The game: Patriots at Falcons
The beer: The Tap Sassy Rabbit Rye Ale
The result: Win, 30–23
The commentary: One night last week I stayed a little late at work and walked the Greenway to North Station for my ride home. I knew the carousel had finally reopened (great idea to renovate over the summer, fellas) but I was not prepared for how G-ready the work had made it. Owls! Squirrels! Butterflies! Whales! Turtles! It’s a favorite-animal extravaganza, all we’re missing are elephants and monkeys. I texted A. that we must venture into the city on Saturday and blow G’s little mind. So that’s what we did.

After breakfast at Flour, where G. devoured an egg sandwich and made eyes with a friendly old haberdasher or statistician or something, we walked along the missing shadow of 93 and found one of the whimsical “Play Me, I’m Yours” pianos scattered about the city (a series of public art installations). A. and I temporarily got over our fear of germs and plopped G. right onto the devil’s bench, stepped back and listened to her bash out a passable version of “The Court of the Crimson King.” Impressive talent! Impressive parenting.

The carousel was the expected hit. Mom rode with G. first and dad the second and third times. It was wonderful, though the moments when your child’s heart is actively breaking as you walk away from all they desire are the hardest. After an extended stop at the Artist’s Impulse Jewelry Purchase Fair we swung by Atlantic Wharf, watched some tourists throw tea into Fort Point Channel (the same body of water that swallowed my old phone) and helped some Boston expats take a family picture, marveling with them at what that part of the city had been only a few years earlier: the Federal Reserve, the Harpoon brewery and a mile-wide parking lot in between.

Passage of time is a remarkable thing. Forgetting for a moment that my daughter is two—two!—we’ve owned a home for five years. I’ve been at the same job for more than seven and married almost as long. Publishing, resignation and unemployment are ten years behind. Regular Friday visits to the Common Ground (who only started calling themselves “CG” after we did) ended a four-year run a dozen years ago, shortly before I moved to Northampton. $9.99 Harp twelve-packs. Parking in her landlord’s driveway. Half-Life. Butthole Surfers on “the beach.” ER at Boston City. Patrick Roy. What were you doing in 1998? 1992? There’s just no way.

The game… I don’t remember. Not much actual football writing so far this year. The late comeback was a little daunting and reminded us that, no matter what any homers have to say, this defense still sucks. Nice progress by the offense though and hopefully that can keep improving. The beer? “Bunnee!” Not as good as its label.

Up next: The Patriots travel to Cincinnati. The Misfits travel to Nashua. Cheers!