THE PATS are going to the Super Bowl again.
For the 8th time. That, my friends, is goddamn amazing.
Carol and I were digging the game with Keith and Emily last night.
It was a shitty night to be driving. Icy crazy roads. Yet we jumped into The Peace Mobile and forged a slow, hazardous road to K&E's home. The ride home was no less treacherous.
The weatherman blew it again. Gonna get warmer, ice will melt, no black ice, no problemo. It got warmer in strange pockets of warmness but for our travel purposes it did not get warmer where we needed it to.
And forget about Henniker. Henniker never gets warmer. It exists in its own arctic zone. Climate scientists often mistake Henniker for the North Pole. They set out on expedition and suddenly they are standing in front of Harvester Market. Wondering aloud - "There is a grocery store on the North Pole?"
They waste a lot of money that way.
Anyway, initially I thought to myself that we are quite THE PATS fanatics. Battling icy conditions and all.
As we sat with Keith and Emily I realized the truth.
It is all about family. Watching that game with our son and his wife made it better.
That is what was important to us. That is why we threw caution to the wind when any sane person would have stayed home.
It was such a relaxed night, sitting in the living room in front of the Great TV, digging on THE PATS kickass performance, engaging in easy flowing conversation, checking in on the changes in their life, laying out the changes in ours.
Our family has settled into a comforting ritual, aided and abetted by the consistent success of THE PATS.
The wild card or divisional game is taken in at Paula and Bill's house. A mad, fun, unpredictable, and amazing time fueled by fanaticism, enthusiasm, alcohol and the occasional mind bender of questionable legality, food, friendship and family.
It is a goddamn blast and an event. Paparazzi often circle the house in hopes of snagging scandalous photos. But we keep it in the basement where there are no windows.
The conference championship typically occurs at Keith and Emily's, although we have consumed Super Bowls there as well.
This get together loosely includes my brother, Craig and Karen, Carol and me, K&E. A revolving cast of characters depending on who has what going on.
And the weather. Depending on the goddamn weather. My brother Ed couldn't make it last night because of icy insanity.
We missed him.
No matter what the lineup is, it is always a laid back, easy flowing night of comfort, conversation, laughter and football.
Craig and Karen have owned the Super Bowl in recent years. Same cast of characters, less revolving. Probably because of the magnitude of the game. Especially when THE PATS are involved.
C&K always fret about the lack of seating space. Doesn't matter to us. We take over the couch and circle around their GIGANTIC TV in whatever chairs are available. Food gets spread out on the coffee table, the kitchen table, the ceiling, and wherever else we can fit nachos and chicken wings and pizza and KFC and speecy spicy meat-a-balls.
A goddamn good time. Craig's awesome sense of humor and Karen's smoothly cool personality (and ability to deflate Craig's ego when necessary) combine to make the day a blast.
The space may be small but the family bond is huge.
What a cast of characters. Paula and Bill, Keith and Emily, Craig and Karen, Eddie, Carol and........................me. These people are my family. How lucky am I to have them?
Goddamn lucky is the correct answer to that query. I feel lucky to be around them, to spend time with them in social settings and family settings where reality looms large and the pettiness of the world recedes.
A reality of trust and respect and love and comfort and happiness. I do not need any more than that.
These games are great. Exciting. In and of themselves, and because of the family get togetherness they inspire. THE PATS have brought a lot of happiness into my life and the lives of my family.
But the big thing is the ritual. The family closeness. The shared time, the conversation, the laughter, the love.
These things take an over the top event and make it HUGE.
The memories of the games stay with me. They bring me satisfaction and an escape from the mundane.
The memories of time spent with my family sustain me.
See you on February 1, 2015 in Glendale, Arizona.
PATS/seahawks.
Gonna be one hell of a game.
Gonna be one hell of a family moment.
Monday, January 19, 2015
Funny How Things Work
Finished off the Lennon biography and started up "Radio Free Boston - the rise and fall of WBCN".
The Lennon thing was hanging around my home for a year or more. I kept procrastinating (there's that goddamn word again).
I started reading it and I devoured it, licking my chops with every sit down.
