Beer and football V — playoffs, week threeAFC Championship

The game: Colts at Patriots
The beer: Mystic Descendant Suffolk Dark Ale
The result: Win, 45–7
The commentary: It went down as it was supposed to… and then some. Luck forced a couple of throws that, as against Denver, went the other way. What say you, Mike Wells of ESPN Indianapolis? Did these amount to "basically punts" as well? That is the rosiest of rosy assessments, and I live in Homer-ville USA.

Especially now. The fake Patriots fans who couldn't name their backup quarterback (well, until this year) are all "Witch hunt! Witch hunt! Everyone does it! Pink locker rooms! Deer antler spray! Um, videotaping!" Somebody did something. It probably wasn't Belichick. It probably wasn't Brady directly but I'm guessing he's behind it. Maybe it really was the conditions (though it was mild that night). Big deal. Belichick's press conference on Saturday was the largest middle finger Roger Goodell has ever had up his ass. Almost everybody (aside from the homers and a few non-retards—like me—who are wondering where is all this proof against the team) is criticizing Belichick's role in society as not a scientist. Fuck them. Bring on the Seahawks.

Up next: A bye week full of several thousand more ball jokes. Cheers!

Beer and football V — playoffs, week two

The game: Ravens at Patriots
The beer: Slumbrew My Better Half Imperial Cream Ale
The result: Win, 35–31
The commentary: The divisional-round game was the first this season that I watched live all the way through. G. cooperated with some rare nap action and then mama was kind enough to give her dinner. We then promised to begin Tangled after the game. Bless them both for tolerating my paternal selfishness.

The cream ale, purchased in Salem (and producing the non-answer "I don't like cream ales" when I asked the clerk if he'd tried it), was unopened until the second half. As much as I needed that beer, that imperial beer, I just couldn't leave the living room—I feared my legs would give out. Having an actual halftime, due to said real-time viewing, allowed me to decompress after the Ravens took a two-touchdown lead, the Pats tied it and then an awful Brady interception led directly to an end-of-half shitstorm. As I've told myself so many times this season, these past several seasons, we were lucky to only be down by (x) and Brady could still win this. (But Christ, imagine if either of Amendola's or Edelman's fumbles hadn't been recovered? If neither had? No chance.)

The cream ale was smooth and didn't make me too swimmy—that dude should give it a chance because we're not talking about Genesee here—but did help take the edge off when the Pats were suddenly down by two touchdowns again. So much for the improved defense? And then beautiful things started happening: the multiple first-down conversions, the eligibility misdirections, Gronk, the double pass, McCourty's (unfulfilled) interception, the crowd. (Seriously, the crowd! It had to have been every single person who was there for AFC Championship against the Ravens three years ago because that's the last outstanding Gillette crowd I remember.) (Also, look at G. then! I was half drunk on Double Old Thumper and thought it would be a great idea to assemble her crib/toddler bed. Which is still standing, by the way.) (And what is it with Ravens players and coaches not understanding football?) Patrick Chung's sterling pass defense Owen Daniels's appalling drop in the end zone. Brandon LaFell's Randy Moss impression, clutching the ball at the last second. Duron Harmon's (!) near-game-ending interception.

Near-game-ending interception. I thought it was over… but look! NBC's poorly designed timeout indicator called bullshit on that. The imperial-ness prevented me from determining if a called timeout prevents the clock from expiring. Cursed math. Would time remain? Were the refs getting anxious about not calling pass interference all quarter? How long would G. be able to hold out? Pajamas were donned, teeth were brushed, mouth was thumbed (how we didn't get scolded by her dentist last week is beyond me). Rapunzel's hair was getting longer by the minute.

Opinions vary around here. Did Belichick mismanage the clock? Hard to say since I don't know what the alternative could have been. Should McDaniels have called actual running plays from their own twenty? Given the backs' lack of success that evening I'm not sure it would have eaten up much more time. (And as the PFW in Progress guys pointed out, they were ice cold and probably not reliable at that point.) Should Danny Aiken have snapped it through the end zone on fourth down for a safety? That crossed my mind but Torrey Smith, Joeflacco and Justin Tucker made me nervous. Everything turned out alright and the good guys won, but it does feel like the hail Mary scenario was somehow avoidable. (Andy Reid and Mike Smith are sitting in a bar somewhere still wondering why Belichick didn't call timeout himself.)

McCourty's volleyball spike (though Gronk was initially credited) sealed it. Fourth straight AFC Championship. Is this the year? I'm set to drink another bomber tomorrow and that's all I can ask. Were I to be so bold I'd say I know which six-pack to break up during the bye week because it's already in the fridge as part of some Christmas generosity (I tend to drink twelve-ouncers or pints as my "beer of the week" during a bye; even week ten's Samuel Smith (shudder) was "only" an imperial pint). And then there were one, an electric brew to which I will run for miles and seek sanctuary. Got that?

