Beer and football VI — training camp/the all-important third preseason game

The beer: Samuel Adams Rebel India Pale Ale/Dogfish Head Indian Brown Ale
The commentary: Welcome back! Is your favorite team the reigning Super Bowl Champion? Is your favorite team-oriented podcast making "Highway to L" jokes? Has your daughter not yet outgrown her team apparel from two years ago?

I'll keep this short with kickoff a week away. Training camp was all sunshine again as my dad met G. and me in the shadow of the Dana-Farber Empower Field House. To celebrate the Pats' fourth title, I will limit each photo caption to four words.

Imminent Super Bowl letdown?

Forget that, let's roll!

Again! Again! Again! Again!

Let me get that.

Is Joe Flacco elite?

Neat flowers. I'm hungry.

Dessert? Tuck in, then!

I impress even myself.

The practice session was tough to make out from afar, though my dad and I agreed that Gronk looks enormous from any distance, like he's fifty feet closer than anyone else. One drill seemed to focus on blocking field goals, to the point where either Gostkowski was deliberately kicking them low or Jabaal Sheard's blocker was deliberately letting him through the line. He looked like Lawrence Taylor out there. Hey, I'm just impressed my dad recognized who it was before I did. Who's the reader-less blogger in this family?

The above dessert was enjoyed at Gillette Stadium's Red Robin. I always thought it was a take-out burger joint but it also doubles as the only affordable restaurant within the Kraft Kompound (last year's Olive Garden and its authentic, straight-from-Palermo cuisine was a tad overpriced). To my surprise they had a decent beer selection (the Rebel IPA is nice), red balloons that hold their helium for days and weekend dads at the next table who put their phones down long enough to order a Whales Tale and then revert to Coors Light when the waitress says they've run out. The pro shop set me back a few bucks once G. spotted new family member "Huggle Buggle Bear," a hot pink bear in a Pats shirt that has already been stripped off. It was inevitable. I'm still looking for the simple "XXXVI XXXVIII XXXIX XLIX" shirt the waitress was wearing. Drag. Hey, speaking of shirts, PFW in Progress is jerking us around by claiming to choose from submitted designs for a shirt of their own. Here's my entry, followed soon by one that reads "Hey Fred, how's that bullshit shirt contest coming along?"

I impress even myself. I remember nothing of the all-important third preseason game. Do I ever? I am, however, fully aware that I have a four-year-old daughter and we rented ponies for her backyard birthday party. "That's a high bar," I told our friends who also have a four-year-old daughter.

Honest-to-god ponies! The novelty of a proper backyard at our new house, as opposed to our previous strips of lawn that were significant enough only to mow, may never wear off.

Bow and hat? Indeed!

Was it worth it?

Yes. (But never again.)

Up next: Tom Fucking Brady. Cheers!