Beer and football V — playoffs, week four (bye)

The beer: Jack's Abby Smoke and Dagger Black Lager
The commentary: I liked what I did lo, these many years ago (three), one beer to one player. Berkshire Saint of Circumstance India Pale Ale is Tom Brady? Of course! Symmetry is an admirable life goal. But it's been done—it's been done!—and I'm just too tired this time. A favorite team's consistent success in spite of officious nitpickers will wear on a man. So read that one again, you like it so much—the "debased ethnic whore" joke still holds up. Blogging is in.

We are twenty-odd hours from the Super Bowl and it somehow hasn't sunk in. Minute-long media cycles will also wear on a man. "Belichick's press conference on Saturday was the largest middle finger Roger Goodell has ever had up his ass." Not so fast, Monsieur Biffington! "Unconditionally." "My guys." "Driven by media leaks." "Apologize." "I am disappointed in the way this entire matter has been handled and reported upon." Ladies and gentlemen, the owner of your New England Patriots. Goodell won't shit right for a week.

Kraft is right. How is this the biggest NFL story this year? More "real" news coverage than the league's response to video evidence of Ray Rice cold-cocking his fiancée, more sports headlines than two number-one seeds meeting in what is amounting to a fifty-fifty game for the ages (on paper). Almost two weeks later it's still leading the news, dragging in other non-stories like LeGarrette Blount "orchestrating his release from the Steelers in order to return to Foxborough" and "someone keeps pulling fire alarms at the Patriots' hotel." Tom Brady is looking to win his fourth Super Bowl title and solidify his position as the greatest quarterback of all time. The Seahawks are looking to be the first repeat champion in ten years on the road to becoming the dynasty of the decade. Gronkowski, Revis, Wilfork, Edelman, Vollmer, Ninkovich… Sherman, Lynch, Chancellor, Bennett, Thomas, Wilson… position to position, the best players from both teams could probably compete with the best players from the rest of the league. But fuck it, let's all talk about inflation levels. (Nah.)

During the NFC Championship I couldn't decide whom I wanted to win. (I completed the puzzle during the game, by the way.) Potent offense? All-star defense? All-start defense plus aggressive offense? Erm, go Packers! Oh well. The Seahawks do scare me because no one saw last year's Broncos getting blown off the field. Scoring early will be important for each team and whoever wins the battles over the first couple of possessions in each half will probably carry it. The game should be close—high-scoring favors the good guys, I think, and low-scoring favors the Hawks. We are left with questions:

How will Seattle defend Gronkowski?

How will New England contain Lynch?

Which is the bigger weakness: Seattle's offensive line or New England's pass rush?

Will Brady avoid Sherman's side of the field?

Will Revis follow a particular receiver?

Did Belichick squander the (illegal?) Solder play against an unworthy opponent?

Will Carroll instruct "Inject this between your toes"?

Will special teams be a factor?

I don't remember how I'd felt about an actual Xs-and-Os matchup before Super Bowl XXXIX. I was ten for XX against the Bears and, in retrospect, it's clear the team and the region understood that "squishing the fish" was our Super Bowl. Sure, I wore my powder-blue BERRY THE BEARS T-shirt like every other kid in school. But I didn't understand that Tony Eason. (That sentence did not end prematurely.)

I followed the team all through college and celebrated Parcells and Bledsoe as saviors of a pathetic franchise even as I don't remember much about the run-up to XXXI against the Packers. Too much beer, weed and Blues Explosion to have been surprised either way. Fucking Dave Meggett though.

XXXVI, as detailed here, came out of nowhere and I don't remember being overly engaged—even as I watched every game—until the Snow Bowl (watched at Hector's parents' house atop a snow-covered, slippery suburban hill). I will never forget that game or the treacherous conditions to get home afterward. A week later while driving to Bradley Airport and listening to the radio broadcast I cheered as Bledsoe saved our asses in whiny Pittsburgh. But the Rams? The heavily favored Rams? Who knows? Hector and his wife hosted a party at his house and it was all happening (Bill Simmons was right: this victory made anything possible). I held Ivan's infant daughter during U2's 9/11 performance as every other guy ogled the Victoria's Secret Halftime Show in the other room and A. still sulked the entire evening because I let a "Woo-hoo!" slip during a shot of the cheerleaders—she has since apologized for almost spoiling the victory for me. Yes, Vinatieri should have been MVP. Yes, I went to the parade.