Grown-up puzzle anecdote: A. and I bought a cute thousand-piece puzzle with a festive theme for our guests to work on Christmas day. We got the idea when everyone kept gathering around one on Thanksgiving at the in-laws'. Turns out we didn't need a social crutch and forgot all about it. Drag. So New Year's Eve, the two of us sat down (at our new dining table) to start and complete the border. Well done! That's half the battle so let's keep this go– Babe? Where are you? Um. So… I've been the only one working on it ever since and I'm now fifty or so pieces from finishing. It's too bad I'm a team of one but I do find it soothing to focus on the task. It's easy to ignore all around you such as a dirty litter box or a seven-point halftime deficit. Hand me a glass of wine (or a cream ale, apparently) and I haven't a care in the world… unless Logan Ryan gets called for interference. Can't promise the holiday village square or the new table would have survived.

Adorable puzzle anecdote: The other night I was "helping" G. with a new fairy princess puzzle she got for Christmas. She worked her way down from the top (no edge- and corner-seeking for her) and as she was trying to cram one portion of a castle spire onto a cluster I thought to be totally unrelated I gave her a "Hmm, I'm not sure that goes there, hon." Ignoring me, she turned it ninety degrees and dropped it where it belonged. I was so happy and proud I exclaimed "Wow, you made it fit!" and she responded "That's because I'm magic!" followed, before I could say it myself, by "You're so cute!" She is just It.

Up next: LeGarrette Blount and Jonas Gray run all over Indy's defense. Coby Fleener and Dwayne Allen return the favor. Rob Gronkowski is the difference. Cheers!

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

The beer: Berkshire Raspberry Barleywine-Style Ale Henniker Working Man's Porter
The commentary: It came during the bye week so the media didn't pick up on it, but after five (regular) beer-and-football seasons I finally called an audible. The BBC barleywine was a gift to the Christmas hosts and I cracked it open Saturday night while coming to terms with the Ravens defeat of the Steelers. It poured an odd pinkish orange that made me cringe.

I tried to keep an open mind after the first sip but I still had like twenty-one ounces left. Could I handle it? A. sometimes likes fruity beers, could she even handle it? Probably not. Drag. Instead of re-capping it like Ty Webb ("Whoa!") and re-gifting it to someone with a better appreciation I dumped it down the drain. What a waste. What an asshole.

It's all for the best. After my date with the sink and the recycling bin there were two bombers, one ongoing football weekend and an additional guaranteed football weekend for me and the Patriots. Had the barleywine qualified for the bye I would have had a bomber each for the divisional round and the presumed conference championship. Was I so bold? Didn't this almost happen last year? No thanks, just drink the damn porter. If/when the good guys win—and I expect them to in a close one—I'll buy a single bomber next week. In this scenario, should they defeat the Broncos or the suddenly sexy-pick Colts next Sunday, I'll buy two more to fill out the season. The one reserved for XLIX is the same stout I talked about a year ago—it's sort of a package deal and I look forward to writing about it. Unless Brady and company get rolled by the Seahawks. Then I'll just bitch about my smartphone or something.

Up next: The Ravens try to beat the Patriots at home for the fifteenth straight time, apparently. I don't know, I'm almost convinced. Cheers!

Beer and football V — weeks sixteen and seventeen

Week sixteen
The game: Patriots at Jets
The beer: Stone Coffee Milk Stout
The result: Win, 17–16
The commentary: It's rarely easy with these teams. I spelled it out after the Pats won in October's first meeting, and adding this one to the pile the Pats come out three cumulative points ahead from 2013 to 2014. Three wins, one loss… three points! I still don't know what happened with that fourth-quarter "first down" by Amendola. Rex Ryan thought he was short and challenged the spot… why? It is fourth down, stupid! Oh. Oh? Weird sequence, with vague officiating and confused broadcasters keeping it foggy. I wonder what will become of this generally competitive rivalry should Ryan be shown the door.

The stout was purchased at a charming local shop we like to support. Unfortunately I'm pretty sure it was skunked because it had that essence of temperature/storage/sea-level fluctuations my in-laws favor with the Sam Adams they buy for me whenever we visit still stock after buying a case for me three years ago. The dusty bottle and general desperation as the lone stout in the fridge—behind several new arrivals—was a sign unto me that I ignored. Even A. was unimpressed, and she goes batshit over coffee-flavored stouts and porters. What a woman!

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Week seventeen
The game: Bills at Patriots
The beer: Wachusett Winter Ale
The result: Loss, 17–9
The commentary: We hosted nine family members for Christmas. It was the first time we formally hosted a dinner party, formally hosted a exo-July holiday party (we used to rage on the fourth: Guitar Hero, pounds of shrimp and giant bottles of Evan Williams with which to spike one's Coke for the walk to beachfront fireworks), formally or otherwise cooked anything resembling an actual turkey (do two bone-in breast-meat carcasses count?), etc. My homemade stuffing was popular but a little too sweet for me because of the apples—I decided against adding onions because I thought they would make it too greasy but I should have tossed in a few tablespoons. Garlic too. The chili (merry Christmas?) was also popular as it should have been because it's fucking delicious.

