This is my first article in a long time.  As an avid Pats fan, I didn’t want to jinx anything before the Super Bowl, and immediately after, I was afraid any sort of penmanship would transform mid-sentence into a suicide note.  Before the game, I imagined every losing scenario possible; preparing myself for the inevitable colonoscopy-like violation that is a Super Bowl loss in person.  Now that it’s over, the pain lingers, but I try to remind myself that I’m blessed with a healthy family, a great education, and loyal friends (some of whom revealed there true classless colors with post-game texts and will be receiving excessive hate mail when the Knicks flop and realize that Jeremy Lin isn’t Pete Maravich.)  But here I am, bitter and heartbroken, taking shots at the Knicks in a blog not even half way through the season to appease my own anger.  The astonishing part is just how angry I really am.  The next person that tells me I’m lucky to at least have been at the game because “it was a great game,” will get punched in his/her face while I blast the “Cape Fear” soundtrack.

If my father or any of his brothers read this, they’d slap me in my smug face.  I’ve lived a privileged sports life.  More than privileged.  The Red Sox, Bruins, Celtics and Patriots all have won in my lifetime.  Not just in my lifetime, but late enough that I can vividly remember every championship.  The truth is, I’m luckier than any New York sports fan, and I’m not just saying that out of the venomous hatred I have for everything New York (except bagels and lox, that’s a universal win).  No city has experienced the glory that Boston has recently, but that’s just my problem.  I fear, deep down, that we’ve peaked.  Like Darius Miles or 50 Cent, my best days are behind me.  I’ve settled with the fact that the Celtics, though always dangerous, are at the end of a run I’ll always be grateful for.  The Patriots, well they have as good of a chance as any next year, but there’s just a lingering sensation that my football happiness left with Mike Vrabel.  Even though I love Bobby Valentine, the Red Sox are in disarray to the point that I might have to borrow a couple of their beers for my sorrows.  As much as I care about the Bruins, I can’t claim them of equal importance to me as the other major sports.

I’ll miss the days when the Patriots were underdogs, and seemingly mandated from up above to win Super Bowls.  I’ll miss that unforgettable moment of KG hugging Bill Russell after beating the pretty boy Lakers.  But when I think about missing these things, I think about the Red Sox 2004 run.  I think of watching my dad’s face, vulnerable and vivacious like I’ve never seen before, embracing me while we watched Keith Foulke underhand toss the ball to Doug Mientkiewicz, fearful of fumbling a city’s history.  His dad died when he was 15, and he never got to see the Boston Red Sox win a World Series.  That’s a moment that will always trump a Welker dropped ball, or a David Tyree flash of brilliance.   Perspective is important for us Boston fans, now more than ever, and watching a grown man I’ve always admired jump in glee because he was able to share something with me he never could with his father is as humbling as it gets.  Knowing that it’s been a historic decade for Boston sports has helped/helps console the vicious loss.  Plus, somebody outside the stadium bought my used Super Bowl ticket after the game for $20.  Generic, cheap liquor it is.

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