The 1880

No one's perfect, Tom! Kill me.

There are certain things that I regard as “holy” in life. The Vagina, for instance. Jesus. The microwave. Breasts. Grain Alcohol—I could go on. But one thing that I could pray to every night was the New England Patriots football franchise, and I blew 18 weeks-worth of my life (and hundreds of thousands of dollars) betting that God wouldn’t bring down the hammer on Belichick, Brady and myself—but it seems Eli Manning serves a dark and a vengeful God. To top it off, I was COMPLETELY and CRUELLY SOBER when it happened—the lone loss that sent me careening into the depths of a personal hell darker than any hell I’ve experienced, and I’ve seen Dark Hells: the day after the Yankees toppled Boston in the 2003 ALCS comes to mind, naturally; as does the night my mom caught me masturbating. But as I and my companion walked aimlessly around Fenway, which just a few short months ago rang loudly with riotous and alcohol-aided joy, we found it now host to tearful and confused zombies and a handful of the worst Giants fans I have ever seen (one that was beating his chest was wearing an oversized leather jacket and had a soul patch). It was Sunday night, and all of the liquor stores were closed. God truly hates me.

Since I couldn’t drink myself into a coma, I decided to get my life back on track: I haven’t done a load of laundry in a month and a half, at my apartment I wear terry-cloth bathrobes that don’t belong to me (and belong to a teenage girl), I drink Natural Ice while eating a full bag of Milano cookies, I take cold showers and I’ve gained at least 10-15 pounds. Oh wait, those are the type of things that happen when your life is about to spiral out of control. Well, at least I’m not an alcoholic—oh wait, I worked on a 12-pack of PBR last night due in part to a Celtics loss (and they just lost again tonight at the hands of a man with a beard). I can’t go home to NH because my house is strewn with old and optimistc Boston Heralds preceding the Super Bowl, and my father, who watched the game four times in four nights on his high-definition television (and cried each time) lives there, and I can’t face him. My bowel movements are also irregular.

And every time I log onto ESPN.com, there’s another story that the Patriots videotaped something or someone illegally, and that the United States of America is mobilizing the US Military to launch an air- and ground-strike on Foxboro, Massachusetts because infringing upon the credibility of American professional sports is not only high treason but resoundingly Un-American—somebody call HUAC and exhume the decomposed remains of Joseph McCarthy—and that Tom Brady should be released from his contract with Stetson, as well as his contract with Gisele Bundchen, who has a dope body.

No, I tried to go on a media blackout by watching situation comedies instead of ESPN and listening to the Polyphonic Spree instead of AM radio, pretending that everything was right in this world. Watching Sportscenter or reading the sports section of the Globe gave me that feeling that you get when you watch old people having sex, and we all know that feeling. Mainly, it was just really, really trying to not take the Red Sox’s World Series victory for granted, because, Jesus Christ, the Red Sox won the World Series…again. Italics.

But the thing about it is, I’m just can’t fathom what happened. It was supposed to come full circle. I enter college with the Patriots winning the Super Bowl, I leave college with the Patriots winning the Super Bowl. I enter college with a steady girlfriend, I leave college with a steady wife and a mistress on the side that my wife was comfortable with. In a word, fuck. It was too much of a foregone conclusion for the Patriots to go 19-0, and the number never materialized. Maybe due to clock management issues or divine intervention, but whatever the case, the Giants have the commercials (this one makes me want to puke), and the Patriots, well, don’t.

And when you get that emotionally invested over something so meaningless, you end up looking something like this. That’s from 2005, when Denver beat New England in the AFC Divisional playoffs. Last year I had a mental breakdown after the Colts came back in the AFC Championship, and by mental breakdown, I mean inexplicable constipation and erectile dysfunction. Now? To borrow a line from Isaac Brock (what Emerson blog would be complete without a Modest Mouse reference? I love Wes Anderson and cocaine), this plane is totally crashing. And I can’t seem to find my barf bag, so it looks like I have little alternative but to throw up in my mouth.

Then again, when you bet the house on 18, there’s always a chance you’ll soon be tasting your own vomit.