Football = Good, Baseball = Bad

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Len Pasquerelli’s column on today is titled “We should know better than to make the Pats mad.” Truer words, Len, truer words.

Anyone else care to comment? LaDanian, perhaps? Because seriously, you do not want to make Belichick angry. Without Rodney Harrison spouting his usual, “We get no respect. You talk shit, you get hit” mantra, Belichick and his team have seemingly spent an entire week quietly seething and looking for someone to smack around. Luckily for New England fans, San Diego was only too happy to oblige.

I’m not gonna lie, I was nervous about this game. Or perhaps “terrified” is the right word. The way I figured it, if the Pats won, they could definitively say, “Look, the league is watching us like a hawk, all of our i’s are dotted and our t’s are crossed. Everything is copacetic. Nothing untoward is going down. We’re on the straight and narrow here. And still, we beat a pretty good football team. So there. Neener, neener!” Of course, had the Pats lost, we were likely in for endless “So they can’t win without cheating” stories, bullshit though that is. Frankly, I’m just glad that everyone can shut the hell up for a while.

Because 38-14 is definitive. Especially definitive considering the defense is still operating without Harrison and Seymour. But Adalius Thomas will do nicely, thanks.

Plus, you done went and made Tommy mad. And when Tommy gets mad, Tommy gets even. Sure, he may look pretty in a wet t-shirt or cuddling a goat or escorting supermodels to fancy parties, but Tom Brady is a tough bastard. And he is still pissed off about that sixth round draft pick thing and he doesn’t plan on letting you forget it.

So there you have it, San Diego is the latest team to attempt to pysch the Patriots out before the game even happened. They are also the latest team to fail. And you know what? I would have loved it if every single member of the team and coaching staff had run out onto the field at the end of the game and mocked Shawn Merriman’s sack dance. But they’re all classier than me. And they prefer to do their talking on the scoreboard.

As for the baseball, weirdly, the loss didn’t hurt as much as the errant peanut projectile I took to the face. Seriously, people, stop throwing shit in the bleachers. You might accidentally wing a Sox fan who’ll spend the next day with a fat lip while explaining to people that she honestly didn’t do anything to deserve it despite the fact that she spent a Yankees/Sox game in the bleachers muttering uncharitable things about Giambi’s mother and Derek Jeter’s ballet background.

I think perhaps I was too preoccupied with the Pats game that I was attempting to pretend wasn’t happening to really get too terribly upset about things. I mean, it’s not like we didn’t try. We certainly did. But here’s the thing. I am tired, like, completely and utterly exhausted with the whole hating the Yankees thing. Now, don’t get me wrong. I still hate them. A lot. Fire of a thousand exploding suns and what have you. But it is physically exhausting expending the energy necessary to work up the requisite level of hatred for the bleachers at Fenway. Not to mention that I’d spent a weekend drinking my weight in beer in New York and taking shit for being a Pats fan from a Mets fan on the New York Subway DESPITE THE FACT that I was being perfectly nice and even wearing a Mets shirt. I’m just saying, yesterday sort of felt like it happened in a haze for me. I know only that the Pats won, the Sox lost and my cat, Rocky Dave Roberts Markakat, was evidently so glad to see me return that he’d left me a present in the form of a dead mouse in my shoe. Very thoughtful.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go sleep under my desk, dreaming of Adalius Thomas interceptions.


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