Beer and football VII — playoffs, week fiveSuper Bowl LIPart 1 of 1: Now he has his revenge

The game: Patriots vs. Falcons
The beer: SingleCut Heavy Boots of Lead Imperial Stout
The result: Win, 34–28
The commentary: Need I add the "OT" designation to the score above? Is any reader (!) unaware of the game's epic? Nah. Even local guinea pig Rosie Posie knows what's up and she's continually dipped in chocolate and peanut butter.

Dreams of another split session, as with two parts of jazz-and-football discourse, seemed inevitable until two thousand something words about Black Sabbath loomed as preposterous. I'll save it for the playlist in a few weeks. Instead, knowing what I—and you—do about twenty-five-point deficits, Dont'a Hightower strip-sacks, James White heroics and premature Boston Globe headlines, and in honor of "live-blogging" a past event with no mystery as to its sexy results: here we go again. The entire game, without skipping commercials as I did that Sunday, undoubtedly (somewhat) riding the same highs and lows as missed opportunities and calamitous roadblocks produced an impossible outcome.

Meanwhile, here's my prescient daughter again in case you missed her original appearance in the draft post. Three Super Bowl appearances and two victories in her short life so far. I see a lifetime of "Remember when?" conversations as future Patriots lose in humiliating fashion to teams from Mexico, England and Germany. Fuck that, let's live in the present (minus several weeks) for the next few hours. It is early evening on February 5, 2017.

[Edit: I'll re-watch Sound FX, Turning Point and Inside the NFL as well and supplement with a few observations here and there, e.g., "I caught it! I caught it! I caught it!" Look for this extra bullshit in brackets or something. I'll also obtain another SingleCut from the town culinary shop and pour myself a glass as I wrap up this multiple-thousand-word madness—its "super complex richness" will transport me via a great magnetic field to Super Bowl Sunday's state of mind. Lastly, I somehow failed to take any pictures of G. that glorious weekend, so I'll pepper in a few good ones since then. If Andrew Loog Oldham can insert random shots of "the Stones in concert" while detailing the legal complications of Immediate Records in his Stone Free then I can do the same, though mine will surely end with less distasteful and bitter envy. On the contrary: huzzah!]

6:31
After watching a promo for MasterChef Junior, a.k.a. Heck's Kitchen, and imagining what value there is in a censored Gordon Ramsay, Joe Buck welcomes us with "Thank you for watching the Ford Pre-Kick show," as if I held onto that recording for these purposes.

[Matthew Slater's pep talk to Dion Lewis ("traded, cut"), White ("couldn't even get on the field your rookie year"), Danny Amendola ("walk-on"), Julian Edelman ("no position") and Patrick Chung ("had to go to another team, come back") is must-see TV. "Remember the journey, fellas. It all led to this."]

6:32
George and Barbara Bush come on for the coin flip. I'll fast-forward through this bit since it was awkward enough the first time. In our former president's defense, referee Carl Cheffers did ask him to "toss" the coin, not flip it, and that's about what happened.

6:33
Don't worry, everyone will be back for a proper flip in a few hours. Stick with it, Slater: tails never fails but heads never deads!

6:35
Great start to the commercials with all of Ford's getting-stuck scenarios. Who knew Nina Simone would one day try to sell me a car? This might be the high point since it was supposedly a bad batch this year.

6:36
Montage time brings the fucking Tyree catch. Thanks. I can stomach the Favre and Fridge celebrations but not Tyree, never Tyree. At least Fox had the decency to end with Belichick and his father getting a Gatorade bath after winning XXXIX.

6:37
"And now it's time to play football." Without lows there are no highs so I will not skip the bad parts. And I will not keep up this minute-to-minute pace.

6:39
LeGarrette Blount not converting on third and one on the first drive is the reason he's still a free agent. Eighteen touchdowns can be spread over several running backs who will probably average more than three point nine yards per carry. Also: welcome to stardom, Deion Jones!

6:41
That Devonta Freeman run to open the Falcons' offense stirred up memories of the evil Ray Rice start to Ravens–Pats in the 2009/2010 wild-card round. Beer-and-football, thankfully, was not yet conceived. "Inconceivable!" The first… three-fifths?… of this one will play out the same way.

6:47
Second drive, first play, failed jet sweep. Reeking of desperation early.

[Sound FX: Edelman acknowledges sound defensive coverage with "Hey! Hey! Gimme the flag! He hit me out of bounds!" He has a point but would you give him the benefit of the doubt after that display?]

6:48
"It's Edelman or Amendola, two little (whiiite!) guys."

6:50
"Pass was behind but caught by James (whiiite!)!" Oh wait.

6:51
The replay shows how Shaq Mason was sinfully overpowered by Courtney Upshaw on that sack. Sheesh. Falcons with good pressure as this "improved offensive line" has its worst game of the year.

6:52
It's unreal how Brady manages to hang onto to the ball every damn time when sacked from behind. Deflategate II!

6:55
Hasn't H&R Block seen Black Mirror?

7:00
"Oil explores space." Nice try, American Petroleum Institute. I await your inevitable eco-crisis.

7:04
Seven straight Super Bowls with the Pats scoring zero points in the first quarter. I'll take it.

7:05
Nice Brady commercial for Intel, taking a magazine into the bathroom. So far it, Nina Simone and subliminal John Lovitz are in the lead.

7:06
Meanwhile, how do these no-budget, cheesy-ass Toyota commercials afford anything approaching a Super Bowl, let alone last into this century? Those mouse clicks!

7:08
Blount's fumble is a killer. Reason number two if he's not back. Highlight number two from Deion Jones.

[Belichick: "Fuck."]

7:10
"If that's a Buick then my kid's Cam Newton." 2015 or 2016 version?

7:12
After those two amazing catches it's hard to believe Julio Jones only had two targets—and catches—for the rest of the game. Unless you're Dan Quinn or Kyle Shanahan.

[Matt Ryan to Jones: "Great hands on that drift, dog." You think?]

7:16
Touchdown Atlanta. Freeman was untouched after taking the ball at the ten. The defense looks gassed and that's after a timeout. 7–0.

7:19
Good to see Mark Wahlberg's shameful attempts to get pardoned over his hate-crime conviction aren't standing in the way of making shitty sequels to shitty movies. Or selling bad hamburgers. Or ditching historic football games early.

7:24
Oh yeah, the new 24 started. I got a few episodes in before tiring of the whole wait-a-week-until-the-next-episode quaintness so I'm letting them (and now Better Call Saul) pile up while blasting through the quite excellent Black Orphan on Amazon. Here's hoping for a spinoff starring Alison and Felix with frequent appearances by Vic and Donnie.

7:25
Julio Goddamn Jones. Falcons in total control.

7:27
"Falcons are easily inside field goal range for the big-legged kicker Matt Bryant." Har! Har! Touchdown number two.

7:28
Another perfectly executed leap by Shea McClellin over the guard to block the point-after but it draws a flag. Belichick woke up this morning still upset about the call. 14–0.

[Jones and Mohamed Sanu (Sr.): "They tryin' to two-man me." "I know!" "They can't do nothin' with me." "Nope."]

7:29
"He's the fucking guard!" Live television rules.

[Blount to Lewis on the sideline: "That's what opened the floodgates really, bro. I put that shit on the ground." He'll get no argument from me.]

7:31
"I love you, halftime bathroom break. But sometimes you stink." Buschhhhh.

7:32
"The Atlanta Falcons lead by fourteen. It's the largest deficit in a Brady–Belichick Super Bowl for the Patriots as they play in their seventh together."

7:35
Dwight Freeney's "patented spin move" is negated by a holding penalty. Remember a couple of years ago when Nate Solder tried to counteract Freeney's spin move with one of his own? Doesn't he know what "patented" means"? More importantly, doesn't he understand why offensive linemen aren't known for spin moves? Hall-of-famers, practice squad scrubs, it's universal!

7:40
Let's start taking pictures of the TV. Remember XLIX?