When the Pats missed the playoffs the following year I assumed (as a half-assed fan of a fair-weather variety) that the ride was over. I had my T-shirt. A. and I watched the Buccaneers throttle the Raiders at an empty (due to snow) Johnny D's in Somerville over margaritas before driving back to my bullshit sales job the following day. (Oh Suzy Spivey, how your patronizing bullshit nearly ruined me. Fact: you are the worst boss I ever had.) A year later, on Super Bowl Sunday, A. and I moved in together in Cambridge—our (my) priority was to set up the TV and the couch (Comcast had already been arranged), to call in a pie from Harvard House of Pizza and to find a good spot for Steve to settle in with us. The fourth quarter of that game is where it was at (I watched a highlight package in the last couple of years and I'd forgotten how sloppy a game it had been)—the Snow Bowl was the first step but I was neck deep after XXXVIII.

Clock-Killin' Corey Dillon was aboard to repeat. I'll put the 2004/2005 Patriots against anyone—thanks to Freddie "Eleven Yards" Mitchell, this was the first time I reveled in the hype leading up to the big game. Down to Hector's house again (I should call him) during another snowstorm for the divisional round game against the Colts. Fully submerged. Another night I will remember fondly for as long as I'm able. I was nervous against the Steelers and my dad said "Really?" Once more to Hector's for a XXXIX party. I genuinely admired Terrell Owens's effort and lost all respect for Donovan McNabb (and Andy Reid) from that day on. Compared to every Super Bowl since, even ones the Patriots haven't participated in, I'm amazed at how minimally engaged I was throughout. I spoke intelligently as a fan and didn't miss a play but I didn't live and die by any of it. Tomorrow I will record the game, re-watch big plays, explain things to A. and G. as they happen (then rewind to make sure I missed nothing), restrain myself from outbursts (positive or negative) once G. goes to bed… and delete that shit as fast as possible should the Seahawks win.

Let's keep going. (Do we have to?) In 2007 I was not only submerged but pushed out the other side. Win after win—I couldn't get enough coverage. I devoured Mike Reiss's coverage and analysis. I searched iTunes for a Patriots podcast and found PFW in Progress, of which I've been a fan ever since (Mike Reiss, too). When A. and I attended the Thanksgiving weekend game against the Eagles (thanks to my brother- and sister-in-law) I didn't think twice about how difficult a victory it was—indeed, the season was never again easy or automatic. Confidence reigned—the Friday before XLII I left work with a friend and we discussed the parade, which would (ahem) swing by the office on Tuesday. I told her "I can't wait to get my '19–0' shirt." And then. Sitting on the same couch we moved in with, I hung my head and told A. "It's over" when Burress caught the touchdown over Hobbs. I turned it off, all of it, before the '72 Dolphins made an appearance. I mourn what never was.

Four years later against the same goddamn Giants, documented here as the first Super Bowl of my beer-and-football saga, I was only slightly less confident. Days before I reasoned "I think the Patriots take six out of ten games against these Giants, and since they've already lost to them once this season the odds of winning in Indy increase to sixty-seven percent." (I guess it's seventy-five percent now. Drag.) As with 18–1, I was never comfortable on my (new) couch: it's all there in that March 2012 post. I try to be efficient with my words and that second paragraph is among the best things I've written. What's left out is that, having become a father, I wasn't as crushed. My team lost, it sucked and I probably didn't sleep too well. But my little girl was asleep in her new crib and maybe she needs to be tucked in a little better. Change all those instances of "With time" at the beginning to "With G." and you get the idea.

And now? NFL Pickwatch, collating "expert" predictions across all media outlets, is essentially split down the middle. For the first time ever I am not as optimistic. The Pats will need some quick first downs with short passes and long runs to build an early lead, then open up the field and see just how healthy the secondary really is. Otherwise, Lynch and Wilson will do what they do and control the clock knowing theirs is the kind of defense that gives Brady and his O-line fits. Will Brady succumb to pressure or will he get the ball out quickly in spite of it? Will Seattle shut down the play-action or be made to respect the run? More goddamn questions.

Gronk and Blount are the keys to this game. If those matchups don't pan out in our favor then it will be tough to overcome. 21–20, bad guys.

(Danilchuk Auto Body though? They're feeling pretty good. Maybe they're right.)

Up next: XLIX. Go Pats!