Beer and football III — weeks two and three

Week two
The game: Cardinals at Patriots
The beer: Cape Ann Shilling Scottish Ale
The result: Loss, 20–18
The commentary: I made a judgment call last season that "no picture of my little girl will accompany losses." Enough of that. One day (probably several days) down the road I'll look back on these posts to fondly recall the dynastic Tom Brady era and why should I deprive my future-self a weekly account of what G. looked like on particular Autumn Sundays? I won't hold it against the internet just because my team didn't show up.

And really, would it have been less shameful if Gostkowski made that field goal? They were atrocious all day. We were having lunch at the Cape Ann Brewery in Gloucester and G. was taking in the game from across the room, half-heartedly eating her waffle as she wondered why Belichick and McDaniels kept calling Woodhead's number on so many fruitless running plays. Her contempt was palpable and it was too bad she couldn't take the edge off with a smooth Scottish Ale. It was only four and a half percent so maybe she'd have handled it alright?

The scene was awfully familiar… and troubling. Two years ago during the inaugural season of "beer and football," A. and I watched the second game at a Block Island brewery and suffered the consequences. That loss hurt more (in New York against the Jets) and the major injury most likely did too (Kevin Faulk went on injured reserve after tearing his ACL; Aaron Hernandez will hopefully be back and fully recovered by Thanksgiving). Just a little strange is all.

Lastly, there was more Steve Burton-related hilarity leading up to the Cardinals game on Patriots All Access. He, Mike Reiss and Paul Perillo (two writers/talking heads I respect, which is the only reason I watch the segment every week) were guessing the outcome, with Reiss and Perillo taking the (common) view that it wouldn't be close—too many offensive and defensive mismatches in the Patriots' favor. (If I remember right, though, they did mention special teams as a potential factor.) Burton then gets the crazy eyes and the cockeyed grin and responds "…blah blah blah even I don't see the Cardinals winning." My man Perillo forgets for a second that he's not doing PFW in Progress and snaps at him "What do you mean, 'even you'"? It was awesome.

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Week three
The game: Patriots at Ravens
The beer: Rising Tide Daymark American Pale Ale
The result: Loss, 31–30
The commentary: Daymark. Marks your location. Where are we? I see something over yonder. It's the NFL schedule. It's week three and we just hung thirty points on the vaunted Ravens defense. In Baltimore. I think this offense will be alright and I pity the poor Bills today.

The defense though? Let's talk about the defense. Instead of getting anywhere near Joeflacco all night, the pash rush went to the Twin Pines Mall to steal an old man's DeLorean and travel back to last year… and the year before… and the year before. The Libyans! Joeflacco had all the time he needed to scan the field and find his man—his man being Devin McCourty, who just isn't an NFL cornerback at this point.

Meet the new boss. Despite the familiar (a relative term) outcome of the defense losing the game, Sunday was a thorough failure. Usually you can point to one level and consider that the line held up or the stud tight end was kept in check or something, even in anomalous losses against the Browns. (Stud Tight End now playing in back-alley theaters across the country.) This time? Ray Rice (line of scrimmage), Dennis Pitta (middle of the field), Anquan Boldin/Jacoby Jones (deep) and Torrey Smith (everywhere!) dictated the pace of the game, such that Brady & Co. had to play perfect football to make it close. When they succeed they usually win. Not this time.

Patriots Fifth Quarter, home of Steve Burton's Merry Band of Imbeciles, once again surprised no one with their postgame coverage. In between transparently subjective rants about how the replacement refs continually screwed over the good guys (even though I counted as many questionable calls that hurt the Ravens), they decided the weekly online poll should ask "Whose offensive performance surprised you the most: Lloyd's or Welker's?" instead of something at all relevant like "Which part of the defense lost this game: the line, the linebackers or the secondary?" I couldn't take it so I switched to channel 7, undoubtedly the most "tabloid" of the local stations, where ex-Patriot Jermaine Wiggins of all people soberly pointed out that the Ravens were making long gains all night and observed that settling for a field goal after Welker failed to score to open the fourth quarter may have been the turning point. (Incidentally, the Daymark at first poured as brightly as a thousand rays of true love before an opaque sludge revealed its unfiltered nature. Just like the course of the game.)

Earlier in the day we went to a one-year-old's birthday party. Children's parties are my future. Anyway, G. was once again the star of the show, looking sharp in her threads (pictured). Unfortunately the birthday boy (only three weeks younger than her) was as engaging as a shoebox full of irregular tube socks in comparison. At one point my girl was playing with an empty water bottle (genius behavior) and he finally showed a vague interest in his surroundings by grabbing for it. His uncle said "Uh-oh, he's gonna take it from her" and I knew he was mistaken, the kid didn't stand a chance. I was right, so someone sympathetically got him one of his own. Seconds later they had to move him away from her because she was about to have two water bottles. That's what they get for not serving beer.

Up next: Chandler Jones, meet Ryan Fitzpatrick. Tom Brady, meet five touchdowns. Cheers!