Keith turned me on to the existence of the BCN book, I grabbed it and now my eyes/brain are sucking it in.
It is a natural progression, however unplanned for.
BCN came on the air in March of 1968, and jumped feet first into an FM radio revolution started in San Francisco.
No loud mouthed jocks, no predictable playlists.
Intelligent radio for discerning listeners.
One of the originals described the concept as creating a mood with the music and running with it.
I love that. That is how music is supposed to be. Not pre-planned but spontaneous.
A jock got a call from a member of the Boston Symphony one day when he segued from a classical piece to rock while maintaining an emotional consistency.
This professional classically trained musician thought the moment was perfect.
That it what this station was all about.
The Beatles got their start in 1957 when John met Paul and exploded into history in 1963 and 1964.
They changed everything.
BCN was a classical FM station that was floundering financially when Ray Riepen convinced the station owner to let him experiment with a new rock format in an attempt to revive advertising income.
He was given the 10:00 p.m. to 5:00 a.m. slot to see what he could do with it. Riepen brought in college DJ Joe Rogers.
The station played classical music all day except for that slot. When Rogers went on the air for that first shift and played Frank Zappa followed by Cream, the phone lines lit up with irate classical listeners.
Beautiful.
BCN changed everything.
On the back cover of the book is this quote from Gregg Allman: "WBCN welcomed us in those early days; so much so, that Boston became a home away from home for the Allman Brothers Band and for me. BCN was truly one of the greatest of American radio stations. I miss those guys."
This is deeply meaningful because the Allman Brothers were a hard sell in those days. Deeply rooted in the blues, featuring virtuoso guitar players and musicians, interpreting and re-inventing the blues, jamming endlessly and brilliantly for extended periods of time.
They were a different animal.
Having BCN supporting their music is huge, and says a lot about the open minded philosophy of this station.
I have often said that I cannot pinpoint the moment when I first heard the Allman Brothers.
I wish I could. I wish I could say "Yeah, I was stoned out of my mind at this small, cool party at Phil Camerlengo's house where Snickers bars and long haired, free spirited, casually dressed women ruled, when all of a sudden this music comes over the radio and knocks me to the floor in writhing ecstasy."
I can't. But I can guess within a small margin of error that I first heard the Allman Brothers on BCN.
There's a quote from Bono on the back cover as well. "WBCN - four letters that made a big difference to our U and our 2........Without them taking risks on new music, I'm not sure the U2 story would have been the same."
That is two deep quotes from two heavy duty bands from different eras.
That says a lot, baby.
With this book I shall continue my emotional trip down memory lane.
The Lennon thing was hanging around my home for a year or more. I kept procrastinating (there's that goddamn word again).
I started reading it and I devoured it, licking my chops with every sit down.
Keith turned me on to the existence of the BCN book, I grabbed it and now my eyes/brain are sucking it in.
It is a natural progression, however unplanned for.
BCN came on the air in March of 1968, and jumped feet first into an FM radio revolution started in San Francisco.
No loud mouthed jocks, no predictable playlists.
Intelligent radio for discerning listeners.
One of the originals described the concept as creating a mood with the music and running with it.
I love that. That is how music is supposed to be. Not pre-planned but spontaneous.
A jock got a call from a member of the Boston Symphony one day when he segued from a classical piece to rock while maintaining an emotional consistency.
This professional classically trained musician thought the moment was perfect.
That it what this station was all about.
The Beatles got their start in 1957 when John met Paul and exploded into history in 1963 and 1964.
They changed everything.
BCN was a classical FM station that was floundering financially when Ray Riepen convinced the station owner to let him experiment with a new rock format in an attempt to revive advertising income.
He was given the 10:00 p.m. to 5:00 a.m. slot to see what he could do with it. Riepen brought in college DJ Joe Rogers.
The station played classical music all day except for that slot. When Rogers went on the air for that first shift and played Frank Zappa followed by Cream, the phone lines lit up with irate classical listeners.
Beautiful.
BCN changed everything.
