Monday, September 08, 2008
The Lord's day
Many people spend their Sundays in church. They put on their finery and get up early and head to their sacred space of choice for a day of prayer. While I'm a CEO Catholic (Christmas-Easter only), that doesn't mean I don't observe the same tradition of Sunday worshipfulness, except my Sunday best is a Lofa Tatupu jersey, my church of choice is called Josie Wood's Pub, and my religion is the National Football League. I may be a heretical Catholic for cheating on my spiritual faith with a professional sports league, but football is worth the time I might spend in purgatory for that. Anyway, chances are I'm headed for the big brimstone bath downstairs what with all my fornication and abortion-having and eating meat of Fridays in Lent and partial gayness, so skipping Mass for football is basically a no-brainer.
Yesterday, I felt like it was Christmas morning. I woke up early, cruised down to the Village, and was seated at my usual table at my usual football bar by 12:15, catching up with what all the other regulars were up to during the off-season. Then all my boys showed up by the time the 1 pm game started, which was very exciting because my buddy G-Cat is a Bills fan (he showed up in a Lee Evans jersey he claims to have "pulled from the clearance bin"), and that's who the Seahawks were playing. I was busy alternately shit-talking G-Cat and shit-texting another Bills fan in our Fantasy league while I watched the unfortunate manner in which that game unfolded (the Seahawks played like shit overall, Julius Jones can lick my twat because he's sure not doing it for me on the football field so he may as well make himself useful otherwise, and our lack of decent receivers has never been more glaringly obvious), when something amazing happened.
On another TV nearby, the Patriots were playing the Chiefs. Suddenly, the bar erupted in cheers of approval and excitement directed at that television. I turned my attention away from the Bills-Seahawks game and saw a beautiful sight: Mr. Perfect himself, Tom Brady, writhing around on the field clutching his knee and screaming.
Now, while I'm usually not inclined to wish severe, potentially crippling injury on anyone, I have no problem whatsoever doing this on my football enemies. Of those enemies, the ones who draw the vast majority of my evil thoughts are those wearing either a Patriots or a Pittsburgh Steelers uniform. While not everyone is as pissed about Super Bowl XL as I am, almost everyone in New York (and anywhere not in New England) can relate to my anti-Pats sentiments. The mood in Josie Wood's was one of decided elation, save the one dour-looking guy in a Randy Moss jersey and my conundrum of a friend NeisMan, a Giants fan wearing a Jet Favre jersey who stocked his entire Fantasy team with Patriots, including Mr. Perfect. He was so distraught by Brady's injury that in addition to probably frantically attempting to acquire Matt Cassel from the waiver wire, he changed his team name from "Mora's Patriots" to ":-(" in order to better reflect his prospects for Fantasy dominance this season. I got a text from a friend who had been battling the flu and advised me as to his recovery: "I'm somewhat better but mostly because I got to hear Tom Brady screaming in pain. That warmed my evil heart. I mean, he was shrieking like a goddamn woman. It was magnificent."
Now, while I'm usually not inclined to wish severe, potentially crippling injury on anyone, I have no problem whatsoever doing this on my football enemies. Of those enemies, the ones who draw the vast majority of my evil thoughts are those wearing either a Patriots or a Pittsburgh Steelers uniform. While not everyone is as pissed about Super Bowl XL as I am, almost everyone in New York (and anywhere not in New England) can relate to my anti-Pats sentiments. The mood in Josie Wood's was one of decided elation, save the one dour-looking guy in a Randy Moss jersey and my conundrum of a friend NeisMan, a Giants fan wearing a Jet Favre jersey who stocked his entire Fantasy team with Patriots, including Mr. Perfect. He was so distraught by Brady's injury that in addition to probably frantically attempting to acquire Matt Cassel from the waiver wire, he changed his team name from "Mora's Patriots" to ":-(" in order to better reflect his prospects for Fantasy dominance this season. I got a text from a friend who had been battling the flu and advised me as to his recovery: "I'm somewhat better but mostly because I got to hear Tom Brady screaming in pain. That warmed my evil heart. I mean, he was shrieking like a goddamn woman. It was magnificent."
It was indeed magnificent, and most of New York also thought so. According to the New York Times' (lame and boring) NFL Blog, the entire crowd at the Times Square ESPN Zone "roared with delight" when Brady's season bit the dust. The author wonders why, and says that "saying the Patriots are rivals of the Jets, and, to a lesser extent, the Giants is not a great excuse." Sounds like a fine enough excuse to me. In fact, the Patriots are rivals of EVERY team in the NFL to a certain degree, since we all were rooting for those insufferably arrogant cheaters to get their richly deserved karmic due. I've hated them so blindly and irrationally that I made a foolish bet with my Pats-praising ex-boyfriend, which resulted in my total humiliation on the internets last Christmas. Most of the country took great pleasure watching them lose Super Bowl XLII, and I get an extra special thrill of delight thinking of the five spectacular sacks the New York Football Giants' linebackers and defensive tackles laid on his prissy golden ass. I still get just a little bit hot when I hear Chris Berman describe the 2007 Patriots season as "historic but imperfect," so watching the Patriots' icon of vain dickheadery go down in a blaze of girlish screaming is, to say the least, extremely satisfying.
Even though it's little consolation knowing that Brady's going to spend the next year off "rehabbing" (running around in J. Crew turtlenecks and banging Gisele), and Belichick will probably not say a word about Brady's injury and just list him as questionable for the rest of the season, I can't help but laugh with great joy and mirth at this new downturn in the Pats' fortunes. If Sunday football is my religion, then I am shouting "Halle-fucking-lujah!" and "Praise Cheese-sauce!" at the top of my lungs, because I just witnessed the divine at work in Kansas City.
Labels: Fantasia, fuck the Pats, I LOVE IT, NFL football, sportsmen
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