7:41
Bad game for Blount. He's close to getting benched. Flags are the only thing keeping this ugly drive alive and so they're advancing. Until…

[A wise, insolent Sanu to Jones on the bench: "We about to get a pick though. We about to get a pick though. We about to get a pick though." Jones responds with the most genteel handshake in sports.]

7:44
"A BITTER END." Awesome pick-six by Robert Alford no matter the outcome. We get our first shot of Arthur Blank, in the luxury box for now. 21–0.

[Crazy-Eyes Scott Zolak, Patriots radio color analyst: "Starin' him down, tryin' to stick it into Amendola. No chance." Captain Hightower on the bench, responding to unwelcome optimism: "We ain't alright! We're not alright!"]

7:45
This game should be over. But who's the dour gentleman?

7:52
A gift from the heavens as Martellus Bennett hauls in a dead duck ripe for picking and gains fifteen and a new set of downs. Is this the first of a thousand impossible plays without which the comeback would have fallen short?

[Sanu and Taylor Gabriel: "Ain't never met nothin' like us." "That's Tom Brady over there."]

7:59
A bad Bennett hold doesn't detract from hints of White's dynamic play to come. I and many others thought he'd be cut in the preseason, despite Patriots Football Weekly's still-vague defense of his play in last year's AFC Championship unpleasantness against the Broncos.

8:01
Good guys on the board! 21–3. Eighteen-point lead got nothin'.

8:06
This Lady Gaga commercial confuses me. She's an artistic rebel who challenges the status quo by shopping at Tiffany's? Stop explaining how outrageous you are. Stop it! "You're born knowing that Tiffany's is, like, the best." I may have inserted the "like" there but is she thirteen years old? Also, if there's anything more insufferable than a Patriots fan blogging about yet another Super Bowl win then it's someone—celebrity or otherwise—talking about how he or she grew up in New York City.

8:10
Beautiful commercial for… 84 Lumber? OK. But not compelling enough for me to jump online and "view the conclusion." Who does that? Proof that advertising is altogether silly.

8:11
Curt Menefee: "No team has ever come back from twenty-one points down to win a Super Bowl. How can the Patriots do it?" You guys can say whatever you want but you won't be close.

8:12
Here come all the weirdos who somehow earned the opportunity to fill the field during the halftime show. Back to the sewers with you in twenty minutes.

8:13
And now the drones. I didn't watch Lady Gaga live because I was behind in the recording and too high-strung after G. took awhile to get to bed. The three of us watched the following weekend and, though I'm no fan of the music, it was a pretty great show, even with the phony rooftop bit and the "rock band." Maybe I would have felt differently, or not been interested in watching at all, had the Falcons won.

8:18
Carrying Lady Gaga for six seconds will be the highlight of that dancer's life and no one was looking at him.

8:19
Keytar Bear making no changes whatsoever to his five-year plan.

8:21
"How you doin' tonight? We're here to make you feel good, you wanna feel good with us? Beth, I hear you callin'…"

8:26
Gaga's is the fourth best catch of the night after two by Jones and (of course) one by Edelman.

[Sound FX's and Inside the NFL's unique angles confirm the genuine article.]

8:31
"Alright Katie Nolan, you've made the big time. You'll be part of our Super Bowl coverage this year. Only on Fox!" "Amazing! I've aspired to this since J school. This truly is the grandest stage! What do you need from me, on-air analysis?" "Bingo!" "I'm so excited and will not disappoint you! So, X's and O's? Advanced stats? Presumed second-half adjustments?" "You'll get thirty seconds to talk about people's Twitter reactions to Lady Gaga." "What the fuck? Get out of my face."

8:34
We're back. Troy Aikman: "This opening possession for both of these teams, I think, is big to start this second half." I agree. We're both wrong.

8:35
Nice special-teams coverage by the Pats all night. On a related note, punter Ryan Allen is the team's MVP so far.

8:36
"One hour, eight minutes since we last saw the Atlanta Falcons offense." Not insignificant.

8:37
Nice three-and-out by the defense to open the half. One of many things that needed to happen before we knew what "things that needed to happen" really meant.

[Blount on the sideline: "Damn right! Damn right!"]

8:39
"What do I tell my daughter? That her dad is worth more than her mom? That she will automatically be valued less than every man she ever meets? Or maybe I'll be able to tell her something different." That dad drives a black fucking Audi and mom isn't allowed near it.

8:40
Live Snickers commercial wasn't bad. "Ungh, Jeremiah, you got us!" Nothing but chaos in Kylo Ren's wake.

8:44
Decent field position, even with Edelman stepping out of bounds on the punt return, sets up a whole lot of nothing as the Pats go three and out. They had to score there to keep it close, said everyone in New England at the time (me too). On the plus side, Quinn and the defense decide to use their first timeout before third down because they don't like what they see from an offense that dropped a catchable ball on first down (Chris Hogan) and committed a declined penalty on second. Bad Edelman drop on third so what do I know. First seven drives by the good guys: punt, punt, fumble, punt, interception, field goal, punt.

["Third time today New England's gone three and out."]

8:47
Bill Nye the Deflategate-Refuting-Science-Denier Guy.

8:49
Malcolm Butler's ankles simply decide "Nah" as Gabriel dusts right by him on the way to a thirty-five-yard gain. That replay was the opposite of Super Bowl-saving achievement. I still want him on the team this year and beyond—he was all in during Devin McCourty's hype speech before kickoff and those are the kinds of "dependable" players Belichick wants around. I don't understand why he's to become a Saint instead. (Mike Reiss knows but clearly isn't telling us.)

8:52
Nice pass defense by Butler draws two flags so maybe it wasn't so nice. They weren't stopping this drive anyway—Tevin Coleman's wide-open touchdown, with a no-chance Rob Ninkovich in pursuit, was written. First six Atlanta drives, excluding the end-of-half kneel-down on the kickoff return: punt, punt, touchdown, touchdown, punt, touchdown.

8:53
Laugher. Aikman: "This is not what you want to see." Also known as 28–3.

[Presumed Atlanta color analyst: "Too many weapons, they got too many guys to pay attention to." Total number of points scored by said weapons in the game's final twenty-seven minutes: zero.]

8:56
"The End of the Beginning." It took a Stranger Things trailer—"upside down" and all—to flip this shit. 2017 will be a down year for the candy industry.

9:00
Game over. We spoke of desperation earlier but this was the scene from Swingers when Gutter is leaving all those voicemail messages. "Trickery" in trying to recreate Edelman's perfect-passer-rating, game-changing touchdown pass from the Ravens game two years ago? Desperation. If I were going to turn the TV off—"no way I'm not watching"—it would have been after that incompletion. Fourth down.

[Sanu on the sideline agrees: "Hey, they tryin' some shit. They tryin' anything now." Zolak: "Gotta go for it. If you're out here callin' that play on third-and-three?"]

9:01
Life. "Nice job, Danny." No inflection. Is this the man?

[Quinn to cornerback Brian Poole: "Tackle! Hey! Get the legs! Get the fuckin' legs!" The Falcons defense played almost twice as many minutes as their offense and started showing it on this drive.]

9:03
First-down scramble by Brady. I'd say this was the turning point if there weren't still a dozen setbacks to come, never mind the point deficit. Like Freeney's and Bennett's helmets getting stuck together with the clock running.

[Sanu again: "I mean, they just wastin' time. I mean, they can't stop us, they just wastin' time."]

9:04
Blount is good for one average-altering run per game and that was it. Excellent first down… followed by a gain of zero. Buck: "I would imagine Patriots fans are saying 'Throw the football!'" Nailed it, Joe!

9:05
Woot! First six points for White.

[Zolak: "That's one. And maybe, just maybe, there's the one you need."]

9:06
Doink! Speculation is rampant that Stephen Gostkowski is set to be replaced. Rough 2017 for him as the rest of the game is in two-point-conversion territory. 28–9.

[Zolak: "You gotta be kiddin' me." The Globe's Chad Finn, discussing his predicted outcome as part of Boston Sports Media Watch's enjoyable "review, with perspective": "Watching Gostkowski lining up for a winning kick might have caused half of New England to black out."]

