Week one
The game: Patriots at Cardinals
The beer: Harpoon Sticke Altbier
The result: Win, 23–21; Texans win, 23–14
The commentary: Whoops! Well that wasn’t supposed to happen. Dry those tears, thirty-one other teams. Meet the new boss, etc.

Such hubris! It’s a win and one that may not even matter much in the long run (away against a non-conference opponent) but did usher in some confidence in favor of uncertainty. Garoppolo can play. Parting with Chandler Jones was the right move as he once again failed to make a leap (“which he would have by now if it were going to happen”) against notable blackmailer Marcus Cannon. No major injuries except for Hightower, who still managed to finish the game (though probably won’t today). This is already an exciting season. Not that fifteen other teams can’t say the same.

The Texans pulled one out after giving me fits during brunch. Brock Osweiler may or may not be the real deal but I won’t give a shit after week three in Foxborough. This afternoon, I dream of the Panthers bouncing back on extra rest, hosting the cross-country-flight, short-turnaround 49ers. To once again quote Napoléon Bonaparte on his way to Moscow: “I’m feeling pretty good.”

In other news, G. is a week into kindergarten and it’s a welcome change for her to not come home covered in mud every day like with summer camp. Her baths the past three months might have single-handedly triggered and maintained the drought. It’s great not having to mow my lawn more than once a month (thanks, mandatory water ban!) but not at the expense of the river, seemingly at an all-time low. We walked along it yesterday afternoon to look at the turtles and ducks and the water level was higher than I’ve seen since the spring. Unfortunately, a month or so ago I noticed a young turtle must have gotten stranded on a log sticking into the air and never made it back down. Its pitiable, roasted little corpse was still there yesterday and broke my heart some more. This season is dedicated to him or her, much as my May playlist was to the “doomed” Kathleen Hanna, weeks before she and her total recovery dropped a new the Julie Ruin album and commenced an enviable world tour. Happy to hear it, of course, but that’s what I get for relying on yet-to-be-updated Wikipedia pages. Similar good fortune, little turtle.

Six years of beer and football and nary a Harpoon in the bunch. For such an omnipresent brewer, local or otherwise, their stuff is generally poor. The IPA is literally everywhere in New England—I defy bearded hipsters to find a dive bar, exclusive seaside resort or Cheesecake Factory without it on tap. (Speaking of bearded hipsters, excellent local brewer Notch is hosting a release party for a new IPA called “Raw Power.” They have found my weakness but I’ll wait a few days and avoid the invitation for people to bring their own proto-punk vinyl to spin. Vinyl is stupid and you are all assholes. Enjoy dropping thirty bucks on the next sham Replacements reissue.) Sam Adams is also impossible to miss but at least it’s a good beer and probably an excellent one.

The one Harpoon I used to like (and this was back when Bass Ale was one of my favorites, so tread lightly) was an “Alt” called just that. It was the only of theirs I could tolerate once the near-decent Winter Warmer was designated for extreme clove and nutmeg enthusiasts only. Good lord. The alt expanded my beer palate without informing me of what “alt” meant (history tells us to never dive too deeply into a German’s way of doing things) and then disappeared sometime between early college and adulthood. I tried two more altbiers a few beer-and-football seasons ago, taking one step forward and one back: the Haverhill exploded all over my kitchen but was nonetheless excellent while the Cody was unfavorable all around. So at Stop & Shop last week, browsing the bombers for a truly-meaningful-first-regular-season-game, the Sticke and its generous shelf space presented a conundrum. Would this be similar to the alt of my youth? To the mixed bag of 2011? Did I even like the Harpoon in the first place or was it their least offensive product? Is it admitted failure to release limited-edition beers? Regardless, I did enjoy it. It won’t be the best of the season but it didn’t inspire regret either—that’s the best you can hope for after grocery shopping on Route 1, a few miles from two strip clubs and a few more from Hooters. I’ll bet you can find Harpoon IPA at all three.

Up next: Ndamukong Suh’s capability to injure scares me more than Ryan Tannehill’s to throw touchdowns. Cheers!