The day was a total success, and not only because of all the wine everyone brought. G. was a star and it's amazing how patient she was while A. and I assured her "Honey, we have to wait to open presents" while scrambling to get everything ready. I woke up around six because I'd never gotten around to making the stuffing the night before (following an adorable ride home with G. on the train) and I was concerned with how long it would hog the oven—the oven that so desperately needed to begin cooking the birds as soon as possible. Preparation took three times longer than it needed to, as always, because I'm not very coordinated in the kitchen and we have deceptively little counter space.

Next were the potatoes, which would take four hours in the slow cooker. No way I synch everything up correctly but fuck it, no one would care. They would have been happy with frozen pizza if it came down to it so long as they got to watch G. work on puzzles and dance around, often at the same time. Hours and hours of my award-winning Christmas playlist would fill in any lulls. There were none.

The main course went in a little later than I wanted, even after cutting few available corners with the herb butter. Those extra minutes counted though since I wasn't convinced they were fully thawed out after forty-eight hours in the fridge—the huge chunks of ice I removed from the cavities were one indication. Shit. Panic? Nah. Frozen pizza would be done in half an hour. After a spell of wondering where to put all the wine (a great holiday problem) and if the meatballs were hot enough (ditto) I called my dad into the kitchen to see what he thought about the turkeys. I mean, they looked like turkeys, but what do I know? "Probably going to be awhile," said without the least bit of skepticism or concern. Not the news I was hoping for, though the delivery was appreciated. (Anyone for pizza?) We opened another couple of the Wachusett Winters he brought, which are actually defined as Scotch ales on the label. I almost bought some myself but feared it wouldn't be crowd-friendly if it leaned more toward the overly spiced Harpoon seasonal and away from the wonderfully restrained Sam Adams one, and so got an IPA and a smoked black lager (crowd-friendly?) instead. But. The Wachusett is one of the best new beers I've tried in a long time. With all the beer we still have it's graduated to an elite drink-everything-else-first-and-save-these-for-later tier reserved for only the best. Another great holiday problem. Anyway, the turkeys turned out nicely. They popped about when I was hoping and probably could have cooked another hour but that's the takeaway. Next year's will be better. And so will the stuffing.

What's that you say? The Bills won at the Big Razor for the first time ever? You must be kidding. See you in the playoffs.

Up next: Re-watching the first season of Dexter because A. and I only ever saw the edited episodes on CBS. It's fun to root for a consistently good team. Happy new year!

Beer and football V — week fifteen

The game: Dolphins at Patriots
The beer: Northampton Humbug Ale
The result: Win, 41–13; Natalie, 4–2–1
The commentary: Nine o'clock: I knew something was wrong when I queued up Patriots Game Day, which I only record for its three-minute segment with Mike Reiss. "OK, fast-forward through this Steve Burton crap. Fast-forward through Dan Roche's fantasy crap." Hey, why is the screen black? Why isn't the little progress tracker moving? Oh no. The game. The game! Black. None more black. This has happened in the past when shows mysteriously would seem to record—they would be listed right there alongside The Simpsons and six-month-old documentaries on Penn Station, they would take up space on the DVR drive, but "playing" them resulted in the void. "At least it wasn't the Pats game," I would tell a nonexistent Keith Morrison. "I can live without your carnage."

Not this time. All day we're running around, eating breakfast, shopping for Christmas (we're hosting for the first time ever), avoiding the news. (Yes, it's also a matter of time until my media blackouts are sabotaged during a self-imposed eight-hour game delay.) After trying to skip ahead, rewind, delete, restore, restart… the so-called recording was only watchable in some alternate reality. I deleted it for good, pouted for a few minutes, watched the rest of Friday's Patriots All Access (fast-forwarding through Scott Zolak and Christian Fauria's "Teaching U Repressed Homosexual Tension" crap) and resigned myself to the fact that I would not make it to Solution (x) without learning what happened. Out comes the phone and the score reveals itself, a twenty-eight point hat-and-T-shirt victory by the good guys. Great! Rats!

I then set about ways to watch the game and found that the best option—and the lone legal one—was to sign up for a free trial week of NFL Rewind on NFL.com. The rub was that no week fifteen games would be made available until the primetime game was over, which meant Patriots–Dolphins would be my own non-Saints, non-Bears Monday Night Football affair. I'll take it. Until then, I could boost my spirits with the knowledge that the Chiefs had won earlier, and I would have taken them had I not already won my knockout pool. It felt significant as I collected the lone deadbeat's forty-five units yesterday. Meanwhile, my "week sixteen pick" Eagles lost to the Redskins today. I am now properly motivated to win again next year.