9:07
The Walking Dead, a show I couldn't give up on quickly enough at the conclusion of its first season, gets it all wrong by declaring that "Football season is over." Still more than a quarter to go plus overtime in this historic contest, you revolting gorehounds.

9:09
The botched onside kick is the first of the aforementioned setbacks. Ugly all over.

9:14
Ryan throws his hands up, backs out of the huddle and calls timeout (their second) as he walks to the sideline because of malfunctioning coach-to-quarterback communications. "I got nothin'!" he explains before removing his helmet. "I can't hear shit." An apparent lack of offensive hand signals is fully exposed and they're left with one timeout in regulation. Thanks guys!

9:15
That missed sack by Jabaal Sheard was a perfect encapsulation of his two years here. Bailed out by Chung.

9:16
Falcons go three and out. "What are we holding onto, Sam?" "That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it's worth fighting for."

9:17
It was never made clear why the Falcons were able to run out the third quarter after a delay-of-game penalty. Why doesn't everyone do this? I guess it worked out OK.

9:20
I'm glad a twenty-dollar check from grandma can make this grungy Black Crowes cover band so mental with glee. They didn't even read the card. Shoppers at the North Conway outlets won't know what hit them.

9:21
Buck: "It would be an unprecedented comeback if the Patriots climb out of this… hole… to win their fifth Super Bowl." Fox compiles Blount's fumble, Hogan's drop, Alford's pick-six, Edelman's drop and Gostkowski's miss in a tidy package labeled "Miscues." Nothing about Quinn and Ryan burning two second-half timeouts.

[Idiot Pats fan in attendance: "C'mon, TB12! You got it! You got it!" Only idiot Pats fans refer to Brady as "TB12."]

9:27
That's two red-zone sacks for Grady Jarrett on this drive to go with a boring old regular sack earlier. Probably the MVP if the Falcons win. Are we sure they didn't win?

[Quinn, between sacks: "Call it again, guys, call it again. Call it again." Sanu agrees with me once more after the second sack: "Grady got another one! Hey, Grady's trying to get MVP!" Maybe he and I should do a brewery tour together sometime.]

9:28
Big plays from the role-players with White, Bennett and rookie Malcolm Mitchell moving the chains before they have to settle for a field goal. A very close field goal. 28–12.

[Belichick: "We're gonna need two more drives anyway."]

9:30
Yeah, that King's Hawaiian guy doesn't hide booze and porn around the house or anything.

[Blount: "There's still plenty of time if we get a stop, bro. If we get a stop and a score, we got plenty of fuckin' time, we just gotta score a fuckin' touchdown, bro!" Hightower: "No more mistakes, none of that no more. Everything's gotta be perfect." Edelman: "We need a turnover. Need a turnover, D."]

9:37
"Ball!" Hightower is excited about another season of Stranger Things but Freeman slept through the finale. The strip sack changes everything and directly results in the, yes Joe, "unprecedented comeback." Apologies for the change in screenshot quality, I watched the bad portion of the game during the day and the good at night with no lights on. My advertisers will be pissed.

[Hightower to Malcom Brown: "I told you we needed that!" Zolak: "We got a ballgame now!"]

9:38
Brady is immediately sacked by Freeney on the first play after the turnover. See what I'm talking about?

"I'm feeling pretty good."
Every Falcons fan in America
February 5, 2007, 9:38 p.m.

9:40
Mitchell gains a mammoth first down and slams the ball to the turf… before he's touched. You are no longer in college. Solid awareness by Falcons cornerback CJ Goodwin to swipe at the ball, poor awareness by him to give up on it after the whistle, allowing Mitchell to snatch it back. I wonder how everything would have played out had Goodwin dove on the thing and Quinn challenged possession.

9:41
Touchdown, Amendola! Great game for him. "And Brady tells the world they're going for two."

9:42
Kevin Faulk White with the direct snap and that's eight points for him. 28–20.

[Patriots radio play-by-play man Bob Socci: "It's a one-score game!"]

9:43
"Born to Be Wild," still the most underrated overexposed song in rock history.

9:44
A., doing some work at the dining table all evening while I was the picture of anxiety on the couch, had been asking for the previous half hour if I wanted her to sit next to me for, I don't know, moral support. I politely declined, having accepted a bad outcome and not wanting to get any stink on her. After Amendola's touchdown, when victory became a real possibility, she asked again and I said "Yes, please."

[Dante Scarnecchia to the offensive line: "We're still in a go-for-two mode if we score again. When we score again." Cheffers to Gene Steratore: "Hey, this could get interesting." Shanahan to Ryan: "Be smart, man."]

9:45
Another nice punt from Allen—he's not going away quietly in team MVP discussions as Freeman's forty-yard catch-and-run against air effectively ends the game. People will remember the Pats steamrolling post-Stranger Things but it was never, ever easy. (Until overtime.)

9:48
Julio Goddamn Jones. Replay after replay is well earned and magnifies remarkable skill, concentration and athleticism. I don't think much of Eric Rowe but he could not have covered it any better. Best catch of the night because Edelman is a bit of a douche.

[Blount dumbfounded on the sideline. Brady mutters "Damn." Sanu to Jones in the subsequent huddle: "Hey! You a baaad man!"]

9:50
Trey Flowers, defensive MVP. Timeout Pats.

9:51
Aikman and Buck: "You just can't take the sack there. It doesn't knock 'em out, in terms of being in field-goal range, but that's a costly sack by Matt Ryan." "It would be a fifty-three-yard field goal from this spot. Matt Bryant has plenty of leg for that, but that sack makes the field-goal try just that much more difficult if the Falcons don't come up with any yardage on this third and twenty-three." "Yeah, Matt Ryan's gotta be smart here, you can't afford another sack. Try to pick up some yards, make it easier for Matt Bryant. Three points is big right now in this ballgame."

9:52
"And with the sack and the hold, the Falcons are not in position to add to an eight-point lead."

[Ryan before the penalty is announced: "What the fuck, guys. Did you hold?" Guard Tom Compton: "I did not. I did not." Tackle Jake Matthews: "Does your mouthguard taste like banana?"]

9:53

9:54
Falcons fans have every right to bitch about that intentional grounding non-call for the rest of their lives. Dicey.

9:55
Big first down but Hogan can't get out of bounds. Brady slowing things with two timeouts left. Ryan helpless on the sideline.

9:57
Mitchell with the first. I thought he hurt his knee on that one. We need you, buddy!

[Sanu on the sideline: "We gotta get a turnover." Has he Edelman's hoodoo from twenty minutes ago?]

9:58
"It didn't touch the ground!" That was me, over and over, with a sleeping five-year-old upstairs. Ridiculous. Cash money call by the refs. Quinn challenges, of course, and loses his final timeout. I don't blame him. I still look for signs of incompletion whenever I see the Tyree catch. They aren't there. (Eli in the grasp though? Dirty pool.)

[Edelman, rolling around with three defensive backs: "I caught it! I caught it! I caught it!" He and cornerback Poole have conflicting opinions during the review as they look to different big screens for confirmation either way. Sanu, voice of the viewers throughout the game: "I think he caught that."]

9:59
Lotsa replays. If Alford intercepts that it's a two-man race between him and Jarrett for MVP.

10:00
"The ruling on the field is confirmed." Right on cue, here's the Tyree catch. 19–0 is the lost love I'll forever mourn. It's obvious after Amendola's follow-up catch that the Pats are winning this game. I don't know what to tell you. Two-minute warning.

10:05
White with six more. 28–26. Deep breaths.

10:06
"This is a tie game!" as Edelman concusses Amendola. I was jumping up and down before they formally confirmed the conversion, confident that a second attempt, if necessary, wouldn't fail following the offsides penalty. This game was going to be tied no matter what. Fifty-seven seconds remaining in regulation.

[Amendola with a sly wink to Brady as they return to the sideline. I love that.]

10:07
Aikman and Buck: "And you think now, for the Atlanta Falcons, how costly the sack on Matt Ryan, the holding penalty on left tackle Jake Matthews… knocks them out of field-goal range that would have made this a two-possession ballgame." "Twenty-five unanswered points put up over the last sixteen-plus minutes by New England."

