Posted tagged ‘New England Patriots’

“Colder by the hour, more dead with every breath.”

January 15, 2017

This morning I just didn’t want to get out of bed. It was 9:15 when I first woke up. Considering how late I went to bed, I figured it was too early to get up so I snuggled under the covers and went back to sleep. I slept until 10. Maddie started howling. Gracie was snoring. I decided the bed was too warm and I was too comfy so I went back to sleep. It was easy. I slept another hour so it was close to 11 when I dragged myself out of bed. I have no guilt at sleeping the morning away. I have no obligations, no errands and no chores though I could do a laundry, but I won’t.

Last night I want the Patriots beat the Texans. It wasn’t the Pats best game as Brady was intercepted and sacked, but my Pats prevailed. The game started late, 8:15, and ended late so my friends and I decided to make it an evening. First, we ate Chinese and played Phase 10, our favorite game. I happened to win. Clare and I alternate winning. Tony hasn’t won since last March. We’re planning a gala for his anniversary of one year without a win. He isn’t looking forward to the festivities.

It was cold last night, 24˚, so today at 34˚ feels warmer. The low this evening will be 19˚. When I lived in Ghana, it was hot and dry in January. It was harmattan. Dust blew over everything. The sun was obscured. Rain was months away. My candle melted without being lit. The water was often turned off. I took bucket baths, and I had to take a few before I got the knack. I got good at it.

During Peace Corps staging, a time when we all came together for nearly a week before leaving for Ghana, I was asked if I minded going to the north. My response was to ask why the question. What was it about the north? The psychologist asking the question didn’t know the answer. I told him I didn’t care where in Ghana I was to be posted. That settled it. I went to the far north, the Upper Region. I even knew before I left staging I was going to be in Bolgatanga. The remote posting areas were filled first. That was Bolga. That was the place with a long dry season when days reached 100˚ or more. I think of that this time of year, the coldest time of year here in New England, but if I were given a choice between the two, the hot, hot dry days or the freezing days and nights, I’d chose the cold. I couldn’t escape the heat, but I can always bundle up to escape the cold.

“Football combines two of the worst things in American life. It is violence punctuated by committee meetings.”

January 7, 2013

A good afternoon to you all! It seems I slept away the morning. Because the clock in my bedroom doesn’t work, I had no idea the time when I finally got out of bed. Fern and Gracie were with me, and they stretched and greeted me before we went downstairs. I got a shock when I saw it was after eleven. My neighbors must have been thinking about calling the rescue squad as my newspapers were still in the driveway. My morning ritual doesn’t change despite the hour so I took my time and read the papers with my coffee and did the crosswords puzzles and the cryptogram before I opened my computer. The sun which greeted me when I finally crawled out of bed is gone now. I guess I missed most of it. Now the sky is filled with clouds which have darkened the day. I have to go out and fill the feeders so I hope it doesn’t rain.

My dance card for the week has dinner with a friend, a doctor’s appointment and breakfast with friends on Friday. I can’t remember the last time it was so filled. One event a week has been the average. I don’t ever count Sunday breakfast as that is a ritual as is Sunday game night with my friends when we do appies and dessert with games in between, mostly Phase 10 and Sorry. Who’d ever think that a game like Sorry would be the source for such language, blue language which hangs in the air over our heads. Sunday is the one day I try never to book anything else. Next Sunday will still be game day, but not our game day. Next Sunday is football and the Patriots.

I always think of my Dad when the Pats are in play-off games. He was an ardent fan who would be thrilled at the success of the Pats. His first allegiance, when I was a kid, had been to the NY Giants but that was before the AFL and the Boston Patriots. He quickly became a Pats fan, but they were the lowly Pats who appeared only once in a championship where they were trounced. My father, though, never gave up. He watched every game from his spot on the couch. I really mean his spot as no one else ever sat there. It was his seat. My dad would jump up and yell and curse at the TV when the Pats fumbled or the other team scored. Most of the time my mother and I sat in the kitchen playing games. My mother never liked sports of any kind so I’d keep her company but I’d periodically check on the game.

If my parents were still with us, I’d go up to their house next Sunday, and we’d all watch the game together, even my mother. She, however, had no inkling as to how the game of football is played. A couple of times she rooted for the other team. We never said anything. She was just trying to be good fan.