Monday night—Monday Night—I navigated an unusually seizure-inducing NFL app interface on my dusty Xbox 360 (because it wasn't available to stream on our Roku) (because… why exactly?) and eventually figured out how to use the controller as a remote control. It was awkward all around but the quality was decent, and I could appreciate how beneficial the package would be to someone who wants to watch a bunch of out-of-market games each week. People without jobs. Just remind me to cancel by Sunday night.

I knew of the game's ups and downs from skimming Monday's headlines and understood the first half would be ugly. I'd already seen highlights of Collins's field goal block and Harmon's interception and was curious how I'd have felt were I watching live. Likely, outside of fifty–fifty hindsight, it would have been one of those where I'd felt comfortable up by a point at halftime after the way they were playing. I wouldn't have guessed they'd turn it around so thoroughly in the third quarter—I know nothing about football—but some improvement had to be expected. This felt like a playoff game, even if it was played against the opposite of a playoff contender. Can Brady play this way for two quarters against the Ravens or the Broncos and expect to win? I'm not sure. But I don't rule it out.

Survivor XXIX was a good season. Even Logan Ryan doesn't create as many opportunities for me to yell at the television as Survivor or Project Runway. (Also-Rans finale coming soon!) Oh, Natalie. I'm impressed by her win but she maybe (maybe not) made it harder than it needed to be. Two weeks ago when Jon won immunity, she decided against (and, onscreen, never considered) voting out Jaclyn in order to cripple him. Pardon me? She then excellently knocked him out the following week and was lucky to have the opportunity. Wednesday night, Keith wins immunity so she masterminds Missy's Baylor's exit, which is a brilliant strategic startling mindfuck maneuver. I'm not sure Baylor would have gotten a single vote in the end, even from her mom. After that—knowing Jaclyn really had no chance to win—she had to choose between Keith (who, it turns out, would have won had Natalie taken him) and Missy (who A. and I grossly overrated as someone people would vote for) instead of Keith and Baylor, which would have been a no-brainer. Oh well. She won and she deserved to, but probably could have used less antiperspirant if it were her, Jaclyn and Baylor in front of the audience. I know nothing about Nicaragua-based reality television competition. And Alec knows nothing about breathing through his nose.

On Saturday we drove to Northampton to get dinner at the Brewery, sell more CDs at Turn It Up and, apparently, buy a pink and purple stuffed kitten before heading to "Bright Nights at Forest Park" in Springfield, by some accounts the most depressed city in the country. I printed a coupon and everything. We hit traffic within a quarter mile of exiting 91 and, despite G's pure rage, turned around to go home, offering vague promises of returning by year end (probably the weekend after Christmas). On that note of disappointment, in between last week's company Christmas party at the InterContinental Vagina and next week's acronym subset one at a Mexican joint—and in honor of new family member "Spotty Kitty"—I present 2014's playlist to enjoy while trying to pry your wife and daughter out of Thorne's Marketplace. Set it to repeat for as long as necessary.

1. Lightnin' Hopkins – Santa
On my iPod I break Christmas songs into three playlists: "Christmas," appropriate for family events with Perry Como, Jimmy Smith and friends; "Xmas," introducing newer pop stuff like Belle & Sebastian and Yo La Tengo that A. and even G. would enjoy; and "Xmas Blues," of which around fifty percent is blues, twenty is soul/funk, fifteen is punk/metal, ten is rap and five is psychedelic (only because there isn't that much out there).

2. Kenny Burrell – The Little Drummer Boy
It was this or Beck's "The Little Drum Machine Boy," up there with "In a Cold-Ass Fashion" from the Jabberjaw series as one of his great unknown contributions to Western culture. Burrell's brass punctuations in the last forty seconds won over the Youth Percussion judging panel.

3. Bing Crosby – Looks Like a Cold, Cold Winter
I heard this in Crate & Barrel the other day while browsing the cutlery section. I am forty years old.

4. George Harrison – Skiing
Presented as "Ski-ing" on 1968's Wonderwall Music sleeve but that looks odd. Trust me, George, to understand that "the act of traveling over snow on skis as sport or recreation" is not pronounced skeeeng. Featuring a soon-to-be-irrelevant Eric Clapton.

5. Vashti Bunyan/Twice As Much – Coldest Night of the Year
Sound Opinions aired its annual Andy Cirzan holiday playlist last week a good fifteen days after I downloaded "Coldest Night of the Year" from the Some Things Just Stick in Your Mind compilation. I guess you don't have to dig through dusty Alabama record bins for everything.

Up next: Thee Geno Smith. Merry Christmas!