10:08
Straight to overtime, right? You haven't been watching. Sanu with a quick first but no timeouts dooms the drive. And shit, if Duron Harmon came down with that inbounds?

10:10
Timeout taken by Belichick just to rub it in.

10:12
Edelman fair-catches the punt with three seconds left.

10:13
Lewis is taken out by sniper fire but hangs onto the ball like a Bizarro Patrick Pass. End of regulation.

10:14
Slater: Tails never fails but heads never deads. No confusion this time: "We'll take the ball," complete with hand gestures.

10:15
Former leading ladies from Mad Men, Dexter and Orange Is the New Black make for a compelling Handmaid's Tale that I will probably never see. Drag.

[I think linebacker Elandon Roberts is braiding Hightower's hair as they watch the offense take the field to start overtime. Blank and his wife haven't yet retreated from the sideline. He looks ready to start rubbing guys out. "Look how they massacred my boys."]

10:20
Yeah, those setbacks are history now. Good guys marching. Falcons plainly exhausted. Now they don't call timeout?

[Hightower, after Hogan's catch: "Arms to the ball, motherfucker!"]

10:21
Impossible laser to Edelman. As if Brady isn't the greatest quarterback in history.

10:22
Dangerous throw to Bennett draws a flag. I like the idea of getting Bennett a touchdown here but don't force it, man.

10:23
Don't force it, man. Vic Beasley (Jr.) stopped just short of James Harrison's legend on that one.

[Zolak: "Dangerous throw. Dangerous, dangerous throw. Don't get greedy."]

10:24
I have no words.

[Socci and Zolak: "James White, tucks it under the right arm, cuts it upfield… driving forward! Diving to the goal line–" "YYYUUUUUNGH!" "–a touchdown! And a title! For the Patriots!" PFW's Fred Kirsch on his live chat: "I LOVE YOU ALL!!!! GO ENJOY THE CELEBRATION!!!" Not an accidental "1" in the bunch!]

10:25
Twenty points for White, the MVP in a non-Brady universe. Buck and Aikman: "They've already shot off the confetti, fans are on the field." "I don't know what they'd do if they had to overturn this!" Brady clearly telling everyone to get lost until the touchdown is reviewed. Ryan looking ill and wanting none of that.

[I'm gonna skip all this "It's not over!/Get the fuck off the field!" bullshit from Edelman. He was as giddy as the rest until his crush told him they had to review it.]

10:26
Touchdown confirmed. The Pats led the game for zero seconds.

[Socci, in his odd, stilted, broadcast-y delivery that sounds like dyslexic pentameter: "They have completed the greatest comeback… in Super Bowl history… led… by the greatest quarterback… in Super Bowl… and NFL annals."]

10:27
Blount to Belichick in the middle of a media scrum: "You're the greatest!" Turns to Brady: "And you're the fucking greatest! You're the fucking greatest, bro." Live television rules.

[Zolak: "What an amazing, stunning end as the Falcons just sit there in disbelief. You can say they blew it, but I'm gonna go with New England took it out of their hands." The Providence Journal's Mark Daniels in the BSMW piece: "It's literally impossible to count the Patriots out."

10:30
I'm seeing this celebration for the first time. I was fogged in by now.

[Belichick, embracing White: "Way to go, buddy. I'm fuckin'… I'm so proud of you." To Edelman: "They counted us out twenty times."]

10:35
Here's my Nina Simone commercial again as Atlanta wept.

10:37
The NFL Shop commercial inadvertently reminds viewers that third-world countries will be dressed in red and black in support of the Atlanta Falcons, winners of Super Bowl LI.

10:39
Power move by Brady, holding tight to Roger Goodell's perfunctory handshake and pulling him closer for a glorious twist of the knife. Even better in slow motion.

[Excellent second angle on Sound FX, also in slow motion. Goodell tries and fails to pull away early. His limo was already running, parked across three handicapped people.]

10:40
Here comes three-time Super Bowl champion Willie McGinest (Jr.) with the trophy. "Kiss this motherfucker!" Live television rules.

10:41
Michael Strahan? Goddammit.

[Hall-of-Famer and Matthew's dad Jackie Slater: "They got the best quarterback in the history of the National Football League, bar none." He would know after seven years of Chris Jim Everett.]

10:42
"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!11!!1" Goodell hands the trophy off to Robert Kraft and gets the fuck outta dodge.

10:45
Kraft, Belichick and Brady stick to the script and I love them for it. Joy reigns over vengeance.

[Inside the NFL narrator: "Fifteen years ago, a sixth-round afterthought hoisted the Lombardi Trophy for the first time. Now, Tom Brady is the greatest quarterback in NFL history."]

10:46
Terry Bradshaw brings in "James Lewis." What team does he play for again? James White deserves this limelight. There will be no talk of his release in August.

[Socci: "And a silver trophy… is coming back to New England." My second-grade bowling trophy? He seems like a nice guy but what is that?]

10:50
A lot of "never befores" from Menefee. Final five Patriots drives, excluding Lewis's end-of-regulation scramble: touchdown, field goal, touchdown (plus two-point conversion), touchdown (plus two-point conversion), touchdown. Falcons final four: punt, fumble, punt, punt.

10:52
"Well, for every great victor, there is a tough loser." What happened, Dan Quinn? "Unfortunately, with the play that we tried to execute, the guy makes a great play and jumps in front of the route and makes an incredible play that nobody would ever think he could do. And unfortunately that changes the whole outcome." Whoopsie, wrong game!

10:55
Brady's well worn Shields MRI commercial is rereleased as Shields MRI Redux. "Would you please remove all jewelry and place it in the locker?" "Oh yeah, sure. No problem." [Removes four Super Bowl rings.] "Is that all?" "For now." "Uh, actually no. I forgot this one. It's kinda new." "We're gonna need to get you a bigger locker!" "Roger that!"



So ends the recording. By this point I was switching around local networks that likely promoted "PATRIOTS WIN SUPER BOWL" as breaking news for six hours. Eventually I posted to Facebook about what the Fios onscreen guide thought I was watching on Fox: "This is the greatest episode of 24 I've ever seen." Monday was hell. Yes, it's a dynasty.

Now I can delete the game from my DVR and make room for several hours of NFL draft on Thursday. These Monk marathons don't come cheap! Cry not for me, fans of thirty-one other teams, for I preordered Three Games to Glory on February 6. Open races will rule an NFL without Brady–Belichick and, as such, XLIX and LI will make for fine alternatives should future Super Bowls not end in glorious fashion for a sixth time or more. Eventually it will be—it will have to be!—someone else's turn, right? Maybe even the Bills. They know something about teams overcoming deficits in the playoffs.

Up next: Is more beer and football on tap—har! har!—with complete draft coverage? Maybe next year. There is a beauty beyond the senses, Nefretiri. Cheers!

I have no words (part 4)

(Part 1)
(Part 2)
(Part 3)

Beer and football VII — playoffs, week four (bye)

The beer: Samuel Adams Hopscape Wheat Ale
The commentary: Still fits.

Twas a bye week of Super Bowl memories, thanks to the NFL Network, which I still can't believe is part of my one-step-beyond-basic cable package. Leading up to the Seahawks game a couple of years ago I already covered where I was at with previous Patriot appearances (plus Buccaneers–Raiders, for some reason, though ignoring my first conscious Super Bowls in Redskins–Dolphins, Redskins–Raiders and 49ers–Dolphins, which might have been when we actually got Chinese food, and my first unconscious one in the bits of Rams–Titans I managed to register between bong hits). Indeed, a series of Film Session recordings brought some of it back, even the more-competitive-than-I-remember Packers game that felt like a lifetime ago. It was. I wore a red, white and black Banana Republic sweater that night and walked out in a haze after Desmond Howard's backbreaker. Bill Parcells wasn't far behind.

