Week sixteen
The game: Patriots at Jets
The beer: Berkshire Cabin Fever Ale
The result: Loss, 26–20
The commentary: Shades of Nausea! The Jets game was disjointed in that G. and I suffered through the ugly first half at home, then ran off to the local toy store and café before I was to meet Hector, Ivan and Ivan’s brother Oleg at the Common Ground in lovely Allston ahead of their appalling Mighty Mighty Bosstones concert a few hours later. Their concert. “CG” was the place at one point and we were there every Friday. And then? And then! While we got old, moved to the suburbs and had kids, CG was assaulted by automobile-shaped projectiles (we used to sit behind that window) and rebuilt itself as a Eurotrash haven for people who prefer their bar tops slightly too tall for their stools. I wrote of this… progress… during my “abbreviated” playlist back in May after pounding a couple of beers before a Blues Explosion show. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Raining, listening on the radio, concert plans later that evening. And defeat. The parallels with that Bengals/Misfits Sunday were carved in stone ages ago. From the café I dropped A. and G. at home right as Scott Zolak was stepping all over Bob Socci’s call of Gronk’s game-tying touchdown—along the lines of “Touchd–” “NNNHHHHH!11!!1”—and was excited to hear a likely overtime on my way south. As I passed the first of two strip clubs (plus a Hooters) that mark our daily commute, heads was the call and heads was the result. Driving to endanger for a second or two I literally made the “receive” gesture with both hands and anticipated discussing a hard-fought victory with the boys. Ladies and gentlemen, Tom Brady! However.

Belichick had other ideas. Ideas that relied more upon Logan Ryan and Jordan Richards than Brady and Gronk. (Ideas that Zolak blindly defended as soon as the decision was announced. Literally “I love this call,” if I remember right, followed by several slurred consonants. I’ve come around on him as an astute analyst when he wants to be, which unfortunately isn’t very often. How many broadcasters shout themselves hoarse before a game is half over? So yeah, aside from making Socci’s job harder, punctuating every other play with guttural discharges, pouting when the Pats play poorly, openly whining when the opponent is getting the calls and offering no criticism whatsoever of the countless strategic decisions that Belichick makes over the coarse of a football season? He’s quite good.) All season I’ve been reading about how strong this defense is, that nothing is lacking with the departures of Revis and Browner. On paper it might be true. This was their chance to prove it, to earn the team home-field advantage throughout the playoffs, and they failed without giving their once-in-a-lifetime quarterback the ball. Is this what we ride into the postseason? Is this familiar? Drag.

If only it were always as easy and free to park in Allston as it is during a college-break Sunday. After a quick pitcher at CG we crossed over to the Sunset Grill & Tap, where there is such a thing as too many options. Particularly when your table isn’t very large. What is it with bar furniture around there? We shot the shit for a couple of hours, openly wondered what the hell was going on with the Packers and made grand plans to attend this year’s New England Brewfest. Oleg might even fly in from Oregon, where beer and beer-drinkers are scarce. Grand plans hatched over heavy beer always work out, right? They asked if I was “still writing that nonsense” (paraphrased) and so I’ve added yonder subscribe-by-email field for their benefit. Who even reads blogs anymore? Who ever read mine?

Week seventeen
The game: Patriots at Dolphins
The beer: Jack’s Abby Lashes Red Lager
The result: Loss, 20–10
The commentary: A. and I were looong asleep on the couch by the time January 1 rolled around so it’s a good thing we brought G. to Beverly’s “family ball drop” at seven o’clock New Year’s Eve to celebrate. Upon that countdown’s conclusion, hundreds (thousands?) of beach balls were tossed out of the third floor of a downtown bank. Pictured, the look on my face reads “There is no way they have enough for all these kids.” But they did! Oh, the power of branding.

“Please keep Ndamukong Suh away from Brady’s and Gronkowski’s knees.” I am not paranoid. This game was strange all over—Brady playing (mostly) throughout indicates the Pats were taking it seriously and trying to win… with a vanilla game plan and, toward the end, a headset-less head coach that betrayed what might actually have been a “Let’s get out of here” lack of effort. Did they lose because they played poorly or because they didn’t care? I’m sure Belichick will let us know.

Our quarterback is limping. Ho-hum, nothing to fear. Erm…

The Jack’s Abby was labeled an “IPL.” India pale lager? I don’t even know what that is. If only there were websites dedicated to people letting you know that your favorite beer sucks. I enjoyed it despite the flames and will stick with a “red lager” designation since IPL could stand for Ministry’s upcoming Ingrown Penile Laundromutt boxed set for all I know. Looking good, Al.

Up next: An interesting hometown development highlights the bye week. There will be beer. Happy new year!