On the back cover of the book is this quote from Gregg Allman: "WBCN welcomed us in those early days; so much so, that Boston became a home away from home for the Allman Brothers Band and for me. BCN was truly one of the greatest of American radio stations. I miss those guys."
This is deeply meaningful because the Allman Brothers were a hard sell in those days. Deeply rooted in the blues, featuring virtuoso guitar players and musicians, interpreting and re-inventing the blues, jamming endlessly and brilliantly for extended periods of time.
They were a different animal.
Having BCN supporting their music is huge, and says a lot about the open minded philosophy of this station.
I have often said that I cannot pinpoint the moment when I first heard the Allman Brothers.
I wish I could. I wish I could say "Yeah, I was stoned out of my mind at this small, cool party at Phil Camerlengo's house where Snickers bars and long haired, free spirited, casually dressed women ruled, when all of a sudden this music comes over the radio and knocks me to the floor in writhing ecstasy."
I can't. But I can guess within a small margin of error that I first heard the Allman Brothers on BCN.
There's a quote from Bono on the back cover as well. "WBCN - four letters that made a big difference to our U and our 2........Without them taking risks on new music, I'm not sure the U2 story would have been the same."
That is two deep quotes from two heavy duty bands from different eras.
That says a lot, baby.
With this book I shall continue my emotional trip down memory lane.
Sunday, January 18, 2015
Gobblydegook
I thought I would write some gobbledegook.
I have been inspired by some of John Lennon's writing. You got to have patience to read it. If you do it is pretty entertaining.
I have to wonder though, as I always do, whether he is being cut slack as a Beatle when they call his writing genius.
On one level I suppose you could say that. On another level you could call it childish.
Depends on your perspective I guess.
This happens all the time though. An artist veers off in a direction that is original and quite personal and some critics hail the work as fresh genius unmatched in intensity and creative inventiveness.
Others call it rubbish.
Subtly nuanced is one of my favorite descriptions. When a critic is trying to make a distinction about some new work by a creative type, trying to separate it from previous work, they call it subtly nuanced.
Even though as hard as you try you cannot see it, hear it, or in any other way discern the originality of this stuff.
I believe critics take liberties in their supposed expertise to make more of something than it is.
Here is some gobbledegook to get me out of here.
I am feeling Sunday morning blues football ecstatic in an understated yet explosive way as I count the minutes (and the years) racing by in a Ferrari blur of sounds, emotions, impressions, and expectations. I am here but I am not and later I will be somewhere else rooted like a plant in intensity and (hopefully) ecstasy. It's Sunday I ain't in Dina church but I am no less spiritual and at exactly 6:40 I will be in JoeChurch worshipping like the Devil. Today is a goddamn good life.
I have been inspired by some of John Lennon's writing. You got to have patience to read it. If you do it is pretty entertaining.
I have to wonder though, as I always do, whether he is being cut slack as a Beatle when they call his writing genius.
On one level I suppose you could say that. On another level you could call it childish.
Depends on your perspective I guess.
This happens all the time though. An artist veers off in a direction that is original and quite personal and some critics hail the work as fresh genius unmatched in intensity and creative inventiveness.
Others call it rubbish.
Subtly nuanced is one of my favorite descriptions. When a critic is trying to make a distinction about some new work by a creative type, trying to separate it from previous work, they call it subtly nuanced.
Even though as hard as you try you cannot see it, hear it, or in any other way discern the originality of this stuff.
I believe critics take liberties in their supposed expertise to make more of something than it is.
Here is some gobbledegook to get me out of here.
I am feeling Sunday morning blues football ecstatic in an understated yet explosive way as I count the minutes (and the years) racing by in a Ferrari blur of sounds, emotions, impressions, and expectations. I am here but I am not and later I will be somewhere else rooted like a plant in intensity and (hopefully) ecstasy. It's Sunday I ain't in Dina church but I am no less spiritual and at exactly 6:40 I will be in JoeChurch worshipping like the Devil. Today is a goddamn good life.
As I Write
As I sit perched on this stool scribbling words into the ether I am simultaneously listening to Sunday morning blues on WZLX.
Thanks to my brother Ed.