I skipped the Bears and the first and second Giants disasters (shudder) and, after XXXI, watched the four victories in order, saving an electro-jazzed XLIX for the beer of the week. Said Hopscape was smoother than its name implies but sure, Atlanta proprietor, stop selling Sam Adams for a week. (Isn't it brewed in Ohio now anyway?) You're lucky I stopped drinking Coke except when I go to the movies three times in a week.

Supplemental Pats Pulpit material, in which they similarly revisited past Super Bowls, set the scenes and tones a little beyond, you know, slow-motion John Kasay schadenfreude, particularly when letting one's memory fill in the blanks of a bare-bones but well presented David Tyree dagger. (Cheers to Shutdown Corner, as well, for remembering Asante Samuel's non-interception and Mike Carey's judgment over what is and is not in the grasp.) The world's smallest violin—this is G's third Super Bowl in her five-and-a-half years.

Tomorrow, Super Bowl Sunday, "the Big Game Day of Our Lord," I will attempt and fail to sleep in. If I awake past seven it will be welcome—and mean that the nap G. is taking as I type this didn't knock out all of her exhaustion. She's usually in our room around then, asking to watch "teebee" because weekend mornings are really the only periods of screen time we allow. Parenting is hard but it eases up when your child can become engrossed in something else while lying right next to you. (We'll still judge harshly those who let their kids play games on cracked-screen iPhones at every restaurant I've ever been to. But neither are we perfect. I mean, the swearing on this blog.) We push teebee time off until eight and ask her to entertain herself with puzzles/books/elaborate Playmobil dioramas so A. can get some more sleep (bless her) and I can catch up on week-old Patriots news (Brady's dad again?), since I have no realistic shot at dozing so late. Sleep until noon all you want, nineteen-year-old self. Grab it while you can.

This is when it will sink in. Injury speculation will evolve to concern (Alan Branch, who needs to play), resignation (Nate Ebner, who maybe shouldn't) or hand-waving dismissal (everyone else, who might as well put their shoulder pads on now). I'll take everything I've read about the Falcons this week with a grain of salt and dive deep into Patriots Football Weekly, a team-owned enterprise that is the only source for unbiased analysis. Can the Falcons' defensive front seven scheme up some decent interior pressure? Is it enough to limit Julio Jones and let the running backs do what they want? How much does the XLIX win over Dan Quinn's defense matter? Are Martellus Bennett and LeGarrette Blount due to break out this postseason or will they barely register on the stat sheet again? Am I superstitious or do I just like to ask a lot of questions to flesh out a pre-Super-Bowl entry? If only my regular commute still involved driving by Danilchuk Auto Body.

Once I've learned all those answers and not budged from my ninety-percent certainly that the good guys will win by a touchdown or more (and G. has watched a solid two hours of Octonauts) we'll all freshen up and leave the house later than planned to meet friends in Salem for brunch. I'll get an egg sandwich, a muffin if they have any and probably a beer just because. We'll walk around after, maybe hit the playground and then swing by Trader Joe's on the way home because there isn't enough chaos in the world. G. and I will look for Larry the Lobster so she can score a lollipop that won't do her baby teeth any favors and then we'll head home to eat a late lunch and start that Sgt. Pepper puzzle to distract me from the tension that comes with seven Super Bowl appearances in fifteen years. Eventually we'll order a pizza (chaos redux) and settle in for some pregame hot air. G. is excited to watch and is already talking about training camp later this year. She's the best.

At kickoff I'll pop the top off another music-themed beer, paving the way for more nonsense criticism that isn't of Trout Mask Replica or, generally, football. I picked this up a couple of hours ago at yonder culinary shop that, according to its Facebook page, was offering "one free rub per customer" with any purchase of two six-packs. I await satisfaction and so bought a vaguely musical bottle of wine as well. The internet cries for help.

And then? And then! "What time does 'What time does the Super Bowl start?' start?" Kickoff! And I'm feeling pretty good.

"I'm feeling pretty good."
Tony Eason
January 26, 1986

Up next: SBLI. Go Pats!

Beer and football VII — playoffs, week threeAFC Championship

The game: Steelers at Patriots
The beer: Flying Dreams Nightcrawler Dark Ale
The result: Win, 36–17
The commentary: The "watch live" plan didn't quite work out. And I think we read The Gift of Nothing, having borrowed it from Steeler defensive coordinator Keith Butler. "Coach, Brady is picking us apart. This zone shit isn't working. What adjustments can we make?" "Nothing!" "Really? There isn't anything we should change up?" "Nothing!" "Yesh!"

In between over-earnest reminders from local media that "this is special" and how we're "lucky and should appreciate" this unprecedented run of success—it is and I am—confidence levels were hard to judge. In general there wasn't so much of a buzz going into the AFC Championship, which maybe indicates that people weren't worried. I was to some extent for three obvious reasons: Brown, Bell and Roethlisberger, in that order, and then Bell went down, Pats cornerback Eric Rowe knocked every pass to the ground was bailed out by bad drops and Chris Hogan's breakout furthered the narrative of inept chaos in Buffalo—at least the Dolphins got a second-rounder for Wes Welker—as Tom Brady, lo, outplayed even his best. I await the internet's hot takes.

So it's on to Houston again. The parallels to XXXVIII are eerie but I'll not get too hung up on that before wondering if Justin Timberlake, Janet Jackson and Ricky Proehl will be snuggled under a blanket eating pizza somewhere. I also can't wait for media members in attendance to complain about the sprawl. You can set your watch to that shit. Anything can happen outside of that, though I expect something along the lines of XXXIX against the Eagles, with the Pats outplaying the Falcons for most of the game and a final score closer than it should have been. More expert analysis next week!

One post-Christmas mystery finally solved: Late last month we received a giant box from A's sister and her family. It was addressed to G. and reeked of bad taste, for the unwrapped box presented "Mēbo: Your robotic alter ego!" What in the worldwide fuck? They picked this out for her? Or re-gifted it? Didn't they see my RadioShack think piece? Also, it clearly reads "ages 8+" right on the front of the box (darling monkey is five). Is "Cyberdyne" in smaller text somewhere? What were they thinking?? Upon breaking the bad news to G. that she would not be keeping this (her wonderful response: "You never let me play with robots!"), researching where I could possibly try to exchange it (Toys R Us, of course) and wondering how we were going to break it to A's sister that we were doing so, reason triumphed and A. peeked into the box that was, all told, just a box. I don't even remember what it held but we won't be responsible for AI wars and resulting nuclear annihilation. Trump will beat all to it anyway.

Lastly, and quite by coincidence, I finished another one-thousand-piece puzzle leading up to a Super Bowl. Two years ago it was a Winter wonderland of sorts and this time, since there is less snow (global warming hoax alert!) and more books in my life, it was a library of madness where everything looked the same. ("World of Words" my ass, this was a world of railings and beams.) I knocked it off in two weeks instead of three like last time, somehow, but I did have help. No, not A., who fully avoided this round. Twas G. picked up the slack and then some, helping me complete the border (and, indeed, connecting the first several pieces) before moving on to the left-hand bookshelf, the hobby horse and the rug. From there? Jesus Christ, everything did look the same. Over the course of a couple of Falcons games (wish I'd paid more attention) and into some wee hours I determined to fill in the couch and expand from there. G. focused on locating both pieces of the mouse at the upper left and she didn't even break a sweat. She's a natural talent and I look forward to doing puzzle after puzzle with her over the years, whether or not the Pats are in the Super Bowl. She'll grow bored of it one day but she'll be back.

Up next: The Falcons dump Gatorade over Dan Quinn's head every day of the bye week in the ultimate demonstration of "just happy to be here." Cheers!

Beer and football VII — playoffs, weeks one and two

Playoffs, week one (bye)
The beer: Old Planters Crop Rotation India Pale Ale

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Playoffs, week two
The game: Texans at Patriots
The beer: Mystic Hum Low-Frequency Porter
The result: Win, 34–16

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The commentary: Low frequency my ass! Six straight conference championships for "those assholes"? Indeed, Mister Tomlin!

