The Worst News Ever

Well, that was unexpected.

The Patriots are not supposed to lose. After an 18-0 season, going into the Superbowl playing the Giants should have been a breeze. A cakewalk. The Red Sox win the World Series another year, the Celtics have made a comeback to become one of the best teams in the league, and the Bruins…well, God love them, they try. But the Pats were a shoe-in. No sweat. The Giants SUCK. They SUCK! This WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME TOM? CAN YOU MAKE ONE GOOD THROW? OR WOULD YOU JUST RATHER STAND THERE UNTIL THEY TACKLE YOU? APPARENTLY YOU WOULD. AND BILL, WHY DID YOU HAVE TO WEAR A FUCKING RED SWEATSHIRT? WHY?!

Ahem.

There were parts of the game that felt familiar to me, but in the wrong context. As a Boston sports fan, I’ve suffered endless disappointment -- heart-wrenching, cringe-worthy, devastating disappointment at the hands of the Red Sox. The feeling of getting your hopes up, making it so far, only to have it ripped from your hands and shoved down your throat. But the Patriots are not supposed to cause this kind of disappointment. The Red Sox are the abusive boyfriend that we could never break up with, the unemployed alcoholic who kept beating the shit out of us but we could never say no to and kept coming back to. The Patriots were the nice, handsome guy who never failed to let us nurse our wounds or cry on his shoulder; who was successful and had a good job and came from a nice family. After another harsh blow by the Sox every October, we could readily turn to the reliable Pats to bring us to a happy victory in the post season. But now the tables have turned. The Red Sox have cleaned up their act and gotten their shit together. And the Patriots are the ones who got our hopes up and brought us all the way to the end, only to blindside us with a backhand blow that we never saw coming.

In the last few nailbiting minutes, I also felt the same feeling I got every time my team in high school, whether it be field hockey, basketball, or lacrosse, suddenly found ourselves down but with the possibility of a comeback with little time left. I can still vividly picture the faces and reactions of all my coaches when we would come running to the sidelines during a timeout, whether down a goal with one minute left or down five points with five minutes left. My lacrosse coach always remained calm, icily dishing out a play command, with no need to raise her voice because we were all perfectly aware of the suicides and five miler we’d be running after the game if we lost. My basketball coach would yell, emphasizing each individual word as if it would give us the extra oomph we needed to get ahead. My field hockey coach never said a word. We would all run over, and I would be the one rattling off instructions to everyone while she stood there silently, and when I finished, I’d look to her for a nod before we got back on the field. (Varsity captain, thank you very much.) My lacrosse coach at NYU was a screamer. What every situation had in common was the same heart-pounding anxiety, the same anxiety I felt while watching the final minutes of the game tonight. The only difference was that this time I couldn’t run out onto the field, completely fired up and ready to do whatever it took to win. I had to sit there, literally on the edge of my seat, Lauren’s fingernails digging into my arm, chewing my fingernails off as the final seconds ticked down. And then had to stop myself from throwing plates on the ground, smashing my mom’s crystal bowl, and stabbing a fork in my eye.

On a different, but lighter note, my mother is the only person I know who would serve salsa con queso in a Tiffany’s crystal bowl, and have quiche at a superbowl party.

My dad is now fuming in his study, probably dreading work tomorrow since he does most of his business with New York, and I am fuming on the couch, dreading going back to New York tomorrow.

At least I didn’t have to watch the game with any Giants fans.