He has been prodding me, literally for years, to check this out. Kept telling me how good it is.
I procrastinate.
In fact, as I keep taking a hard look at myself in 2015, I have realized procrastination is quite possibly my worst vice.
And that is saying a lot.
I think I have noticed this in the past, but I put off doing anything about it.
This morning as I went into the fridge to grab a hold of some heavy whipping cream to spike my coffee with, I noticed that I did not date last night's leftovers. (Steak tips, baby - barbecued beautifully).
I package up leftovers in containers and slap a piece of masking tap across the lid with the date of said dinner. That way I can track their provenance and either dump them when they have passed the expiration date, or freeze them for future deliciosity.
By the way the masking tape thing reminds me of my father, but I am not entirely sure why.
I saw the unmarked container and thought to myself I better remember to mark it up it later. THEN I said NO - do it now. Even before consuming my precious coffee.
I am exceptionally proud of my unbridled initiative.
This listening and writing thing is a fascinating experiment. Typically I cannot write with anything distracting me at all.
I have tried in the past and failed miserably.
This morning is different. This morning it's the blues.
I live for the blues. I love music but I idolize the blues. Gotta have it. It is part of my DNA, it is tightly woven into who I am.
I am sitting here typing with very little effort (which is probably why I am not rich and successful) as the music floats in through me and back out again.
The writing is natural. The blues is natural.
Christ this feels good.
It is entirely possible that had I listened more attentively to my brother's words over the years I could be much further along on the scale of personal evolution than I am.
He is indeed wise.
I take a great deal of comfort in knowing that it is not too late.
(Editor's note: Jesus Christ, man - this is damn delicious. Song came on as I wrote - voice sounded familiar but I didn't focus on it too severely because my fingers are flying. Got to a guitar break in the song - slide guitar - and suddenly my brain said "That has got to be Derek Trucks." It was. The song was by the Tedeschi Trucks Band. The singer was Susan Tedeschi, Derek's wife. A few minutes later they played a song by Joe Bonamassa. My soul is flying even as my brain is frying.)
Thanks to my brother Ed.
He has been prodding me, literally for years, to check this out. Kept telling me how good it is.
I procrastinate.
In fact, as I keep taking a hard look at myself in 2015, I have realized procrastination is quite possibly my worst vice.
And that is saying a lot.
I think I have noticed this in the past, but I put off doing anything about it.
This morning as I went into the fridge to grab a hold of some heavy whipping cream to spike my coffee with, I noticed that I did not date last night's leftovers. (Steak tips, baby - barbecued beautifully).
I package up leftovers in containers and slap a piece of masking tap across the lid with the date of said dinner. That way I can track their provenance and either dump them when they have passed the expiration date, or freeze them for future deliciosity.
By the way the masking tape thing reminds me of my father, but I am not entirely sure why.
I saw the unmarked container and thought to myself I better remember to mark it up it later. THEN I said NO - do it now. Even before consuming my precious coffee.
I am exceptionally proud of my unbridled initiative.
This listening and writing thing is a fascinating experiment. Typically I cannot write with anything distracting me at all.
I have tried in the past and failed miserably.
This morning is different. This morning it's the blues.
I live for the blues. I love music but I idolize the blues. Gotta have it. It is part of my DNA, it is tightly woven into who I am.
I am sitting here typing with very little effort (which is probably why I am not rich and successful) as the music floats in through me and back out again.
The writing is natural. The blues is natural.
Christ this feels good.
It is entirely possible that had I listened more attentively to my brother's words over the years I could be much further along on the scale of personal evolution than I am.
He is indeed wise.
I take a great deal of comfort in knowing that it is not too late.
(Editor's note: Jesus Christ, man - this is damn delicious. Song came on as I wrote - voice sounded familiar but I didn't focus on it too severely because my fingers are flying. Got to a guitar break in the song - slide guitar - and suddenly my brain said "That has got to be Derek Trucks." It was. The song was by the Tedeschi Trucks Band. The singer was Susan Tedeschi, Derek's wife. A few minutes later they played a song by Joe Bonamassa. My soul is flying even as my brain is frying.)