The Steelers, though, are no slouches. In re-tempting fate by bringing up past unpleasantness, a mere season removed from the doomed redux of a simple Pink Floyd excursion, the two teams' dominance remains in place in the AFC. No matter what happens Sunday, the Patriots or the Steelers will appear in ten—ten!—of the last sixteen Super Bowls. (Including the Broncos makes it twelve of sixteen. And the Colts, fourteen of sixteen. And the Ravens, sixteen of seventeen. Pity the one-trick Raiders and curse the rest, for the NFC will have put forth a more parity-friendly eleven teams over the same seventeen seasons if the Packers advance and twelve if the Falcons do—rewind a little further, though, and the parity myth asserts itself throughout the league.)

Either way it will be nice to have a real playoff game. Last week's generally regarded "double bye" wasn't quite that when a handful of boneheaded plays by the good guys kept the Texans involved into the third quarter before Will Fuller V (this trend of Roman numerals on nameplates is troubling—lo, the broken links!) dropped Brock Osweiler's best pass as a pro. This is why they play the games.

I was so unconcerned I didn't think twice about relaxing with some wine, Thai food and Project Runway during the game after G. and I picked A. up at the airport earlier Saturday evening. The Patriots were going to win handily (right?) and I have a history of avoiding spoilers—how hard is it to turn your phone off for a few hours? Excepting Antonio Brown. (Har! Har!) Sunday morning, media blackout intact, panic made a few appearances without antidote—the porter awaited Packers–Cowboys since I didn't want to serve G. her breakfast under the influence—and following Eric Rowe's idiocy and Dion Lewis's (first) fumble I wondered what kind of world existed outside my door had I peacefully slept through the unthinkable and its wake. Hysteria? Savagery? I dared not peek! Fuller's drop—can it be so classified if he barely touched the ball?—settled my stomach through to the conclusion that was closer than indicated. Survive and advance, etc.

The AFC Championship will be different. NFC too, for that matter, since I plan to watch both live, with a likely break at halftime during Patriots–Steelers in order to remember I'm a father and help get G. ready for bed, with her "pretend I haven't changed into my pajamas" this and her "pretend I didn't brush my teeth" that. Pure joy and enthusiasm. I wonder what my state of mind will be as we read Tinka or maybe the liner notes to Back From the Grave, Vol. 2. "Willie figgered hisself to be a '65 version of Brando, 'cept he had long purple hair and hung out with tough S&M biker chicks." On the topic of rough sex, how will Roethlisberger have performed by then? Is he leading the team to touchdowns instead of field goals this time? Are Malcolm Butler, Devin McCourty and Logan Ryan (coming off a career game that he cannot match against not-Osweiler) on their way to holding Brown under a hundred yards? What about Alan Branch, Dont'a Hightower and the flu, have they done their part to "neutralize" Le'Veon Bell? And Patrick Chung against whoever their white tight end is this year? Will Tomlin go for two after every touchdown and then rip out his own beating heart in a demonstration of manhood?

On offense, will Brady regain his aversion to turnovers and pick apart the Steelers' secondary once more? Will Malcolm Mitchell emerge as a legitimate weapon beyond a few impressive regular-season games? Who's it going to be: LeGarrette Blount, Dion Lewis or James White? All of the above? None? Will Nate Solder and friends prevent the UPS guy from locating James Harrison's hotel room? Can Julian Edelman just shut the fuck up already? Is Martellus Bennett capable of moving beyond this tired Undertaker act (thanks, PFW in Progress) and stand up immediately after suffering anything less than splinching, for crying out loud? Will twenty-seven points be achievable? Will twenty-seven points be enough?

Or…

Pestilence? Fallout? Is all this for naught as future generations refer to yesterday as "Before" and mark last year's as the final Sobrabüülle of the once great (already) American Empire? I hope to find out Sunday, set to another concise and adept Phil Simms soundtrack. (Locusts?)

I'll close with the wonderful Heather from Baltimore even if she agrees with Ray Lewis that "It's Called Football Brady" (title case, no comma) and that murder charges and plea deals are no big thing. During the segment of Sound Opinions where people call in to yell at Jim and Greg after the Saints likely receive no residuals for the use of their "(I'm) Stranded," Heather rang to offer up Gary Puckett & the Union Gap's "Young Girl" as a "song that gives you the creeps" for a Halloween-themed episode (I'm a bit behind). Excellent choice. She can take it from here: "When I was growing up in the eighties, the song always came on oldies radio when my mom was driving and I would beg her to turn it off. I was little, I was probably seven, when I first noticed how creepy it was but it grossed me out well into my teenage years. I have heard it in the grocery store a few times and been very upset because I don't want it near my food." Bravo. Say hi to Terrell Suggs when you see him at the two o'clock showing of Why Him? tomorrow.

Up next: Drink up, folks, for we have a new president! Cheers?

Beer and football VII — weeks sixteen and seventeen

Week sixteen
The game: Jets at Patriots
The beer: Anchor Christmas Ale
The result: Win, 41–3

Week seventeen
The game: Patriots at Dolphins
The beer: Notch Dog and Pony Show
The result: Win, 35–14

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The commentary: Why not wait until two hundred seven total posts and one hundred nineteen "beer and football" hottakez to switch things up with multi-week diaries? What can go wrong? What (captain) can (beefheart) stand (trout) in (mask) my (replica) way?

This is an attempt to combine "the commentary" into a single… narrative?… when I don't get around to finalizing game reactions before the next Sunday or Monday or Thursday Night Football on Saturday or whatever the fuck. Reader (!) feedback (!!) regarding said trial will motivate the sleeping giant that is the Lower Galactic Biffy Council to exert its will—violently so—in determining internet protocol until the death of free speech. Very unfair!

In a way it makes sense. Not that I've done much actual football writing lately—Survivor, Trump, etc.—but when I do I like to keep it in context, without the hindsight that comes with witnessing how the Patriots respond to one of fourteen wins or two losses. The self-imposed deadline of publishing ahead of the next game has led to blurred lines not seen since the Star Wars prequels (more in a minute), with backdating and inconsistent timelines and such. (The timestamps were eighty-sixed for a reason.) Clearly, if reactions to anywhere from two to an outlandish, why-bother five games were presented under a single title, then no single entry was ready to go on its own. So I'd complete them, one by one, ignoring what I might have learned about "future" games or world/reality television events. I think I did a good job. But—indeed—why bother?

Instead I'll find a common thread and relate what I already know, that a pair of wins over (swept) AFC East "rivals" the Jets and the Dolphins is the inverse of last year's double letdown. The first portion then was dominated—and well, may I say—by a callback to 2013 and a tidy bow encircling my years-long crusade against this defense. A little too tidy, for there's no way the Dolphins outcome and regular-season-ending losing streak didn't color this. The desperation! At least this still resonates: "If only there were websites dedicated to people letting you know that your favorite beer sucks." Even a Ministry joke out of nowhere. It's wonderful to make yourself laugh.

These games remain linked regardless of outcome, for they are the first of the season (and long before) of which I knew the outcome before watching the first snap. A (daytime) Christmas Eve trip to Connecticut was to get us there in time for me to park in a recliner and switch on the one o'clock kickoff but that was torpedoed when we didn't leave the house until, oh, half past twelve. We listened to Christmas music (including "All Dressed Up" a couple of times) and G. fell asleep before long, then I sheepishly asked to switch to the broadcast. By then the good guys were ahead ten zip and our soundtrack was in place for the rest of the Pike-avoiding, Spencer-touring route that saved us no time (and might have added some) but cursed us with no traffic jams. 49 South allowed for good cruising and I'll get us there another way next time.

Late arrival, sure. Fourth quarter. Oh well. I popped open Anchor's "Our Special Ale" and caught the last few minutes, letting G. know that kicking a field goal down forty-one points is for losers. Jesus Christ. Everyone else was prepping for that evening's party while, postgame, I wondered if this meant we didn't have to go to church. We didn't until Christmas morning, when the mercifully brief mass was highlighted by the following: both organists flashing each other the peace sign during the rite of peace; G. complaining of hunger and no one laughing when I likened the eucharist to a "quick snack break"; and yours truly composing a murder ballad entitled "Hang Not Your Coat on the Stations of the Cross" while trying to remember what each one signified. The road to hell is paved with sarcasm.

