The game: Patriots at Chiefs
The beer: Clown Shoes La Bestia Furiosa Mexican-Style Imperial Stout
The result: Win, 37–31
The commentary: At eighty-eight miles per hour we copyedit last week’s thrilling conclusion: “With Edelman likely unsuccessfully neutralized I’m looking to James White, Sony Michel and Chris Hogan’s cloak of invisibility impressive athleticism and hands to carry the load. (Don’t forget the Rex Burkhead widow maker!) But if melting snow and neutralizing a big freeze is your bag then anticipate a classic Gronk touchdown performance to close things out. See you in Atlanta?!1

And so it’s time to beat LA again. Sorry, “Beat LA®” again. Counting proper championships and not, you know, divisional-round wins against San Diego expats, this will be the seventh such contest in my lifetime of big-four-sports fandom, finally checking off the NFL box. Note one instance of regional treason:

Celtics vs. Lakers – 1984 / 1985 / 1987 / 2008 / 2010

Canadiens vs. Kings – 1993

Red Sox vs. Dodgers – 2018

Patriots vs. Rams – (not so fast)

I have few memories of those early Celtics series aside from ’86 against the Rockets and therefore didn’t experience a conscious, real-time win against the Lakers until the ’07/’08 run. That’s when Hector, Ivan, Oleg and I were kicked out of the Winking Lizard in suburban Cleveland once they closed at goddamn nine o’clock in the middle of Sunday night’s (losing) game five. Habs–Kings put a fine Patrick Roy-emblazoned stamp on my freshman year of college—I didn’t own a TV and had to watch in the dorm’s “common area,” subjecting a greasy flow of Stone Temple Pilots enthusiasts to my lonely triumph. During the semi-finals a friend got pissy with me because I refused a bet—he wanted to take the field against my Habs but wouldn’t give me odds. Right. In retrospect that pizza would have hit the spot. And the Sox in October? I’m back to remembering only three players from the team. Bandwagon needs an oil change.

Fourth on the list, shall it earn a green 2019? (Or is it 2018/2019? These are the problems I create for myself.) The Chiefs win was encouraging and seems to have erased all doubt around here, solving the sputtering-offense, can’t-beat-top-teams and can’t-win-on-the-road concerns. The defense? Eh, what are you gonna do. Mahomes is the real deal and fun to watch so that first-half shutdown was rewarding even if everything did follow the week-six blueprint. And then? And then! “Tails never fails but heads never deads.” I—we—could really use a comfortable blow-out victory next weekend. The smallest violin.

Not to sprain my own arm but I did a good job summarizing Patriots achievement and appreciation in last year’s post-AFC Championship glow: “When the end comes it will do so swiftly and never be assumed. It will be witnessed. Everyone will have kept watching, maybe even Mark Wahlberg, and it will be tragic (for some) or wonderful (for most), a moment marked by zeros on the clock. Zeros. Good luck, NFL.” I wasn’t always so sound, so concise, so poetic an inter-net darling. Sometimes I wrote of cereal and footwear. I smell a bye-week project…

Up next: Sheesh, another bye week? I guess it’s better than another bye postseason, right Pittsburgh? Cheers!