“Pro football is like nuclear warfare. There are no winners, only survivors.”

February 5, 2012

It’s a sunny but cold winter’s day, typical for this time of year. From my den perch, I can see the brown leaves barely fluttering so the day is a calm one. My sister in Colorado got two feet of snow, and it was 3° last night. Compared to her, I live on a tropical island. The house feels warmer today. I know it’s psychological as the temperature in the house doesn’t fluctuate, but cloudy days make me feel colder.

Super Bowl Sunday has finally arrived. Yesterday I saw more men than I’ve ever seen shopping at the grocery store. Carts were filled with chips and dips and ribs and all sorts of game day food. My cart was no exception. I’m making a Boboli pizza with goat cheese and pine nuts and a cheese dip you bake in the oven. I’ll haul both of them down the street to my friends’ house. They too will have game day treats. After this, I’ll have to start practicing my cheering for the Pats and my booing for the Giants.

I don’t have Patriot’s or Bruin’s gear. I just have Red Sox and Celtics sweatshirts and t-shirts. I don’t know why no Patriot stuff, but I’m not a hockey fan which explains my lack of Bruin’s gear. I went to a hockey college and saw almost every home game, but that was cheering for my team and had little to do with the game itself. I know about icing, offsides and high-sticking but that’s it. I am hockey ignorant. I know baseball best of all.

My nephew played soccer starting when he was five and finishing after four years on a full scholarship at Oregon State. My sister talked hockey every phone call for every one of those years. We couldn’t have a conversation without the latest game news, a description of Ryan’s spectacular plays and a run down on the teams themselves. I feigned interest and made joyful noises at all the right places. I made the trip to New York, to Marist, to see him play. It was my only chance to watch him. He waved when he saw me, and that made the long trip worthwhile. I watched a game about which I knew almost nothing. I knew about using your head or feet, red cards, offsides and penalty kicks and I knew the target was the net. That was it. I was not a soccer fan. I was my nephew’s fan.

Tonight we’ll be screaming and complaining and maybe even swearing; okay, we’ll definitely be swearing. I hope at the end we’ll be on our feet cheering a victory for the home team!

“If my mother put on a helmet and shoulder pads and a uniform that wasn’t the same as the one I was wearing, I’d run over her if she was in my way. And I love my mother.”

January 23, 2012

When I woke up, I thought it was raining. I could hear drops falling to the deck from the roof, but when I came downstairs, I saw it wasn’t rain at all. It was the sound of snow melting from the eaves and the roof. It is 42° and will stay warm for the next few days. We are back in the middle of our strange winter.

My headache is gone and my teeth have stopped aching. The Patriots’ AFC game yesterday was the culprit which caused the pain. It was an amazing game, not a good game, but an amazing game, the sort that doesn’t let you relax, the sort that keeps your stomach in knots. We were on our feet with hands in the air calling each touchdown and we’d sit right back down to moan the turnovers, the lost opportunities and the threes and out. It came down to a few seconds and a kicker as to whether or not we’d go into overtime. We, my friends and I and I suspect most people watching, held our collective breaths once the ball was kicked. We watched the field goal go left of the posts, and we cheered. Bring on the Superbowl!

I am a Tom Brady fan and became even more of one yesterday. When asked about the game, Tom said, “Well I sucked pretty bad today but our defense saved us. I’m gonna go out and try and do a better job in a couple of weeks.” You have to love an honest man.

My father was a football fan. On Thanksgiving he had the record time for finishing his entire meal, including a turkey leg, so he could rush back to TV and football. In those days, I shutter to admit, he was a Giants fan because there were no Patriots.

My father was a screamer. He’d yell at poorly executed plays and moan loudly at fumbles or sacks. It didn’t matter that he was alone watching the games. He was perfectly connected with the TV and the action on the field and didn’t need anyone else. If we happened to join him, he’d just point to the TV, turn to us and ask if we’d seen the play that had him screaming. He didn’t care whether we answered.

When the Patriots won their first Superbowl, we all talked about my Dad and how much he would have loved his hometown team taking the trophy. In two weeks I’ll be thinking of him again when the Giants play the Patriots. I have no doubt as to where his allegiance would be.