On New Year's Day I finally saw Rogue One and ate a huge "medium" popcorn by myself, five days after splitting one with A. during Manchester by the Sea (sans hyphens) and four after doing the same with G. during Moana. Rogue One was excellent, a straight war movie where it only made sense if everyone died. I'm glad they didn't cop out. Manchester exceeded expectations and lived up to the hype, even though Casey Affleck drove through Swampscott on his way from Quincy to Beverly and didn't insist on the regional "awnt" instead of the rest-of-American "ant" aunt. Moana was fine, stolen by Maui's tattoos and Heihei the rooster, and I can't get a straight answer from G. how she liked it. I don't blame her—it was no Tangled—after we showed up fifteen minutes late, learning only when we got to the head of the line that we wanted the cinema next door. Drag. Fortune and demigods smiled upon us, though, when we were paying for popcorn and a woman came out of theater four to complain that the movie should have started fifteen minutes ago. Innocently, I asked "Is that Moana, by any chance?" Yes! G. and I practically high-fived in her face. Hopefully Inner Workings is the last time either one of us watches a cartoon man take a leak. (Excluding Homer Simpson, of course.)

See, I'm still working on the structure here. I brought up movies because Rogue One's return to unpolished 1977 preempted the Dolphins game and I was OK with it. Recording and watching in primetime is my move anyway. After, though, as my friend and I trawled Beverly (not via Swampscott) for an open restaurant, any open restaurant, at which to meet our wives and daughters, the score presented itself during one of our we-just-closed-the-kitchen pitstops: third quarter, up thirteen. Fine. We found a place closer to home and Shea McClellin scooped up the fumble right as my Dog and Pony Show arrived. "If I was a preacher, I tell you what, I'd save a million souls. Even you." South Boston tweakers and Shellac of North America beam with pride.

Long story short, hundreds of words too late, I did still watch the games in full because I'm a fan. Things are looking up compared to this time last year when first place moved to Denver and the weaknesses—offensive line and defensive backfield, mainly—were exposed in time for real football. Today, now, the Patriots are the team to beat and even haters look forward to trolling Pats–Cowboys. I welcome and expect it, believing the defense can hold on a little longer and restrict the Steelers to fewer than four touchdowns in the AFC Championship. And the Cowboys? Their story is awfully feel-good for them to lose to the Packers and not reach a Texas-sized Super Bowl. Interesting times, these next few weeks. Unless you're Rex Ryan. Again.

Up next: I'll be rooting for Aaron Rodgers against Eli Manning tomorrow night because I'm one of Paul Perillo's "cunts" who wants no part of the Giants in February. Happy new year!

Beer and football VII — week fifteen

The game: Patriots at Broncos
The beer: Lefty's Barrel-Aged Scotch Ale
The result: Win, 16–3; Adam, 10–0–0; Erin, 4–0–0–0
The commentary: I don't know about the barrel-aged beers anymore. A little rich for me. The Northampton Brewery didn't have Maggie's Wee Heavy on tap last weekend so this "Scotch ale" from Provisions was a no-brainer. Intense! (Are "Scotch ales" and "Scottish ales" two different things?) This is why I chose a tequila shot instead of whiskey at that shitty bar following the company's InterContinental VaGina Christmas party last week. I still made my nine o'clock train and didn't sleep through my stop. For the win.

I personally flexed Sunday's game to a late primetime start, for some reason not getting around to watching until after ten. Oh, the hubris that comes with avoiding updates inside a Trader Joe's full of people wearing Gronk jerseys. As such I ignored all context in an effort to avoid falling asleep on the couch and skipped through from play to play—the opposite of fandom. It was one of those tension-filled games anyway, my desire to know right away if a recovered fumble would be upheld after replay, etc., overpowering competitive interest but falling short of Google. "Just tell me what happened! Almost!" Only toward the end when Devin McCourty made his first above-average play of the season and TJ Ward lost his mind by flexing a post-suplex exclamation point was I confident. Unlike Terrell Suggs & Friends, I want no part of facing the Broncos in the postseason, even away from Denver, and…

"I'm feeling pretty good."
Leno LaBianca
August 9, 1969

Just take out the Giants, somebody. Please. (It's not looking good. Shades of peaking at the right time and the resulting unpleasantness, parts 1 and 2.)

Reality television update! For obvious reasons, The Celebrity Apprentice is officially deleted from our DVR series settings. Two others not (still!) produced by our future Crony-in-Chief have just wrapped up their thirty-third and fifteenth seasons, respectively: Survivor and Project Runway. I'm a goddamn dinosaur.

The Survivor finale was anticlimactic as it became obvious the season-long saga of Adam and his ill mother would have a… happy?… ending. During the final tribal council it was clear that Ken was getting no respect (winning multiple individual immunity challenges does not carry the weight it once did) but frisky Hannah was talking herself up quite a bit, even convincingly so if viewers hadn't witnessed her cunning indecisiveness and bravado panic attack during a challenge she watched from a shady bench. The dream final three of Jay, David and Adam would have been one for the ages and the missed opportunity drags the whole affair down for me. At least Michaela will be back for Game Changers in a few months, even though I hate when they bring back former players. Oh good, it will be a season full of returning players. Goddammit.

On to Project Runway. From last week's warm-up to Friday's showdown I was pulling for Rik because he's a nice guy and I liked his looks the best. Somehow he was the only one to use primarily leather (Laurence plain lost her way) and even though the denim swirlies weren't my favorite—more "She Bangs the Drums" than "A Day in the Life"—his runway show was my favorite the first time through. Upon re-watching, though (because A. had fallen asleep), I preferred Roberi's from beginning to end. He was the artist of the season, riding the creative highs and lows without pretense—enviable in itself. His dresses were cool and versatile and looked well made and styled. Rik was a close second while Laurence's plain-bagel assembly line took the bronze. (She's lucky her medal isn't turd-brown like that one jumpsuit.) And then Erin. More on her in a minute.

From the post-runway critique—we determined the show can't take place earlier than eight in the morning, which makes Michael Kors's shades-wearing appearances extra silly in past seasons—I thought Roberi had it in the bag because everyone loved his collection aside from the closing dress, which I thought was fine (the eighties-wash jeans look was my exception). Similarly, Rik was received with only enthusiasm until, in private, Nina went all "I don't know who he is as a designer" and called him a "chameleon." Unconventional challenges, prom dresses, day/evening wear… Nina, the whole show requires designers to be chameleons! It drives me nuts when the judges forget their own rules. Rik was eliminated even before Laurence, whose looks Heidi and friends universally disliked. Mixed messages all around.

Brief production aside: Runway episodes normally run ninety minutes and that is just right, with ample time allowed for the creative process, the runway, the critique and the bitchy one-on-ones with Cornelius, the biggest waste of a Tim Gunn Save in the show's history. This finale episode was drawn out for two hours and it felt like it, even when fast-forwarding through the nine-minute commercial breaks. I don't care if these interruptions were peppered—or rather, cap-unscrewed, pepper-dumped—with segments introducing us to those participating in the second season of Project Runway Junior, something better served as its own half-hour preview episode in the past. Almost as dreadful a presentation as last week's quasi-blowout Monday Night Football. (Sean McDonough was excellent as the play-by-play guy for the Sox a hundred years ago—before he was run out of town on a low-budget, VORP-stained rail—but even he can't account for bad camerawork, enormous score bugs and fucking Jon Gruden.)

Back to it. Roberi, Rik, Laurence and Erin, in that order. Glorified, inevitable Erin, whose contrived kookiness won the judges over from day one even as her failures were barely worse than her multiple winning looks. (Sure, I'm biased, I recognize and appreciate that the looks she created for episodes eleven and twelve were downright awesome.) During her critique, when it became clear that Zac and Nina were not impressed (even as they admired her whimsy, which might matter in alternate-universe programming Project Potential), I said aloud "Wow, she's not going to win" and forgot the key difference between reality and reality television, here being the influence of Heidi and the producers. (Zendaya? She might as well have said "My new album, Zendacious, is available Friday" every time they asked her opinion. I made up that title but I'll put money on it.) I took back what I said when Heidi admitted she wouldn't wear the banana dress and it still got more camera time than anything else. The fix was in—she could have frozen her own urine for earrings and been lauded—and the only suspense centered around a fake-cry-off between Erin and Zac at the conclusion. Weird.

