I won’t lie and tell you 2007 didn’t hurt something awful, despite the three previous Super Bowl wins. The blown perfect season at the hands of the Giants was a huge blow. Not just to lose, but to lose because Eli Manning somehow (and no one — including Eli himself — knows how) got out of a sure sack and David Tyree pulled off the most miraculous catch you’ll ever see…well, it still haunts me. It haunts me like Bucky, Buckner and Boone haunts Red Sox fans. It’s the kind of loss that kills you as a fan and leaves you pissed off and wondering “what if” for the rest of your days.

Which is why it’s amazing and fortuitous the Patriots have a chance at revenge. At redemption. To exorcise the demons that haunt them — and us as fans — to this day. And make no mistake, they will.

I can’t do much to guide Tom Brady’s perfect passes or heal Rob Gronkowski’s high ankle sprain. I’m a writer, not a football player. So to that end, I offer the Patriots (and the football gods) this humble poem. And the video of my awesome son showing Giants fans what’s up. Make sure you get all the way to the end.

Twas the night before game day, & all through Lucas Oil
Tempers were flaring and starting to boil.
The Pats and the Giants are all set to attack,
In hopes that New England can earn some payback.

Pats fans are haunted because ’07 lingers,
As Eli slips through our D-line’s fingers.
For 4 long years all us Pats fans can see,
Is that lucky fluke catch by David fucking Tyree.

But it’s a new day & in Brady we trust
Not to mention our defense has shaken its rust.
The Giants spent this week talking some smack,
But their confident facade is starting to crack.

Canty’s an idiot who’s making heads spin
That jackass all but guaranteed a win.
Then Pierre-Paul said Brady’s afraid,
And the Giants are planning a victory parade.

Eli, that hick, is truly incomplete,
Whining about reporters who don’t think he’s elite.
It’s clear to all these Giants can talk,
But come Sunday we’ll see if they walk the walk!

But a few guys on the Pats might have something to say
Like Matt Light who’ll give Osi a very tough day
And Welker, that runt, he’s out of control
He’ll reek havoc on hapless Antrel Rolle

Benjarvus never fumbles, Branch is airtight
And Osi will never get past Matt Light
Over at tight end Hernandez is no honk
And it’ll be a fiesta with my main man Gronk!

But really it’s all about Brady, The Man
He plays the position like no one else can
#12 passes on the field pretty well
Then he goes home & has sex with Gisele

It’s a tale of two cities, Boston vs. New York
Those Big Apple douchebags can fuck themselves with a spork
Wanna hear something they don’t like to admit?
They really play in Jersey, that godforsaken pit!

 This will be Boston’s 8th title in four years
I’ll enjoy it even more watching New Yorkers shed tears
So to Coughlin, B. Jacobs & Justin Tuck
Your season is over, Big Blue is fucked!

Sports are sacred around Boston. And inside the walls of my parents’ house, they become even more so. It starts as soon as you walk in the door. Magnets hold up Patriots schedules and newspaper clippings from the Super Bowl years. Two commemorative footballs rest on the floor next to the absurdly huge television, on which we watch the game in its full High Definition beauty. We have Patriots ornaments, decorations, trains, Christmas stockings, sweatpants, jerseys and coats. Same with the Red Sox.

I used to have a dog named Fenway, while my brother named his dog Bruschi (after Tedy Bruschi, the great Patriots linebacker).

Needless to say, we are a superstitious bunch when it comes to watching the games. We truly believe where we’re sitting, what we’re wearing and who is in the house at the time all play a part in determining the outcome of the game. We have lucky jerseys, coins, balls, bats and assigned seats. And we are very wary of who we let in the house during games.

Because if you’ve never been in the house during a game, we have no idea if you’re bad luck. And if you’re bad luck, you can’t come in.

Just ask Melissa, my sister-in-law. When she came over to the house years ago for the first time during a game, there was tension. And it wasn’t just the usual “meeting someone’s family for the first time” kind of tension either. In fact, my father—not one to mince words—described the tension right to Melissa’s face when he said “Hi Melissa, it’s very nice to meet you and I’ve heard nice things about you. But if the Patriots lose while you’re here, you can’t come back.”

I’d like to tell you that was said in jest, but I’d be lying. Thankfully the Patriots won.

So, getting back to Sunday’s game. First of all, it snowed on Sunday morning, which automatically triggered a family tradition dating back years. So my dad and I donned our snow gear, went outside and went to work. We didn’t shovel the walk or clear off the cars. Hell no. We made a snowman. Then we went inside to where we keep the lucky sticks we’ve used as snowman hands for the past eight years, alongside the lucky Patriots pom-poms from the 2003 Pats-Jets game. With Will’s help, we put the arms on the snowman and attached the pom-poms, and topped it all off with a Patriots hat.