Beer and football V — weeks thirteen and fourteen

Week thirteen
The game: Patriots at Packers
The beer: Smuttynose S'muttonator Double Bock Lager
The result: Loss, 26–21; Colts win, 49–27
The commentary: Super Bowl preview? Perhaps. I'm curious how this game would have turned out on a neutral field, but the Packers played better than any Wisconsin advantage provided. I never understood the Aaron Rodgers mystique and, as an infrequent viewer, had a hard time believing he belonged on a tier with Brady and Manning (even though he was throwing sixty-yard touchdowns whenever I did tune in). I get it now. He's probably still a prick but watching him buy time, scramble and hit his receivers in the hands was something to watch… until reaching the red zone, that is. That's why I hope it really was a Glendale preview.

I thought I'd sewn it up with the Colts. I didn't know until afterward but Bruno went bold with the Rams over the Raiders in a game that might have meant something in 1983. I admire his strategy of saving stronger teams for when you really need them but does he realize there are only four weeks left in the regular season? Ask me next week.

I snagged the Smuttynose while shopping for clementines and gingerbread muffins to bring to G's preschool on Monday as part of my "parent of the day" duties. I really didn't know what to expect with the bock after a college run-in with a blue-bottled Samuel Adams Triple scarred my gag reflex (though their Chili Bock was a hit three seasons ago) but A. and I agree it was fantastic. Should this "Super Bowl preview" be realized I might heavy-handedly compare the S'muttonator to Brady, Gronkowski or Revis during the bye week à la 2011/2012. My reader (!) can hope.

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Week fourteen
The game: Patriots at Chargers
The beer: Victory Headwaters Pale Ale
The result: Win, 23–14; Lions/Jarrod win, 34–17
The commentary: "Lions for the win." So I stated in my email to the knockout pool… commissioner?… on Thursday, cautiously optimistic that I'd be the last man standing by Sunday evening. Never mind that I'd also emailed "Colts for the win" seething pure arrogance the Thursday before. Who cares, because this time I was right: after the Lions' performance against the Patriots two weeks ago scared me off of picking them against the Bears on Thanksgiving, that performance (and the overall ugliness of the Buccaneers since, oh, 2002) told me it was time.

And Bruno? And Bruno! Bruno, who never took the Patriots or the Ravens. (Or the Cowboys, whom I don't trust either.) Bruno, who didn't realize that the 49ers almost broke up my marriage two weeks ago, didn't sweat like I did while following their typographic progress on a five-inch screen. As much as I know I got away with something in choosing Ryan Fitzpatrick in week one (and as much as I would still take the Bengals over the Bears last season) I realize it will only lead you so far. After the Texans? Patriots, Saints, Chargers, Packers, etc. All teams that were expected to win handily, even the then-winless (and now hopeless) Saints, without crippling me as the season progressed. Bruno started off poorly with the Bucs losing at home to the Panthers, then bought back in for an opportunity to suss out the first of three total Redskin wins this season. OK. Since then he and I basically shuffled the same teams—even lining up in weeks four, five, nine, ten and eleven—and followed the same philosophy of playoff contenders against weak opponents (I went against the Redskins and the Vikings three times each) through November. So what happened?

As noted above, Bruno picked the Rams last week. I compare it to when the Pats are first and goal at the two after a big play and McDaniels outsmarts himself by hurrying Brady to the line before the defense is set so he can hand off to Shane Vereen for minus one yard. You got this far, why turn cute? Why not continue what's worked? It reeked of him saving his best options for a late-December showdown that, it turns out, is never to be. On to Sunday: the 49ers haven't scored more than seventeen points in a month and topped that (with twenty-four) once since mid-October. Not researching this trend two weeks ago was my fault and it almost cost me, but I was looking more at a terrible opponent (Redskins) flying across the country. If that game were available on Sunday, knowing what I knew the morning after I would have steered clear without temptation. Not Bruno. Not coming off a blowout, shutout win a week earlier by a sparky basement-dweller against… hey, it's the Raiders again! Niners all the way!

Who am I to criticize a man's methods when they line my undefeated wallet with hundreds of units? Especially after I learned he was also considering the (hopeless) Saints. It's like he grew bored of stress-free winning. See you next year, Bruno. See everyone next year, since the Bears—the Bears!—knocked out four of you idiots. (Sorry to break it to you, dude who lost with the Bears in week one and then bought back in to get knocked out by the Bucs in week two, but you suck at this. Maybe save your dough for pornography or something.) Incidentally, I was planning to take the Chiefs over the Raiders, the visiting Eagles over the Redskins and (probably) the Falcons over the Panthers to close out the season if necessary. It's not. You're goddamn right.

Up next: The Dolphins solidify their standing as a mediocre team by keeping things interesting in Foxborough long enough for writers to declare them a team to watch in the playoffs… until they get blown the fuck out at home against the Vikings next weekend. Cheers!

