Beer and football IX — weeks sixteen and seventeen; playoffs, weeks one and two
Week sixteen
The game: Bills at Patriots
The beer: Revolution Fistmas Ale
The result: Win, 24–12
Week seventeen
The game: Jets at Patriots
The beer: Wachusett Bella Czech Pilsner
The result: Win, 38–3
Playoffs, week one (bye)
The beer: True North Northern Haze India Pale Ale
Playoffs, week two
The game: Chargers at Patriots
The beer: Devil's Purse Surfman's Check Extra Special Bitter
The result: Win, 41–28
The commentary: Scene from an orange Subaru en route to CCD two Sundays ago…
J: "Hey, there's football on today. Do you–"
G: "I love football!"
J: "I know! Do you want to watch a game with me later? It's not the Patriots, they're not playing this weekend, but it's still football."
G: "I think the Patriots are going to win the Super Bowl."
J: "I hope you're right! Anyway, today the Los Angeles Chargers are playing the Baltimore Ravens–"
G: "I always think they're called the 'Crows' or something."
J: "Right. Those are similar birds. So the Chargers are playing the Ravens and the winner of that game will play the Patriots next weekend, and the winner of that game will go to the Super Bowl. The Ravens will probably be wearing black or purple today and the Chargers will be in white. They have cool lightning bolts on their helmets."
G: "When's the Super Bowl?"
J: "It's in like three weeks."
G: "And the Patriots are in the Super Bowl?"
J: "Well, we'll see, right?"
And now today, snowed in—iced in, really—and hoping we don't lose power. I'm afraid to shovel because I know it will be solid, heavy cement, procrastination driven by the fact that I haven't posted in almost a month. "Are you still writing your newsletter?" asked Hector over his espresso martini—"The waitresses always say it's their favorite drink"—while Ivan adjusted his reading glasses and I considered a second double-possessive "Devil's Purse Surfman's Check ESB" at Tavern in the Square last Friday. Hector called it a newsletter because he's one of the old men who once asked if there was a way to read my posts over email (subscribe yourself at right). "Not so much," I replied without elaborating: Trout Mask Replica did indeed wipe me out and, frankly, I'm capable of proper NFL analysis only when breaking down knockout-pool performances week to week. Otherwise it's all "This defense sucks" and "We are nothing without Brady." Who wants to read that? Who wants to read any of this? There's reason number three.
This afternoon, once I invent a chainsaw that can be used on frozen-over snow, I will sit down with G. (more or less) and watch several hours of excellent football. I'll root for the Saints ("the black team") though the Rams are fine too, with old friend Aqib Talib fucking up live television around the world—I wouldn't mind seeing him win another ring. Brandin Cooks, too. The Saints, though, there's this thing between them and the Pats as we take turns butting heads with the league and following achievement with arrogance (sort of backwards). They're a likable team of talented young players and veterans, top-tier fans and a lovely city that serves as the "before" picture to projectile-vomiting's "after." Who dat? Oh god, it's Rob Schneider.
And the second game? And the second game! I bought a Mean Old Tom stout and just discovered via the archives that I drank one last January. Drag. "Man, 'Mean Old Tom'? 'Mean Old Tom… Brady'? Next week's post writes itself!" Instead I'll return south of the border for a second Mexican stout of the season (the first turned out OK) that I found in my basement beer fridge the other night. It's from Clown Shoes and their season-opening entry also put one in the win column. Which reminds me, I have eight months to find a good diary-related remark to use for volume X of "beer and football" if I'm to continue next season, which is no guarantee. "The mirror tells me lies," lifted from Ozzy's "Diary of a Madman," was the ace in my pocket, the one to use after checking off several better ideas:
"What more is there that I can be?" (Franz Ferdinand's "Your Diary" from the B-side of You Could Have It So Much Better's lead single "Do You Want To")
"With a renewed vigor and enthusiasm not seen by many" (Black Flag's "Hollywood Diary" from Family Man)
"You know, he shaves his eyebrows" (the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion's extended hidden-track "Tour Diary" hodgepodge from Experimental Remixes)
"I chewed my fuckin' arm off and made an escape" (another "Diary of a Madman," this time from the Gravediggaz's 6 Feet Deep)
"The trick today will be to try to affect fate's great wheel" (Ian Svenonius as David Candy in "Diary of a Genius" from Play Power)
"It's not a diary, Norm, it's a journal" (a defensive Cliff Clavin, possibly misquoted, from (superior) late-era Cheers)
That's quite a list, following two years of generic "A seventeen-week diary (and hopefully longer)" and "Another season-long diary." Am I up to the challenge? Surely Ty Segall or back-to-back champion John Dwyer will include the word "diary" in one of the dozens of songs they each release this year. My inter-net future depends on it.
This post is already much longer than anticipated since the opening dialogue was to be all of it. I really do not want to go outside. And so: Pats–Chiefs preview.
In rewatching week six's game on the NFL Network last night I was surprised to see the Pats up by so much in the first half, assuming it was tight all the way through. Nope! For that reason I can see two results later today: Belichick and McDaniels trying again to go up early and—this time—never letting up, or Andy Reid and his crew deciding to fuck this and let Mahomes do his thing. The second option scares the shit out of me because, yes, this defense sucks. The first, though, can work: the opening, clock-killing drive against the Chargers last weekend was beautiful and if they can maintain that and keep the Chiefs defense on the field then I like our chances, either in touchdown-plus domination or (Reid)-clock-mismanagement squeaker. Otherwise, if Mahomes puts together The Best of Patrick Mahomes… So Far, I'm sorry to say it will be over early. Gilmore, Hightower and who else? Shudder.
No matter what, eight straight AFC championships is exactly as absurd as it sounds. And don't count them out next year, either, like you can maybe count out "beer and football" sans a good diary-related lyric. With Brady go all in a weak AFC East. Imagine if they really did film those practices? (Oh, Eric Dickerson, adjust your goggles!)
Up next: With Edelman likely neutralized I'm looking to James White, Sony Michel and Chris Hogan's cloak of invisibility to carry the load. But if melting snow and neutralizing a big freeze is your bag then anticipate a Gronk touchdown to close things out. See you in Atlanta? Happy (belated) new year!
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