From there, the snowman stays until it crumbles or melts. The hat, sticks and pom-poms must remain where they drop on the lawn until the next snowfall, at which point the cycle begins all over again.

When kickoff rolled around it was me, my father, my mother, my Uncle Paul and my Aunt Darleen. They were at the house a few times earlier this year for games and the Patriots had won, so they were in the clear. However, Sunday’s game started off horribly. Pittsburgh was killing us and nothing was going right for the Patriots. We tried some early adjustments in the living room but nothing seemed to be working. Until…

Darleen had to go outside to move her car. While she was out there, the Patriots intercepted Steelers quarterback Ben Roethlisberger deep in Pittsburgh territory. We all jumped up simultaneously to cheer. And in our next breath, we all ran towards the door to lock it so Darleen couldn’t come back inside so we could preserve the good luck. We made her wait out there for five minutes in the cold with no coat on until the Patriots scored a touchdown.

The most telling part is, Darleen never complained or questioned what we were doing or why. She knew and understood.

Unfortunately it wasn’t enough. After we let Darleen in and the game wore on, things started to get desperate. I left my usual seat and stood in the kitchen. No good. My dad cycled through his collection of “lucky” trinkets which he swears brought this team three Super Bowls. Nada. I then turned my jersey around and tied one of Will’s scarfs around my head and wore it like Rambo. Zilch. We were all doing whatever we could to bring the team luck, and that’s when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.

My uncle Paul was hunched over grabbing at something I couldn’t readily see, so I asked him what he was doing.

“Taking off my leg,” he said nonchalantly.

Yup. You read that right. My uncle, who has had a prosthetic leg since he was a teenager, was not joking. He was taking off his fake leg in a desperate attempt to spark some life into the Patriots. I can only imagine what would be said about us if a stranger had walked in just then, to see me with a backwards jersey and a child’s scarf wrapped around my head, my father worshiping his lucky coin as if it had magical powers, my poor Aunt freezing to death outside and my one-legged uncle sacrificing a limb to bring the Patriots good fortune.

I know, I know. You’re reading this and shaking your head thinking “what a bunch of fucking idiots.” Well, SCREW YOU! I am a 32-year-old adult man and yes, I believe my actions have an impact on the game. My family members believe it too. Which is probably why I watched Game 4 of the 2004 ALCS standing pantsless on MJ’s couch and holding her cat while I called my brother and father who were watching from outside on the back deck while holding a lucky bat and an unscrewed broomstick (to avoid the sweep).

Hey, it’s fun. And frankly it’s nice to have family traditions, which one day will be adopted by Will. It may make us a little insane, but these oddball antics also bring us together.

But still, it might be safer to call or email before you come over on game day.

“Yeah, start drinking early,” Brady said with a snicker.
“Get nice and rowdy. It’s a 4:15 game.
A lot of time to get lubed up. Come out here
and cheer for the home team.”

Nothing wrong with that right? After all, tailgating and drinking before the game is a staple at every single football stadium across the country. It’s a pregame tradition to cook on the grill and pop a few beers in the parking lot prior to football. And a damn good tradition at that.

Yet somehow this has become a national story. And idiotic writers like Greg Couch at FOX News have stepped up on their righteous sober soapboxes in a moronic attempt to villify Brady and blame him for all rowdy fan behavior.

Folks, this is a fucking football game. These people who tailgate pay $50 to park, hundreds of dollars for game tickets and have been planning their trips for months. They were going to come to Gillette Stadium on Sunday and drink, regardless of what Tom Brady said. Anyone who fails to realize this deserves a Louisville Slugger to the temple.

But as I listened to the callers who phoned in to Boston talk shows about this, I couldn’t believe some of what I was hearing. People complaining about drunk fans at Gillette. Then they started complaining about fans who swear at Gillette and use vulgarity. And, of course, they used the all-too-familiar excuse of “children are harmed when they see drunk people and hear people swear.” And that, in a nutshell, is the problem with the “fans” of my favorite hometown football team.

Gillette Stadium is a white collar place filled with a wine and cheese crowd. They are lame, they are quiet and they have no idea what it’s like to be a real fan. They “shush” people and they yell at them for standing during the game (the horror!!). They notify security guards when someone swears. And because Gillette is now part of Patriot Place, it is now this half football stadium half mall hybrid. For God’s sake, they place movie times during the game!

Is it any wonder Tom Brady and the Patriots criticize the fans for being too quiet? The fans are conducting business deals during a crucial third down and talking about what SUV they’re going to buy for their next car.