Beer and football V — week twelve

The game: Lions at Patriots
The beer: Lagunitas Imperial Red Ale
The result: Win, 34–9; 49ers win, 17–13
The commentary: The world will surely end if the 49ers and the Steelers meet in the Super Bowl. The last two weeks all I needed was for each of them to win a single game and, taking advantage of my being limited to "TheScore" app, I was pushed to levels of panic unrealized since that time I did a one-eighty on Storrow Drive during a snowstorm. On Sunday I felt like an addict trying to distract myself from what my body craved, and that was for the game to end. Just end! Win or lose, just end! I washed the dishes and didn't allow myself to check the fourth-quarter score until they were done. I prepped the chili ingredients for Monday's potluck and couldn't peek until everything was ready to go. Deep breaths as I measured out the ground cumin (greatest smell in the world). With six minutes remaining and the Redskins up by a field goal I went into my daughter's room for bedtime with the Redskins up by a field goal. I told A. "My team is close to losing" and she almost cried. In September I spent twenty bucks for what's turned into three months (so far) of a little extra NFL enjoyment—the substantial pot felt like it was slipping away but it wasn't our mortgage payment, G's savings. It wasn't even beer money. Is this what degenerate gamblers go through daily? How are these people still alive?

After my cue to exit—curse a man's milk-less body—I took my Steve mug of coffee into the living room to relax on the couch and refresh my phone once per minute. Once. By this time the Niners had scored and were up four points—of course they didn't make it easy and gave the Redskins two more chances in the remaining three minutes. I wasn't too worried with Griffin being forced to throw but still… Kaepernick and friends can't advance a single first down on that twenty-eight-second drive? Twenty-eight seconds! Had 'em all the way.

My workplace opponent, whom I'll call Bruno since this might go on awhile, had a much easier time of it as the Eagles soared (har! har!) past the very same Titans who pushed us (we've picked the same outcome five times out of twelve so far) to the limit nine days ago. Joke's on him though: I still have the Eagles and he still has the Niners. Despite the scare I'm leaning toward the Redskins losing again this weekend, this time in Indy to the Colts. If every stray dog's worst nightmare can get a quick lead I'll be all set. The Colts were an option against the Jaguars on Sunday—who isn't?—but I deliberately kept them in my pocket for the following week because Bruno wasted them in week three. (I had the now four-win Saints. Burn.) As I refer to my tidy spreadsheet I see he's in a bit of a tough spot: if I were in his shoes, with his options, the only team I'd be comfortable with is the somewhat shaky Ravens hosting the Chargers. Maybe the Chiefs hosting the Broncos? The Giants in Jacksonville? Yikes. This could be my week.

Until Sunday night (the Pats game was a primetime affair for me) I considered the Lions hosting the Bears on Thanksgiving. We'll be in Connecticut and the TV will be on—I insist—so why not make it interesting? Oh, the Lions are why not. Fuck Dominic Raiola. (The awkward conversation with my father-in-law about why I brought my own beer when he has skunky, year-old Sam Adams in the fridge will be interesting enough.) In lieu of sitting on a couch on a beautiful afternoon (welcome to New England) we found a lovely playground and adjoining field in Beverly where I broke out the easiest-to-fly kite ever invented. If there's a lick of wind you take one step and it's airborne—even a three-year-old can do it and then run around like a crazy person because she doesn't understand physics. "Honey, run that way! Don't run toward the kite. Or… yeah, you're OK." It was worth the eight bucks. I was surprised by how many fathers were also enjoying a Pats-less couple of hours, particularly the one wearing a mark-two number eight-four Deion Branch jersey. I'm surprised G. didn't fight him for it, as Branch was once her favorite player. I don't know who it is now. I'll have to ask.

After making chili and setting it to slow-cook for six hours I finally turned the game on around nine. Any minimal worry over a scrappy Lions team was quickly erased as the night wore on and the red ale transformed to yellow pee. I fell asleep in the middle of the fourth quarter, woke up in time for Blount's second touchdown (this benching might be the best thing that could have happened to Jonas Gray) and promptly fell asleep again. Finishing Monday night, I couldn't remember ever seeing a losing team kneel on the ball to end a game. That's what this season is becoming around here.

Up next: Yeah, some of you ever been up to Wisconsin, they got a lotta cheeeese. Happy Thanksgiving!

Beer and football V — week eleven

The game: Patriots at Colts
The beer: Evil Twin Ashtray Heart Smoked Imperial Stout
The result: Win, 42–20; Steelers win, 27–24
The commentary: "And then there were two." So it goes as two more knock themselves out, including the Denver Cheater, who "actually" picked Baltimore last week. Right. The other lone survivor (?) also gnawed at his fingernails over a nerve-racking Steelers win in Tennessee. We downgraded our cable package to save a few bucks and no longer have ESPN as a result (what the fuck am I going to do on draft night?) so I was following along on my phone's "TheScore" app. Why is it called "TheScore"? Don't they know it gets sorted under T instead of S in the app drawer? These are the problems Android developers create for themselves.

