The game: Patriots at Broncos
The beer: Founders All-Day India Pale Ale
The result: Loss, 30–24
The commentary: In comparing and contrasting Vince Wilfork and Logan Mankins, beyond the obvious black/white and offensive line/defensive line, one result is obvious: Wilfork’s career with the Pats was bookended by Super Bowl victories (2004 to 2014) while Mankins’s spanned the full trophy-less period in between (2005 to 2013). Fascinating! “Before Vince” defines a period of success that was not yet over; “Before Logan,” a period of success that, though unknown at the time, had already terminated. “After Vince” is a period of renewed success, to which he contributed, with hope for more; “After Logan,” this team hadn’t won a Super Bowl in nine years.

Similarly, two distinct whens may have emerged in the Biff/Bang/Pow sector of yonder World Wide Web. “Before Floyd” raised a white flag where “three hours of entropy in Kansas City” marked the end of a run of sustained dominance—since 2001—that had not always been measured in championships. Darkness overwhelmed as gradual worsening seemed inevitable. Until it reversed. Another trophy and ten straight regular-season victories later, I decided to revisit the moment of panic and alter not only a silly playlist but also, perhaps, fate itself. Are we now rutted in “After Floyd”? Is the team doomed to futility until, say, Wilfork signs a one-day contract to retire a Patriot? Will fans forever debate the merits of “The Embryo”? What have I done?

No matter. You (!) haven’t even listened to the whole thing anyway.

Oh, undefeated season. Your kind is certainly hard to grasp, though did I ever really believe in its possibility after the unpleasantness? Twelve wins is commendable and fourteen is attainable but who gives a shit once the final win comes in February. That remains the goal.

Sunday night, in which Brock Osweiler reminded everyone of the Brady/Bledsoe debate and Gronk scared the living shit out of a fanbase that immediately jumped to “Why can’t Belichick surround Brady with more talent?!” panic (they have a point, this time), the game really was remarkable in that it took a hostile environment, injuries, bad officiating (on both sides) and overtime for the Broncos to win. I have to hand it to Brady (and Gostkowski) for coming back in regulation but also to Osweiler for not throwing up on himself. It will be interesting to see how everything plays out at five thousand feet over the next ten months. (Said altitude had to be what caused Collinsworth to pronounce “breadbasket” as “bread-bahh-sket” when Tavon Wilson slammed Osweiler to the turf. You can only suppress your Dayton Brahmin heritage for so long there, Chris.)

The “All Day IPA,” which I edit to a hyphenated “All-Day IPA” because it is a compound goddamn adjective, was perfect for an extended Thanksgiving weekend with the in-laws. Session beer is a must when presented with ten hours of football and puzzling halftime performances. (It also prevents a morning-after hangover from snapping at your hosts when your four-year-old daughter is allowed to wander into a living room where Fox News is showing the fallout of another mass shooting and declaring that all is well.) I had a weird discussion with A. last night after Coldplay was announced as this season’s Super Bowl act. Who cares? Who tunes in just for the halftime show? “My mom and I always did.” Really? I haven’t missed a Super Bowl since XVII in 1983 (Redskins–Dolphins, family room floor, Chinese food) and I remember two halftime shows from before February (Katy Perry, and just see if I remember her a year from now): U2 during XXXVI (Hector’s house, Ivan’s infant daughter in my arms) and the Wardrobe Malfunction during XXXVIII (first night in our barely furnished Cambridge apartment, pizza, Steve). Two Patriots games. Two situations in which I was compelled to watch. Likely, the two most high-profile performances in decades, what with the 9/11 tribute and the nipple. Those first two are the reasons I saw them at all and the last is why I remember them still. But what others? Since U2 and prior to Katy Perry, the good guys have appeared in four others, and I can’t name or place a wrinkled rock band, lip-syncing R&B superstar or jingoistic country hack. And yet there are people out there, maybe even people I’ve married, who can. I know nothing about—or around—football.

Oh, and that bit last week about McCourty and Harmon “perfecting the bad angle” and “whenever we do lose it will surely be their fault”? Local knower of things Mike Reiss offered some rare pointed criticism along those lines in a piece titled “Tackling in Patriots’ secondary a top issue to address from loss”: “safeties struggled to tackle and shed blocks”; “Harmon having a chance to bring Anderson down at the 30 and failing to do so because of poor technique”; “McCourty missed a tackle in the backfield”; “Harmon bounced off Anderson while attempting a touchdown-saving tackle”; “Harmon’s poor angle on Ronnie Hillman’s 19-yard touchdown run in the second quarter”; “McCourty taking heat from former teammate Talib about all those live kittens he once ate on a dare.” I left out the deserved scrutiny of Butler, Ryan and Chung (who usually plays more like a linebacker) to focus on those who are specifically on the field to defend against the big play. It’s a wonder how much Pro Bowl talk McCourty gets during national broadcasts from people who don’t have to watch him every week.

Up next: It’s either “We got a lot, a lot of culture” or “I ain’t no goddamn son of a bitch.” Cheers!