What Is It With These Guys ? (Redux)
Just got to the part in Lennon's biography where he gets shot and killed.
Got a sinking feeling in my heart, goosebumps on my body.
December 8, 1980.
Most people heard about it through Howard Cosell on a Monday Night football broadcast.
PATS/dolphins.
The book talks about that and how the rest of us picked up on something bad the next morning when there was nothing but Beatles songs on the radio.
I was one of them. Eating breakfast, probably some ridiculous bowl of cereal, listening to the radio wondering why the hell they were playing back to back Beatles' songs.
Radio had already wimped out at this point. No individuality, no creativity. Playlists ruled and bored, and you just didn't play multiple songs by one artist.
I knew something was wrong.
Turns out something was very wrong.
In an interesting aside, it is obvious I had not stayed up to watch THE PATS play the dolphins on Monday night football.
I was not yet a die hard PATS fan, just a football freak.
Can't blame Keith, though. He was only 7 months old at that point. His influence had not made its way into my heart yet at that point EXCEPT FOR THE FACT THAT HE WAS MY FIRST BORN SON AND I WORSHIPPED EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM. (Still do.)
He couldn't even talk. But I am sure he was thinking on that Monday night when I went to bed, probably at half time, Dad, what the hell are you doing? For Christ sake it's THE PATS. Have some balls.
He was probably also thinking, Christ, this one is gonna be a lot of work.
PATS lost 16-13.
The world lost John Lennon.
I re-lived it this morning for the thousandth time.
What is it with these guys?
Got a sinking feeling in my heart, goosebumps on my body.
December 8, 1980.
Most people heard about it through Howard Cosell on a Monday Night football broadcast.
PATS/dolphins.
The book talks about that and how the rest of us picked up on something bad the next morning when there was nothing but Beatles songs on the radio.
I was one of them. Eating breakfast, probably some ridiculous bowl of cereal, listening to the radio wondering why the hell they were playing back to back Beatles' songs.
Radio had already wimped out at this point. No individuality, no creativity. Playlists ruled and bored, and you just didn't play multiple songs by one artist.
I knew something was wrong.
Turns out something was very wrong.
In an interesting aside, it is obvious I had not stayed up to watch THE PATS play the dolphins on Monday night football.
I was not yet a die hard PATS fan, just a football freak.
Can't blame Keith, though. He was only 7 months old at that point. His influence had not made its way into my heart yet at that point EXCEPT FOR THE FACT THAT HE WAS MY FIRST BORN SON AND I WORSHIPPED EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM. (Still do.)
He couldn't even talk. But I am sure he was thinking on that Monday night when I went to bed, probably at half time, Dad, what the hell are you doing? For Christ sake it's THE PATS. Have some balls.
He was probably also thinking, Christ, this one is gonna be a lot of work.
PATS lost 16-13.
The world lost John Lennon.
I re-lived it this morning for the thousandth time.
What is it with these guys?
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Sadnes As A Reality Check
Sadness is a reality check.
It lets you know your life is off track. It slaps you awake to the reality that life can be harsh and unpredictable. It reminds you that death lurks out there at the end of the road, that death will take away loved ones and eventually death will take away your own life.
I am beginning to think that sadness is the only accurate life signpost.
Happiness seems to be more transient. I have noticed that happiness does not spread, it does not take root and redirect my life.
I can be happy about just about anything. Feeling good about little things, big things, meaningful things and meaningless things.
Inevitably anxiety returns. Worries, pressures, distractions.
Happiness goes away.
I am not really sure what happiness is. You can fake happiness. So many people do.
The whole mindset of presenting a positive front to the world annoys me. People who give you over the top exuberance to a simple question like "How you doin'?"
You don't have to walk with shoulders hunched and gloom haunting your aura, just be honest with your emotions.
If you are happy, go with it and be thankful. If not, tone it down a little. You are not fooling anybody.
Everybody gets sad. I think people are sad more often than happy. I appreciate people who can admit to this.
It's called being real.
