The beer: Montauk Session India Pale Ale
The commentary: “Bitter? Nah.” A little, actually.

We almost missed training camp and that would have been a shame. The Patriots only release the open-to-the-public portion of the schedule a few dates at a time with little notice (shocker) and the lack of joint sessions with another team (à la the godforsaken Bears in 2016 and the Jaguars last year) left my father, G. and I adrift, waiting for the perfect day to present itself. Extreme heat and when-should-I-call-in-sick considerations derailed us until the Official Training Camp Website of the New England Patriots informed the world:

August 12 | Practice time 3:15 PM
August 13 | Practice time 9:15 AM
August 14 | Practice time 1:00 PM (final day of open practice)

The thirteenth was a Monday. “Cough, cough, sorry boss!”

Patriots fans are the worst and their pathetic turnout for the penultimate day of open practice was a godsend. We parked closer than ever, we staked out the best spot yet in all my and G’s years attending (back when training camp and the all-important third preseason game got their own posts) and cloud cover and mild temperatures were in wonderful effect. I mean, look at this. We could have gotten seats on the bleachers had we bothered. Anyway, it might be time for dress number three next year. She’s growing like a weed.

That’s the GOAT dead center, wondering who the fuck he can rely on other than Gronk, Edelman (who signed a billion autographs after practice) and my man James “Lewis” White (big year for him). Everyone had the dropsies in wet conditions, even Gronk on what would have been a beautiful touchdown right in front of us. At one point Brady was frustrated enough to punt a ball about twenty yards from us. Some dude fielded it nicely and then a golf-shirt-wearing security woman asked him to hand it over. He relented without argument and that annoyed me to no end—what right do they have to demand the ball back? There is nothing in the oversized-font FAQ. At least crack a Deflategate joke.

We got popcorn, ice cream and Gatorade at like ten in the morning. “Playing the role of Weekend Dad is…”

After a perfunctory Red Robin meal in the middle of a marathon game of hangman I thought I’d take G. to the fourth circle of hell the fifth circle of hell Ikea to shop for a big-girl desk. She’s in second grade! We had to pass through the children’s section first as part of the company’s customer-experience strategy to drive us all mad and she really took to the jungle gyms and other playground structures that somehow qualify as furniture. As if that shit will last three years. (Definitely time to exit the Swinging Sixties and get a new dress.)

Act I of every visit is entitled “I Saw This on Ikea’s Website and It Looks Cool So Let’s Go Buy It.” Act II: “We Drove to Stoughton for This Garbage? I Refuse to Leave Empty-Handed Again.” Act III, new this year: “Let’s Get This One! I Love It!” Finish it off with these drawer pulls from Home Depot, a store staffed with smug failures who can’t hack it as contractors, and she’s been glowing ever since.

The best part of visiting Ikea is leaving Ikea, even if your daughter wants to ride the escalator ramp a few times. The worst part of leaving Ikea is realizing you forgot to put the hundred-dollar gift card toward the goddamn desk. Customer service counter… take a ticket… “How much longer, Daddy?”… “I’m an idiot.” The best part of leaving Ikea is actually leaving Ikea.

What else this summer? We went back to Maine during the hottest week of the year, so at least it was slightly less hot than in Massachusetts. Ice cream helps. “Sprinkles!”

Camden put on a good fireworks show but none of those pictures came out, thanks mainly to the old couple in front of us who didn’t give a shit about blocking anyone else’s view with their gigantic chairs. Here’s one from a day or two later after beach visit number three. Sand remains everywhere.

Daddy Daughter Princess Night, you ask? Indeed! This year’s Ariel stand-in had nothing on last year’s Jasmine in the Revealing Bustline rankings. G. was bored with the game by the middle of the first inning. She had a point. A-level ball is a goddamn chore.

Last week I learned that “You know, parents are supposed to pay for their own tickets when kids are taller than forty-two inches.” I’ll get you next time, Greenway carousel dude. There’s a woman in Foxborough you should meet.

Canobie! Lake! Park! G. invited a friend this year, with whose parents I have yet to clear approval rights for use of this photo, but it’s from pretty far back and, you know, the season starts tomorrow. Here’s some kind of giant vampire clown to promote the upcoming Screemfest, designed to frighten us norms with poor spelling. The park was as deserted as I’ve seen it since school already started for many in the area. Not us! We (they) spent too much time in the water at “Castaway Island” and so couldn’t take as much advantage of the short lines elsewhere as I’d have liked but oh well, at least she finally overcame fear and morbid curiosity and entered the (disappointing) Mine of Lost Souls. Don’t let her enthusiasm to ride “Again! Again!” fool you because she was scared out of her mind the whole time. Just like…

Me! Whenever McCourty (Times Two) & Friends are defending against third and long. Good grief. Part of the defense will be better this year and part will be worse so we should even out at awful once again. Tom Brady, he of the five hundred yards in a losing effort, won’t have Edelman for four games (at least) or Amendola for any. Gronk? White? Stay pliable, men! And keep Sony Michel hydrated!

Alas, Commissioner Rico’s threat to retire from knockout-pool management was realized and no one took his place. Drag. Hey, you (I) can’t win them all—only two of five, it turns out. This year I’m taking one step closer to degeneracy by joining four (free) online pools—how much longer before I start lobbying the under-construction casino my train passes every day to get its own station? FanDuel’s pot is an outrageous two hundred fifty grand and ESPN’s and Yahoo’s aren’t too shabby either but I can’t tell if there’s an actual prize for the three-strike official NFL contest. Doubtful, with a ludicrous three strikes to factor in. My long-shot participation is just an excuse to maintain another season’s spreadsheet (primary motivation in the past, even over winning), which will be short-lived if the Titans lose to the Dolphins on Sunday. Maybe I should have picked four different games. Maybe that’s loser talk.

Up next: I’ll finish Beefheart this week if it kills me. Cheers!