The New England Patriots, Better Still...

Monday moves forward slowly. I’m jittery and irritable, not my usual self. A leftover wedge of shrimp in one hand, my thoughts wander to last night’s Superbowl game.


The New England Patriots are spooked again.

It’s creepy and surreal and it all began within the first two minutes, when a bizarre Safety was called on New England, offering up an immediate two point lead for the New York Giants—a lead that would haunt us in the fourth quarter.

Despite the rough start, the fighting Pats didn’t fold. With two QB sacs and key completions by Woodhead, Hernadez, and Welker—plays that led to touchdowns—a win seemed within reach. By the half, we were ahead by one (the infamous nail-biter) and Madonna’s squats appeared sexier than one of Brady’s cologne ads.

So what happened in quarters three and four?

It’s more a case of what didn’t happen. A fired-up Brady didn’t manage to complete a fifty-five yard long pass with a well-defended Gronk. Giants interception. A hugely reliable Welker didn’t manage to make a catchable catch; Hernadez, ditto; Branch, double damn-it-ditto.

The Giants Defense capitalized on error and rode the tidal wave of momentum until the Pats were in a heated situation, forcing Brady’s Hail Mary pass into a sea of darting end zone sharks.

Game over, Giants.

I turn to face my son, a young football player who wears a game face in the wake of defeat. Less hurt by the pain in Tom Brady’s eyes, by Welker’s terrified arms; Ben’s perspective is keener than mine. This is the game of football and there are no kept promises. Things can go sour in a matter of seconds. It’s part of the game.

My gaze wanders to the floor. My dog, Lincoln, has moved on from the moment, roughly a moment ago. He is blissfully ignorant, working at his bone. I turn to my husband, somewhat stunned, yet admittedly better off than I am.

I’m alone with my angst, and my silent rage for Eli Manning mounts. He’s a decent quarterback, but, in my humble opinion, he is still not in Tom Brady’s league. Despite his success and numbers and stats; there’s something grossly casual about him. He carries an aura of entitlement that infuriates me. I’m suddenly not a good sport and I no longer belong.

I saunter upstairs and brush my teeth with a toothbrush that feels heavy and wrong. I cannot find it in my heart to be happy for the worthy Giants. I’m too saddened by a team that I truly believe is better, the New England Patriots. My mind captures the defeat in Brady’s eyes after the game and a lump catches in my throat. There are worse things than this. Far worse. But I have, somehow, lost perspective.

I climb into bed, slide under the covers, and pray that Brady will be okay. I know it’s melodramatic, but I can’t help it. I pray for Welker, too.

The media does nothing for my maudlin state on Monday. Welker wears the loss like a heavy robe. He admits to missing a catch that was the most important one of his life. He’s one of the most resilient and hard working players of the NFL. He is, also, human. If I could skype myself through to Welker, I would sidestep the nosy reporters and remind him of this:

Regardless of his missed catch, he’s a tremendous athlete, loyal team player, and hard worker. I would remind him that he’s a much better player than he gives himself credit for, and that, like the tremendous Tom Brady, he's capable of falling.

Just like we are.