Reality check sadness is the bone deep kind. Brought on by death. Brought on by disaster. Brought on by hearts and souls jolted rudely out of blinding misconceptions.
I am deeply sad right now. It won't go away. It is making me think.
Happiness doesn't make me think, other than to wallow in the good feeling, to try to stay in that moment and milk it for all it's worth.
This thing, this sadness, is making me think about life in a way that I would prefer to avoid but cannot.
This sadness won't allow it.
The depth of the thing keeps blind siding me. My mind brings it back around unannounced. A conversation with my brother or Carol can stimulate tears.
I have thought about Jonathan and Sarge over and over again. I cannot stop it. The tears keep coming.
I am only the brother, the husband. My sadness is infinitely removed from the heart of the thing.
Yet it consumes me.
This sadness is the thing that leads to an understanding of true life. It brings perspective.
It has me thinking about my own life. It has me thinking - hard - about the people in my life who are my life.
The trick is to dig happiness when you have it. And to deal with sadness when it comes around.
Burying it accomplishes nothing.
Read the sadness for what it is and react accordingly. Don't just accept it.
Bone deep sadness is your mind trying to tell you something.
Don't ignore it.
It lets you know your life is off track. It slaps you awake to the reality that life can be harsh and unpredictable. It reminds you that death lurks out there at the end of the road, that death will take away loved ones and eventually death will take away your own life.
I am beginning to think that sadness is the only accurate life signpost.
Happiness seems to be more transient. I have noticed that happiness does not spread, it does not take root and redirect my life.
I can be happy about just about anything. Feeling good about little things, big things, meaningful things and meaningless things.
Inevitably anxiety returns. Worries, pressures, distractions.
Happiness goes away.
I am not really sure what happiness is. You can fake happiness. So many people do.
The whole mindset of presenting a positive front to the world annoys me. People who give you over the top exuberance to a simple question like "How you doin'?"
You don't have to walk with shoulders hunched and gloom haunting your aura, just be honest with your emotions.
If you are happy, go with it and be thankful. If not, tone it down a little. You are not fooling anybody.
Everybody gets sad. I think people are sad more often than happy. I appreciate people who can admit to this.
It's called being real.
Reality check sadness is the bone deep kind. Brought on by death. Brought on by disaster. Brought on by hearts and souls jolted rudely out of blinding misconceptions.
I am deeply sad right now. It won't go away. It is making me think.
Happiness doesn't make me think, other than to wallow in the good feeling, to try to stay in that moment and milk it for all it's worth.
This thing, this sadness, is making me think about life in a way that I would prefer to avoid but cannot.
This sadness won't allow it.
The depth of the thing keeps blind siding me. My mind brings it back around unannounced. A conversation with my brother or Carol can stimulate tears.
I have thought about Jonathan and Sarge over and over again. I cannot stop it. The tears keep coming.
I am only the brother, the husband. My sadness is infinitely removed from the heart of the thing.
Yet it consumes me.
This sadness is the thing that leads to an understanding of true life. It brings perspective.
It has me thinking about my own life. It has me thinking - hard - about the people in my life who are my life.
The trick is to dig happiness when you have it. And to deal with sadness when it comes around.
Burying it accomplishes nothing.
Read the sadness for what it is and react accordingly. Don't just accept it.
Bone deep sadness is your mind trying to tell you something.
Don't ignore it.
Saturday, January 10, 2015
HOF My Ass
Had the NFL network on yesterday for distraction.
I am not really into the playoff hype. I mean, I am as giddy as a school child about today's game, I cannot wait for 4:35, I cannot really explain to you what I am feeling.
I have been over all this before - what football means to me, what THE PATS mean to me, the connection to my father, the connection to Keith (who shamed me into PATRIOTS fidelity).
I shall not blubber over you with my emotions and my thoughts.
When I say I am not really into the playoff hype I mean the talk. The endless analyzing and over analyzing, dredging up decades old history, re-hashing recent history, all that jazz.
I don't give a damn about anybody's opinion. I don't give a damn about anybody's prediction.
