Week one
The game: Chiefs at Patriots
The beer: Maine Lunch India Pale Ale
The result: Loss, 42–27; Falcons win, 23–17
The commentary: “There goes the no-hitter,” as I would say—every time—in the days when I attended Red Sox games. “Patriots eat shit in front of God and everyone,” says some “unionized” basement-dweller under the Deadspin banner. It happens. Check with us in January, Emma.

Losing Thursday was weird. I started the game later than I’d hoped after A. pouted a bit over Project Runway’s postponement (it is pretty great so far), catching up to the broadcast at halftime and assuming Belichick would straighten everyone out in the interval. Maybe next weekend.

After a fast start by Brady that pointed to blowout city, the Chiefs outclassed the good guys in literally every way. Offense, defense, special teams, coaching, general enthusiasm. The new banner was blue, right? The Pats were wound too tight, made evident after Gronk’s overturned touchdown—he appeared to have the wind knocked out of him (let’s hope that’s all it was) and recovered enough to never enjoy himself. No one did. The gloom stuck as Amendola and Hightower went down, various defenders got dusted like it’s Tecmo Bowl and Mike Gillislee scored three touchdowns when he wasn’t stuffed on fourth down(s). By quarter to midnight—this was a long game—I fought to stay awake for, I don’t know, principles. I’m still paying for that. At least the undefeated talk can go away, “We’re on to New Orleans” and all. I just don’t know if talk of this historically bad defensive performance will disappear so quickly.

What doesn’t disappear is the past. (Right, Mark Wahlberg? Manage to make it through this one?) Hours of new LI-centric television will heal all opening-week wounds, even if Edelman’s shameless, douche-y plug of his children’s book throughout America’s Game means less screen time for the always affable LeGarrette Blount and the insightful and rightly proud Dont’a Hightower—“Duntuh” addressing Orange Is the New Black is a nice touch. A rerun of February’s Turning Point (answer: Hightower’s strip-sack), Top Ten highlighting an odd selection of Brady’s “best wins of all time” (XLIX at number four??) and—saving the best for last—Do Your Job, Part II will keep me afloat until Sunday. It’s a looong season, despite levels of panic that should be reserved for hurricanes and, you know, incompetent presidents. Patriots fans are the worst.

On the bright side, the Thursday game meant Sunday was wide open to eat away at my stomach. G. attended a fun bowling party at Market Street in Lynnfield, allowing A. and me to duck out for some adult time. And so: Starbucks! It was the first stop even though we neglected the Lululemon/Ezekiel Elliott (!) dress code. Ineffective window shades demanded indoor sunglasses as we stared in horror at preteen girls ordering Frappuccinos and wondered when G. and her friends would begin stunting their growth at the hometown coffee shop. You’re in for a future of headaches, ladies, should you ever fail to get your caffeine fix before noon.

A. left a bit before one to do some shopping while I nursed my coffee and wondered why the CBS Sports app wasn’t displaying anyone’s picks yet. What does it take? Eventually, by the time I walked over to Kings to pick G. up, the early-game blanks were filled in and a convincing majority—thirty-six out of what ballooned to fifty-seven of us, as if this thing wasn’t already dragging into next season—went with the Steelers over the Browns or the Bills over the Jets. They all had a lot less to worry about than I did, with the fragile Falcons—in a game that would have ruined their season and beyond had they blown it—keeping things interesting with my heart pounding and my palms sweating on the wheel circa four o’clock. Exiting the Trader Joe’s parking lot I knew the Bears—isn’t is always the Bears?—were advancing and time was expiring. I awaited Iggy proclaiming “Yeah!” out of my phone to signal either a game-tying score by the Bears (and a deciding PAT attempt to come) or the end of the game—oh, to be able to assign different ringtones to different outcomes. Iggy kindly sounded off at a red light and a peek at Android Oreo’s creamy-filling notifications indicated survival, barely, prompting an apology to my family for several minutes of agitated silence. I am not cut out for this.

Houston’s handful of fans were not so lucky—I’ve been on both ends of that. They and someone who miscalculated a Cardinals rebound represent the weekend’s six losses, as my silver-lining scenario of the Pats taking people down with them never panned out. Drag. At least I already won the privacy contest since no one else chose to mistrust the inter-net and obscure his or her last name and email address. Good luck with that next credit report, losers. Otherwise, with all participants given two strikes and no buybacks, the magic number is one hundred six. Good lord.

Up next: Tom Brady improves upon his bottom-dwelling completion percentage. Cheers!