(Millar’s just showin’ some love.)
Since I spent all of yesterday in a fevered state, you’ll forgive me if I haven’t quite grasped the fact that the Patriots actually beat the “best team in football” San Diego Chargers and have advanced to the AFC Championship game next weekend vs. the Colts in Indianapolis.
Frankly, I was prepared to lose this game. I didn’t want to, obviously, and I firmly believed that if anyone had a shot against San Diego, it was the Pats. But I thought they were going to have to play absolutely flawless football. Turns out, not so much. Brady threw three picks, the team couldn’t buy yards and it seemed, for a while there, like LT and his homeboys were just gonna run away with it. And then, something happened. Something that, I swear, only happens to the Patriots of late. Maybe it’s Belichick. Maybe it’s Brady. More than likely it’s a combination of the two as well as a team full of extensively prepared players who didn’t feel like playing golf just yet. But somehow, things went the Pats’ way and they were the ones left standing at the end of the game. Bloodied and bruised and sore, no doubt, but standing. And good for them. I am proud of my boys. They did it without any bullshit calls in their favor and through sheer force of will, it seemed. But they still did it. And that’s what counts.
For the record, I don’t want to go into the whole LT is pissed about the dancing or the whatevercakes except to say three things. Thing one: If you don’t want a sack or touchdown dance mocked, don’t create one to begin with. Thing two: perhaps you shouldn’t talk mountains of shit BEFORE the game (and also probably you shouldn’t take steroids but hey, who cares about that, right?). And thing three: Next time, win, and you won’t have these problems.
So because I’ve spent most of the day fielding roughly sixty-nine million text messages from people wondering if I’m still breathing or if I swallowed my tongue when the refs ruled on that interception-turned fumble recovery-turned first down, I’ve been wandering around in much of a haze and occasionally going, “Wait. How the HELL did we win that football game?” I’m still not sure. So I took solace in Imaginary World, as I am wont to do. Today, Imaginary Football and Imaginary Baseball World met and craziness reigned supreme.
“You know what one of the best things about the Pats winning yesterday was?” I said to Marianne, apropos of absolutely nothing.
“Um, the fact that you get so see Tom Brady on TV for another week and you want to have ten million of his babies?”
“Point, yes,” I said, “But that’s not what I was thinking.”
“The fact that there’s now a chance that someone will forcibly remove Peyton Manning’s head from his body and parade it around after the game, thus earning the ire of Tomlinson who obviously has an opinion about this?”
“Hee, that would also be awesome. But no.” I said.
“Okay, shoot,” Marianne said.
“I love that you just know that Theo was totally fucking stoked about it.”
“Oh my god,” Marianne said, “Of course he is.”
“He’s all calling up his friends from his days in San Diego and shit talking them.”
“He’s so hungover right now,” Marianne theorized, “He’s all walking around his house in his ‘Risky Business’ flannel and boxers with a backwards Patriots hat and air guitarring to ‘Welcome to the Jungle.'”
“Dude,” Marianne said, “There is little to no chance that he didn’t drunk dial Belichick after the game last night.”
“He so did,” I said, “He totally called him and was all ‘DOOD! You are the fuckin’ MAN!'”
“He’s all, ‘Bro, no, for real, d’yawanna coach the Red Sox?'”
“No, I know we got Tito and all but like, if he dies or sumthin’ d’you wanna coach?'”
Marianne kept going, “Because you know he thinks that Tito is totally paying for that World Series with his life, slowly, and eventually, he’ll be just a head in a jar, sitting on the bench and yelling at Manny to keep the fingerpaints in the clubhouse.”
“Which is clearly where Belichick comes in,” I said.
“Clearly,” Marianne agreed.
“Theo totally wants to be Tom Brady’s best friend.” I said.
“I’ll bet he calls him, or like, almost calls him, he’ll dial all but the last number,” Marianne said, “and then he’ll get all nervous and hang up.”
“Like, ‘What am I gonna say to Tom Brady?'” I said, “He’s Tom Brady. He’s like, woah.”
“And then eventually he calls him, like ostensibly to tell him congratulations or something, from one winner to another, but he’s kind of nervous.”
“Because he forgets that Brady is a giant dork.” Marianne said.
“Exactly,” I said, “And they end up talking about ‘Star Wars’ or whether ‘Crash’ or ‘Before These Crowded Streets’ was a better Dave Matthews Band album.”
“Absolutely,” Marianne said.
“I love Imaginary Theo World.” I said.
“Me too,” Marianne replied, “It might be my favorite of all the Imaginary worlds.”
“Doesn’t hurt that Tom Brady hangs out there,” I said.
“And there’s a rockin’ soundtrack,” Marianne said, while throwing rock horns.
So…yeah, we lead rich inner lives. That, and I might still be running a fever.