Vibrate! Vibrate! Vibrate! all in a row during the second and third quarters signaled field goal, touchdown, touchdown for the Titans. PFW was high on Zach Mettenberger going into this year's draft and I was afraid the game was validating them with each passing minute. Did I really make myself wait until Monday so I could put my faith in a serial rapist? After San Francisco and Kansas City, two teams I considered, had won the day before? (Buffalo, Cleveland and Washington—Buffalo, Cleveland and Washington—not so much.) I was resigned to losing. A. was pissed because I'd gone undefeated so far, whereas everyone else bought back in at least once. "It isn't fair!" Two more vibrations settled the mounting tension and I showed her the three-point differential: "Final score." I fear she has already spent the money.

It's good to see Sergio Brown hasn't changed from his time in New England. For two seasons I progressively referred to him as a disappointment who celebrated accidental success, made Patrick Chung look like a superstar and teamed up with Brandon Meriweather to form an ongoing nightmare. I'll take Gronk's fifteen yards all day. And oh yeah: Jonas Gray. Four touchdowns, two hundred yards, countless "Fifty Shades of Gray" headlines and the cover of Sports Illustrated. (Sports Illustrated is still around? I will forever treasure its 1990 caption of Steffi Graf "aiming her décolletage lensward." Lensward!) Nowhere to go but up for him, right? Belichick might want to keep LeGarrette Blount's number handy.

On Saturday evening we drove up to the Anchorage by the Sea in Ogunquit after buying a Groupon voucher… for the Anchorage Inn in York. Whoops. Luckily it wasn't Bar Harbor. We made the most of our eight-mile assumptive error (A. and I have stayed at Ogunquit's Anchorage a number of times—including one weekend a few years ago when G. was likely conceived (!)—and when we saw a deal for "the Anchorage" in "Maine" we never considered there might be another. Drag. After a demoralizing conversation with the front desk we decided to continue a little farther out of our way north toward Federal Jack's again for dinner while A. looked up nearby alternatives that might satisfy a cranky three-year-old. She hit on Féile Restaurant and Pub in Wells: good reviews, impressive beer selection and a decent children's menu? Six miles closer (so, twelve) to where we were actually staying? Let's try it. Oh good, G. soaked through her pull-up.

Once that was squared away we chose the happening pub space over the lifeless proper dining room and it was the right choice. For example, did you know that Féile is Irish for "country/western theme night"? We settled into a roomy booth next to a lovely older couple who heroically tolerated/encouraged G's post-nap craziness, A. ordered a glass of wine and I got the above-mentioned stout, which was delicious despite what I suspect was a dirty tap line. My fried haddock was alright once I got through all the fried—I had to wash it down with more beer, so I ordered a Green Flash Cedar Plank Pale Ale. Another triumph! I love a beer menu that lists a bunch of stuff I've never heard of and then groups Coors Light, Michelob Ultra, etc. under the heading "The Usual Suspects." Two dudes strolled in just before we left and weren't having it when the waitress suggested Harp, a lager I've always favored. "Bud Light bottle." "Me too." Is it Friday already?

Up next: The Lions pack themselves into a 98 Olds for a pre-holiday road trip to Foxborough. Please keep Ndamukong Suh away from Brady's and Gronkowski's knees. Cheers!

Beer and football V — week ten (bye)

The beer: Samuel Smith Organic Chocolate Stout
The result: Seahawks win, 38–17
The commentary: "What can happen?" So I asked as I considered the Samuel Smith on the shelf. The stout and a six-pack of Founders Porter accompanied me to the car when it hit me that Rob Gronkowski was on the professional athlete version of Spring break and, yes, anything could happen. Would the Samuel Smith Curse (broken—temporarily?—last September) cripple the midseason MVP? Later, when I cracked it open during the Seahawks–Giants game—my Seahawks–Giants game—I realized "Oh no."

The first half did nothing to ease my anxiety but that passed once Marshawn Lynch started pulverizing the Giants' spirit in the second. I don't think they can back into the playoffs, finally turn it on and give me sleepless nights wondering "What if…" again this February. There is hope.

Controversy! It looks like someone in my knockout pool chose Denver for a second time. No. Am I the only one who maintains a detailed spreadsheet to keep track of what I pick, what everyone picks, week after week? Attention to detail, folks: my greatest contribution to mankind. Excluding this cheater/dead head (whether on purpose or not, Denver is about the least likely team to scheme "No one will notice" or assume "Probably haven't picked them yet") there are three of us remaining. Not that I have great options this weekend: Buffalo or Miami? Ugh. Cleveland? Washington? Cleveland? Washington?? Not-Chicago? Pittsburgh after last week? "I'm scared to death to pick against the Jets until they win again." Maybe I do know something about football after all. Ask me Tuesday morning.

Up next: Shit, maybe I'll just pick the Pats again. Cheers!