I do soak up the emotional hype. The intensity of an NFL playoff game. The do or die atmosphere. The assumed fanaticism of casual fans and even non-fans. The fact that everywhere you turn on TV, on the radio, in stores, on the road - you see GO PATS.
Bakeries baking PATS cookies and brownies and pies. PATS flags and balloons and gear in supermarkets. PATS flags on houses.
A bunch of guys came through the liquor store this week wearing PATS hats, jerseys, sweatshirts, jackets.
To the guys I know are true fans - through endless mini cash register conversations going back to training camp - to those guys I said "Go PATS." High fived a few.
I refused to say it to anybody who was an obvious band wagon rider.
Sorry - even a man like me with relaxed convictions has to stand for something once in a while.
No other sport carries with it the post season intensity that football does.
I love it.
I have strong feelings about today's game. I have even been throwing out a predicted score and outcome, something I never do.
I won't do that here.
My son Keith is quite superstitious, even more so than me. I cannot harsh his vibe with my expectations.
Here is the truly amusing thing about this post. When I watched the NFL network as I ate brunch before heading into HELL/The Asylum yesterday, they were covering the 2015 Hall of Fame nominations.
Going over the process, explaining how it works. The subjective nature of the beast pissed me off. That's what I came in here to write about.
Hence the title, which I have decided to go with.
But playoff fever swept me away. Came up and out of nowhere. The words pored out, my fingers flew and my thoughts were laid bare for all to see.
For a football fan the NFL playoffs are enormous in intensity, implication, and emotion. Sometimes you ride high all the way to the end. Sometimes you crash and get crushed along the way.
But either way you feel alive.
So fucking alive.
I'll talk about the Hall of Fame some other time.
Right now the only thing I give a damn about is PATS/ravens.
4:35.
Cannot get here fast enough.
I am not really into the playoff hype. I mean, I am as giddy as a school child about today's game, I cannot wait for 4:35, I cannot really explain to you what I am feeling.
I have been over all this before - what football means to me, what THE PATS mean to me, the connection to my father, the connection to Keith (who shamed me into PATRIOTS fidelity).
I shall not blubber over you with my emotions and my thoughts.
When I say I am not really into the playoff hype I mean the talk. The endless analyzing and over analyzing, dredging up decades old history, re-hashing recent history, all that jazz.
I don't give a damn about anybody's opinion. I don't give a damn about anybody's prediction.
I do soak up the emotional hype. The intensity of an NFL playoff game. The do or die atmosphere. The assumed fanaticism of casual fans and even non-fans. The fact that everywhere you turn on TV, on the radio, in stores, on the road - you see GO PATS.
Bakeries baking PATS cookies and brownies and pies. PATS flags and balloons and gear in supermarkets. PATS flags on houses.
A bunch of guys came through the liquor store this week wearing PATS hats, jerseys, sweatshirts, jackets.
To the guys I know are true fans - through endless mini cash register conversations going back to training camp - to those guys I said "Go PATS." High fived a few.
I refused to say it to anybody who was an obvious band wagon rider.
Sorry - even a man like me with relaxed convictions has to stand for something once in a while.
No other sport carries with it the post season intensity that football does.
I love it.
I have strong feelings about today's game. I have even been throwing out a predicted score and outcome, something I never do.
I won't do that here.
My son Keith is quite superstitious, even more so than me. I cannot harsh his vibe with my expectations.
Here is the truly amusing thing about this post. When I watched the NFL network as I ate brunch before heading into HELL/The Asylum yesterday, they were covering the 2015 Hall of Fame nominations.
Going over the process, explaining how it works. The subjective nature of the beast pissed me off. That's what I came in here to write about.
Hence the title, which I have decided to go with.
But playoff fever swept me away. Came up and out of nowhere. The words pored out, my fingers flew and my thoughts were laid bare for all to see.
For a football fan the NFL playoffs are enormous in intensity, implication, and emotion. Sometimes you ride high all the way to the end. Sometimes you crash and get crushed along the way.
But either way you feel alive.
So fucking alive.
I'll talk about the Hall of Fame some other time.
Right now the only thing I give a damn about is PATS/ravens.
4:35.
Cannot get here fast enough.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)