Beer and football VII — week seven

The game: Patriots at Steelers
The beer: Mayflower Daily Ration Session India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 27–16; Packers win, 26–10
The commentary: "You stink. You stink. You stink!" Brandon Bolden, the special-teams ace who knocked a punted ball from the six yard line into the end zone for a touchback, did not earn my respect by dropping a key third-down pass that my five-year-old daughter could have caught with her feet. Marcus Cannon, Jonathan Freeny, Bolden… what do they have on Belichick? And can Trey Flowers and Anthony Johnson get in on it? I just want to know if they're any good.

Had the Steelers won then Bolden's drop would have been the turning point, though Julian Edelman had a bad one as well. The Pats never had a firm grip on the game and looked iffy for three hours, magnifying how spoiled we fans are in showing concern over twenty-seven points scored. I don't care what the statistics show, I'm never comfortable when Belichick is pitted against a rookie or little-seen quarterback—the game plan against Roethlisberger would have been more sophisticated so why not stick with that against an inferior quarterback? I know nothing about football.

Commuting this week, I twice sat near someone who got on the wrong train. It happens, though somehow not to me yet. Sure, I once drunkenly mistimed my destination by one stop after a Christmas party and plain "slept" through it last September but at least I got on the right trains each time. After work every night I confirm the correct track number up to six times—six!—to ensure I'm heading home and not elsewhere: on the display at the entrance to North Station, on the big board inside the station, on another display at the door leading to the platform and, assuming Sir Lord Baltimore or Thee Oh Sees aren't blocking out the world, by listening to recorded announcements inside the station and aboard the train as well as proclamations by several conductors. If I end up in Concord or Winchester then it's my own fault.

Even so, I should never make it that far before realizing my mistake. A few minutes from departure the tracks split in all directions, particularly my line along the coast. Do I see, you know, the Atlantic Ocean? Are the Mystic River locks on the left (good) or the right (bad), or are they nowhere at all (awful)? Nighttime is difficult but the new parking garage, the wind turbine, Costco? It's all lit up! We're not in Littleton gloom.

Monday night, in the middle of the (quite lovely) conservation marshes leading up to River Works in Revere, with North Station twenty minutes behind us, the first woman only then realized her error and called some poor sucker in Haverhill (her actual destination) to pick her up in Newburyport without considering an alternative. And Wednesday, here we go again with another woman bound for the elusive Haverhill, wondering with a conductor's (lack of) help what was the most default option. I'd stick to bottled water at home, ladies.

I like to think I'm a problem solver. One of four caster snaps off the rolling clothes hamper? Wrap the bolt in plumber's tape and zip-tie the shit out of it. My daughter throws up all over the front of my jacket? Soak it in vinegar for an hour to get the smell out before washing. Renaming beer-and-football posts with Roman numerals breaks a bunch of links? Set aside a half hour here and there to comb through my blog and fix everything to keep my reader (!) happy. Got on the wrong fucking train even though a blind ape could have managed OK? Well, maybe I don't have to put anyone out. Maybe doubling back to North Station is a waste of time. Maps… taxis… Uber… maybe Melrose Highlands is only eight miles from Lynn. Maybe Malden Center is four from Chelsea. Maybe you'll catch the last ten minutes of Dynasty.

Up next: Richie Incognito blames the tablets and a lack of stomped balls after his team loses by thirty. Cheers!