college athletics. I?m talking about THE BIGS. The only Bigs that matter. The Big Dances and Leagues and Times and Units. Pro sports baby!!!
In one of those misty-eyed, If I Could Turn Back Time moments, I think I would reset my life?s journey to include some manner of organized sport. See, unfortunately, it took me several years of my life before I really got interested in following any professional sports teams. As a child, as friends of mine were entering Little League ? I was out searching my neighborhood woods for traces of the Lost World. I just knew that if I looked hard enough ? my sophomoric spelunking would turn up some evidence of a lost tribe of pigmy pterodactyl worshippers or the Ark of the Covenant or Pre-Cambrian Michelin Man or something. Twenty-three crushed Schlitz cans and a half-dozen rain-soaked Hustlers later, I found there was not much left to be uncovered in Neolithic suburbia.
Anyway, the years went by and I managed to hold my own in gym class ? even as some of my classmates began to display ever disturbing signs of burgeoning power. I swear this one guy I knew could hurtle a dodge ball with such tremendous velocity that when it struck you it would liquefy every single internal organ without leaving a mark. Nary a raspberry or bruise to indicate any damage had been done. He even has one of those cool nicknames all super-villains possessed. This Issue: All tremble before THE MIGHTY GYM TEACHER!!!
Every so often, I would get the notion that it was high time I play catch up and begin working on my Sporkball ? that?s my ?A? pitch ? in prep for my imminent induction in Cooperstown. So I would head to the locker room, begin to undress (all the while reviewing a highlight reel in my mind of my classmates congratulating me on being the one to finally bring joy to Muddville) when some ‘bipedalus erectus’ would come walking by ? draped in what appeared to be a mammoth pelt (upon closer inspection ? ‘My God, that?s no Wookie. That?s Little Stevie! All grown up.’) I couldn?t compete with a Cro-Magnon ? so I would lace up the Hush Puppies and head on back to the bleachers. This was one potential phenom that would have to move his athletic aspirations from Hot Stove to Back Burner.
In college, things started to click. Each weekend, rousing my sleepy head somewhere around the crack of dusk, I would head down to the Dining Commons in hopes of scoring a leftover Chicken Puck (there?s no more apt description than that) before heading back to the dorm. Each guy would then huddle en masse ? shirking our scholarly duties for a few hours plastered in front of the tube as we watched the Pats or the Sox take a pasting from their latest opponent. Back in those days ? the Patriots performance was generally so abysmal that we missed roughly 40% of the games due to league blackout rules (i.e. if enough tickets were not sold for the game the league would not televise the game ? an archetype of a bygone era as the current wait list for Pats season tix puts a 78 year old Ed Humphries scoring his first pair. Wooo Hooo!!!) If we couldn?t satisfy our jock jones through televised sports, the Sega Genesis relieved the tension with all-night NBA Jam tourneys. Then of course, Spring brought Intramural softball ? which saw most dorms cobbling together teams for entry into a very taxing gladiatorial arena (’O.K. Here?s the rules. Get a hit. Do a shot. Strike out. Do a shot. Home run. Keg Stand. Or, wait. Was a Keg Stand for a Ground Rule Double. No that?s a 5th of Purple Passion. Oh, f#ck it, let?s just drink.’) It?s there that my talents first began to manifest and my love of sport ? and booze ? began to come together like Reese?s Peanut Butter Cups.
I was at UMASS when the college basketball program exploded and UMASS made it to the Sweet Sixteen of the NCAA tournament ? with Marcus Camby and Lou Roe leading the charge ? coached by John Calipari. The year after graduating, I sat in a bar ? with a group of fellow Minutemen that I became acquainted with at my first post-college professional gig ? as we cheered on Camby and crew to the Final Four. Of course, unseemly allegations of gift taking would rear their ugly head and the NCAA would affix the dreaded asterisk to the Record Books a short while later ? but I know what I saw and what that was - was pure magic. And that love for the game began to burn bright inside. ‘Bartender ? another round.’
The fire continues to smolder. I realize that one cannot change the past but can affect the future. It?s a small thing, really ? in the whole wide gamut of things ? but there is pleasure and pain to be found in sports ? and personally I love playing that game. My allegiance is sworn. Baseball and Football are now big passions with me and the hometown heroes have my heart. When Tom Brady marched his team 60 odd-yards to set-up Adam Vinitieri?s Super Bowl winning field goal (against John Madden?s not-so better judgment) ? I thrilled. When Grady Little lingered too long in that dugout ? that one fateful evening in the Bronx this past October ? my heart sunk. A week later, as I watched young Josh Beckett pitch 9 solid innings and lead the Florida Marlins in stirring victory over the New York Yankees (queue The Imperial March) I thrilled at seeing a true hero prevail.
This Saturday, the Patriots begin their quest for their 2nd Super Bowl title in 3 short years. They have locked Home Field advantage through the AFC championship game which gives the team a decided advantage. The Vegas odds-makers call the Pats favorites but the rest of the country withholds respect. That?s the way we like it.
The forecast for Saturday night?s game calls for a high of 11 (around kick-off) and a low of 0 (sometime around the 4th Quarter.) The weather should bother all ? making this one major game I?m happy to sit out and watch from the comfort of home.
While the weather outside may be frightful, I can?t think of anything more delightful than watching the Pats ‘DISMEMBER THE TITANS!!!’
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