Beer and football VII — week twelve

The game: Patriots at Jets
The beer: Two Roads Roadsmary's Baby Ale
The result: Win, 22–17; Seahawks/Jarrod lose, 14–5
The commentary: Fourteen to five? Five? In which our hero tests whether or not "There's nothing I can do about Russell Wilson having an off day" is a philosophy he still trusts. I am. Hard to believe I never used that "Big Road" joke when visiting the Jets.

Weep not for me! The thousand units would have come in handy, sure, but I remain several hundred in the black from my 2014 winnings. And the Giants won anyway. My exit handshake with the organizer yesterday allowed me the opportunity to suggest, subtly, that the "golden ticket" idea is going to backfire and some kind of playoff involvement (messy) or tiebreaker scenario will be necessary at or before week seventeen. As uninterested parties we threw out ideas and I liked a couple of his. The first, assuming multiple people survive the regular season, asks everyone to complete an NCAA-type bracket through to the Super Bowl victor with a point total. In the second, survivors choose two or more games in week seventeen, maybe with total-point or point-spread consideration. The former is the better idea and will probably succeed, though I offered a spin on the latter: put everyone's remaining teams in play on New Year's Day. Exciting! I like the added strategic element of people wanting to keep stronger teams (like the Seahawks, huh?) for that last week. Some games would sort of cancel each other out so let's award two points for a win and minus one for a loss or a tie—if I'd lasted, as things stand now, both sides of Baltimore at Cincinnati, Dallas at Philadelphia and others would be in play and I'd root for ties in each case to earn two points instead of one. Rooting for ties! I fucking love this idea. Enacting it and dissolving the golden ticket are my special-interest issues next season, if President Trump hasn't killed us all in the meantime.

Sunday afternoon my extended family celebrated my aunt's seventieth birthday. She suffers from Alzheimer's disease and it was the first time I'd seen her over the three years that the condition worsened—my mother has admitted to "protecting" me. The assisted living facility was a pleasant environment with a somewhat cheerful staff and it still reeked of the Springfield Retirement Home's desperation and malaise. The bathroom floor had only one smear of excrement that I noticed. Navigating the hallways was difficult and I'm guessing it was designed so. In order to leave you needed someone to unlock the door with a keycard like I have to do when I go to work. At work, a keycard lets in those of us who belong and keeps out those who don't. At my aunt's facility, if you can even find the exit, keycards similarly indicate who belongs and who does not.

There was no clamoring for the exit. It seemed to be one of those things the hovering residents recognized and understood but ignored like bad art. Instead, they wandered the halls, some in pairs, some with vigor, some beaming at your five-year-old daughter. Some wandered into the conference room where we celebrated and then they stood among us, like family, looking at what or whom everyone was looking at. Eventually someone would find them and escort them back outside. Outside the room, not outdoors. Maybe never outdoors. One of them must have found interest elsewhere. The other came back, and then again. Her hair was braided like Elsa's and she used a walker.

When it was time for cake, my aunt had to be reminded over and over to make a wish and blow out the candles, purely foreign concepts to her, and so she pointed at my cousin and said "She can wish, she looks like a good wisher." We were all pronouns because she didn't know our names or personalities or blood relation. We wished for her but insisted she blow out the candles, and though there weren't seventy she did fine. Except for the two candles she missed and forgot about, forgot why. My cousin took care of them. The heartbreak was ours but my aunt seemed happy. Leaving, I gave her a hug and said "I love you." She responded "Yes it is!"

Up next: Jeff Fischer continues to perfect the relationship between presumed extortion schemes and inevitable contract extensions. Cheers!