Beer and football V — week nine

The game: Broncos at Patriots
The beer: Port Board Meeting Brown Ale
The result: Win, 43–21; Bengals win, 33–23
The commentary: In my inaugural beer-and-football diary I brought up Peyton Manning's penchant for not removing his helmet during post-loss handshakes. I have come to admire Manning over the years and I find this to be his one evident character flaw—as a fan of a team whose coach once ran off the field during the Super Bowl before time had expired I know what a sore loser looks like. Once again, there he is out in the middle of Gillette Stadium shaking hands with Malcolm Butler while doing his best sad-LaDainian-Tomlinson impression. Can one of his dozen handlers please point this out to him sometime?

Anyone who says he saw a twenty-two-point victory coming is lying—the Broncos were favored and they should have been, even in Foxborough. But those people calling PFW in Progress afterward saying "I knew it, I told you!" without explaining how or why (as my man Paul Perillo criticized) can eat a bowl of dick up. Back in 2001, while slumming in the college publishing world, I attended a sales meeting in San Francisco before the football season started. The Pats were coming off five wins the year before (ex-Browns coach Bill Belichick's first, after Pete Carroll wasted a talented core of Patriots for three years), Drew Bledsoe was slipping into iffy territory and the local media were apoplectic that Richard Seymour was the team's first-round pick. Fan morale was low, expectations were nil and Carl Everett was probably hogging all the headlines. I was chatting with a Massachusetts colleague one morning and, as every year, he proclaimed "You watch, the Pay-tree-itz are winning the Super Bowl." Sure, man. How? The question wasn't asked because the notion was ridiculous and I probably rolled my eyes, wondering if there was a toaster around.

Given the opportunity to respond? What might a keen, informed fan have answered? "Well, Drew Bledsoe threw fifty-eight interceptions over the last three years, and if he starts slowly then Tom Brady might take over in a matter of weeks. He's a better quarterback, on paper, for Charlie Weis's system anyway." To which I, and everyone around, would have said "Who the hell is Tom Brady?" No one—media, fans, blowhards—said "Bledsoe is the only thing keeping this team from winning it all." When he went down in week two, no one said "Now's the time!" No one predicted that Brady would do well "filling in" and then Bledsoe wouldn't regain his job. No one knew the Patriots would be champions. Just like no one knew the Broncos would get blown out Sunday night. (Until halftime, at least.) The ones pretending they did are either blind homers or cynical radio personalities setting up a gleeful postmortem should the team fail to win it all for the tenth straight season.

Another top beer, another knockout-pool victory. Survive and advance. You bet your ass I was afraid to pick the Bengals but almost everyone else (four of the remaining five) did too. Five days later they let Brian Hoyer and friends do the opposite of everything the Browns have accomplished since 2010. Thank god I can't touch this team anymore.

I don't feel great about my Seahawks pick tomorrow. Historically, the Giants are one of those teams (Dolphins, Steelers, Niners, et al) that looks like it could win anywhere between six and twelve games in a season. What pushed me over the edge—beside the fact that the Eagles (hosting the Panthers: I'm too impatient to wait until Monday) and the Steelers (in Jersey against the Jets: I'm scared to death to pick against the Jets until they win again) were my only other realistic options remaining—is that the Seahawks must feel the need to prove themselves after a disappointing first half of the season. Right? Brother Eli probably feels he has to prove something too and that means hucking the ball downfield every other down—against this secondary, in Seattle, I favor the home team. It's unfortunate that I know nothing about football.

Happy Halloween! Like nine out of ten girls her age, G. went as a princess this year.

Her scepter lights up whenever it's struck against a hard surface like the couch or my skull. We trick-or-treated for a good ninety minutes and that meant the five bags of candy A. bought in a moment of lunacy went undented. My waistline and complexion will make the ultimate sacrifice. G. is pretty psyched though, especially once you pile on the bounty she took home.

After watching a retarded (inferred) pedestrian wear all black, walk out in the middle of the road and get hit by a car moving ten miles per hour, we detoured into a charming, tucked-away little neighborhood. All the residents were sitting on their front porches, greeting kids with smiles and endearing questions (one older woman couldn't get over G's curls), beaming with pride over their themed holiday displays (pictured). Polar opposite of the darkened porch at our house. By the time we got back with a half hour of official Halloween remaining we received all of two children—five pieces each, and you know they'll be back next year. Bring your friends!

Lastly, here's our rainy-day princess frolicking around some furniture at the mall. A. and I were snapping pictures as she protested "Stop looking through my window!" This was during our wait for the family bathroom to become vacant so G. could use the potty. The lone middle-aged man who eventually showed himself (after several flushes) had dropped a giant, stinking shit bomb on the entire zip code. Happy Halloween, you monster you. Let's find another bathroom.

Up next: The bye weekend marks the end of my love affair with The Wire, six years late, as I watch the closing episodes of its fifth and final season. Shiiit. Cheers!