The right four made it to fashion week but it was all for show once Erin's fate was decided weeks earlier (as with politically correct Ashley last time) by someone High Up. Drag. I mean, those shorts she wears. The eye make-up. Prospective "Cambridge type" status. "Dope." Enough.

Up next: "Fuck this game" becomes a rallying cry and the Jets keep it closer than everyone expects, just not close enough. Merry Christmas!

Beer and football VII — week fourteen

The game: Ravens at Patriots
The beer: Northampton Conundrum Black Lager
The result: Win, 30–23
The commentary: It's always satisfying to beat up on the Ravens. This was a blowout all the way—those fluky fumbles had me emailing my dad the next day with an understated "It would have been a tough one to get over if the Ravens came back to win"—and Terrell Suggs's "You better hope you [don't? di'n't? ain't?] see us again!" warmed my heart. They learn nutrition at the NFL level and post-loss brattishness from John Harbaugh.

This past weekend was an early Christmas all over. On Saturday we drove—and drove—to Springfield for the "Bright Nights" spectacle we missed out on two years ago, with the rage and the disappointment. A late start reversed the agenda and Springfield was stop number one, in order to avoid the traffic that crippled us last time. It still took awhile and probably wasn't worth it but it was satisfying—as in realized—nonetheless. Never again, likely, but anything is better than having to tell G. "No." Dinner at the Northampton Brewery followed and then the girls went to Thorne's Marketplace while I split to sell more CDs at Turn It Up and buy a few bombers from Provisions, discovered during a summertime 2013 visit. It's a great town and I miss it—déjà vu and so on. (Little did I know that Shea McClellin would leap over the center to block a field goal on Sunday like Jamie Collins did two years ago. On the same weekend!) Again with the familiar looking-for-a-parking-space loops and the clean air and the old coots, this time at Turn It Up where one couldn't stop raving about the Stones' new Blue and Lonesome. Man, I was born just in time for them to suck forever.

On Sunday afternoon we finally got a Christmas tree and it's my first real one in forty-two years. Oh, the days of inserting color-coordinated "branches" into matching slots. It's still a little too tall and I remain surprised by the amount of sap it produces but it looks and smells great. Perhaps I'm converted. I'll just need to remember to ask the guy to take a few more inches off the stump next year.

Since real trees don't come pre-lit like, you know, something from a box, we had to shop for lights. At Target I found a nice Frozen-esque light blue, which was labeled "cool white" on the box for some reason even though the sample display so clearly shone blue. Well, they are actually cool white. Oh well, they're a huge improvement over the omnipresent pale yellow that passes for "warm white." Speaking of warm white, A. picked up some of those warm white LED window candles a few weeks ago. She cleaned Target out of their last six, leaving us with two undecorated windows on the side of the house that looked neglected. Cue Lalo Schifrin because finding numbers seven and eight was Mission: Fucking What the Fuck! After checking all the local Targets and learning that their website's location-specific "limited availability" translates to "jack shit" I resigned myself to ordering online.

Days later I receive this cursed email: "Something from your order has been canceled." Indeed, even the cloud or wherever Target.com stores their wares had limited availability. Drag. So we received one instead of two and that's almost worse than zero. The house and its symmetry was compromised and it bugged the living shit out of me until obsessive compulsiveness and a phone call rewarded me. I asked A. "Is it crazy if I go to New Hampshire tonight to get a candle?" and justified the forty-minute drive by reasoning that it takes twenty to get to "our" Target and, hey, twice as long is only twice as long. (Plus: cheap alcohol.) Accompanied on 95 by those Around the NFL bastards who propped up my hopes a few weeks ago I was relieved to finally obtain the elusive fucker—I bought other stuff we needed too, give me a break—but didn't let myself exhale until I got home, loaded it with (three double-A!) batteries and switched it on. I won this round and hopefully will have forgotten the entire affair this time next year when we bring the Christmas shit up from the basement and the candles are busted. Goddamn Philips.

Lots of driving and decorating means lots of Christmas music! Feliz Navidad, baby!

1. Bert – All Dressed Up
We must have listened to this ten times over the weekend. The version you can buy—or stream, or whatever you leasing youngsters prefer—strips out the dialogue for some reason and, therefore, a lot of the context. Between that last "galosh on my head" ("galosh," I love that) and "gloves on my ears," the Sesame Street Orchestra stretches out for ten seconds before everyone returns with "all the clothes on the right places." What happened during those ten seconds? If you watch the clip you'll know that Bert goes all "Fuck this shit!" and sets everyone straight, otherwise it's a beginning and an end without a middle. Luckily I know how to rip from YouTube.

2. Hep Stars – Christmas on My Mind
Collected on the improbably named Santa's Got Soul, as if Sam Cooke and the Impressions were also contributing. I guess Percy Sledge counts but Jeffrey Speight does not, particularly considering the subtitle "A Groovy Collection of Rare Soul and Psychedelic Rock Christmas Songs." Right. Sweden's own released Jul Med Hep Stars ("Christmas With the Hep Stars") in 1967 and most of it is lousy, but "Christmas on My Mind" is sped-up Farfisa joy.

3. Leslie West – Silent Night
The unrealized solution to a fragile, selfish, Cream-disintegrating Eric Clapton plugs in exactly halfway through his instrumental "Silent Night" and reminds of my midlife crisis collecting dust. I should sign up for guitar lessons already.

4. He 5 – Jingle Bells/In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida
Korean rock from the 1969 album Merry Christmas Psychedelic Sound. A minute forty of "Jingle Bells" followed by a sort of "My Girl" bridge, nine minutes of the jam and drum solo from "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" and a couple of premature (and ignored) "One, two, three, four!" count-ins before closing with a "My Girl"/"Jingle Bells" reprise. The greatest gift of the young holiday season.

5. Pilgrim Travelers – I'll Be Home for Christmas
Four volumes of Blues, Blues Christmas are waiting for you so go to your local library, sign up for a Freegal account, log in and download five songs a week for free. It will only take you eight months to get all one hundred seventy-six songs! Make the wonderful "I'll Be Home for Christmas" one of the early ones, for nothing captures the holiday season better. (Just don't check out The Dark Half. I wish it were The Dark Half As Long. Har! Har!)

Up next: The Patriots travel to Denver because the Patriots always travel to Denver. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week thirteen

The game: Rams at Patriots
The beer: Ipswich Riverbend Pilsner
The result: Win, 26–10
The commentary: Last week, before the sad talk, I really got into it with potential tiebreaker scenarios for my ex-knockout pool. The raving led to a "Rooting for ties!" ecstasy that betrayed its improvised roots earlier in the same sentence. You see, I defined "a loss or a tie" as one point deducted, not added (opposing two added for a win), and this fact went out the memory hole twenty-five words later. Old age is a bastard.

The realization hit when introducing my "perfect" plan to A. later in the week during a conversation that, since it would decide nothing in our favor, interested her not at all. She twice told me "I don't get it"—she had a point—and misinterpreted everything as "So you assign different points to each game?" And there it is: genius! Indeed, should I be approached for ideas that do not crumble under minimal review, I will volunteer a confidence-pool solution, which I love even more than I did my heralded (by me) attempt before its unraveling.

Let's revise: "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, I'd assign the fewest points to those—as things stand now, if I'd lasted, both sides of week seventeen games Baltimore at Cincinnati [another fuck-up: I played Cincinnati in week four] New Orleans at Atlanta, Dallas at Philadelphia and others other low-tier affairs would be in play and I'd root for ties in each case to earn two points instead of one assign the fewest points to these. Rooting for against 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."

Much better. That is, unless Trump does his Trump thing.

Up next: Tonight! Patriots! Ravens! Deer antler spray! Deeecepppshunnn! Cheers!

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!