Look, I’m not advocating for chaos. Fans should always feel safe and be in control of themselves. If someone is picking fights, they should be thrown out. If they are actively threatening someone, they should be thrown out. But standing up to root on your team is good. And while I won’t swear if there are kids around, there is NOTHING wrong with dropping a few F-bombs during the game. It’s fucking football for shit’s sake. If you take your kid to a place where there are 60,000 people, some of them are going to be drunk. Others will swear. And if you can’t handle that, don’t come to the game. Plain and simple.

But to blame Tom Brady or somehow hold him responsible should some idiot drink too much and pick a fight on Sunday, is just dumb. In fact, I think he’s right. The fans should get nice and lubed up. Maybe then they’ll actually pay attention to the game and cheer a little louder. Maybe then we won’t have the least formidable homefield advantage in the NFL. Maybe then we can return to being football fans, instead of waiting to see what time I Don’t Know How She Does It is playing.

In a hysterical display of idiocy, the Patriots PR staff tried to spin this story by releasing a statement that said Brady was only trying to advise fans to “stay hydrated, drink a lot of water, be loud, drink responsibly.” Suuuuuuuure. Because staying hydrated is essential when the expected temperature is a whopping 66 degrees. And we all know how important it is to get lubed up on water, right?

The Patriots are so hypocritical. Without these tailgaters paying $50 a pop to park their cars, they lose money. And without them paying $9 per beer once inside the stadium, they lose money. They know this, yet they feel the need to pathetically disguise Brady’s comments. It’s just sad.

It’s important not to drink and drive or get so drunk you lose control. But drinking at a football game is fun, it’s not against the law and Tom Brady did nothing wrong by encouraging it. Yet these yuppie, do-gooder morons can’t help but tell us that drinking and swearing at a professional sporting event built on violence and brute strength will somehow irrevocably harm our nation’s youth. And Tom Brady is responsible because he’s a role model and he told adults to do something completely legal that they were already going to do anyways? Give me a break!

While I urge everyone to be safe and responsible on Sunday, I hope fans are boozed up and ready to go by game time. I hope that—for once—the fans at Gillette Stadium remember that they are at a football game and it’s OK to be loud. And I hope reporters like Greg Cloud relax and have a beer.

It’s football people. Stop being such pussies.

It’s Christmas time, and no one exemplifies Christmas better than the Big Guy. Huh? The birth of Jesus Christ?? Sorry, I don’t think so. Forget that fairy tale, I’m talking about someone who brings everyone great joy. Spotting him as he dashes around spreading Christmas cheer has proved impossible, but I’d like to happily announce all that has changed.

I have exclusive footage to show you. That’s right, after all these years we finally caught the 300+ pound guy doing his thing. He’s in his uniform and everything. Our video caught him bringing gifts to people in the New England area a few days ago, and I guarantee you’ll never see anything else like it ever again.

Santa? Hell no, screw Santa. I’m talking about Patriots offensive lineman Dan Connolly!

Look at that fat guy run!!!

I know some of you aren’t football fans, but this is the longest kickoff return an offensive lineman has ever had. I love that in the beginning of the run Connolly has two hands on the ball and expects to get hit…but the hit never comes. Instead, he takes off and shows remarkable speed for a big guy. Holding the ball like a loaf of bread, Connolly lumbered 71 yards down the field to set the Patriots up for a touchdown.

I’d like to take all the credit for this since I just wrote a post praising the offensive linemen of the parenting world who never get any credit. But once in a while, the Dan Connollys of the world will turn the spotlight back to where it belongs. On fat guys inexplicably making long runs.

Merry Christmas!

Temperatures will be in the mid-20s. Sustained winds will be between 15-20 MPH, with occasional gusts up to 35 MPH.  Factor in the windchill and it’ll be about 10 degrees outside. Snow flurries are not out of the question. The whipping winds will lash my exposed eyes making them burn and tear up. I won’t be able to move around to keep warm. I will yell and scream out loud frequently, and I’ll likely feel the chill in my bones for the next 24 hours.

Not only I am thrilled about all of this, I’m paying hundreds of dollars for it.

OK, so technically I’m not paying. My father is the one shelling out the money for season tickets to the best football team in the NFL — the New England Patriots. But either way, if you think it’s nuts to shell out $120 per ticket for the game, $9 for a beer, $7 for a state sausage — all while sitting in freeze-your-nuts-off arctic weather — then you’re obviously not familiar with my family.

My dad has had these season tickets for more than three decades. I’m only 31, but I’ve been going to the games since the age of six. So going to the Patriots games is our thing. A father-son ritual. When I think of the Patriots the first thought in my head is not of three Super Bowls, Tom Brady’s Bieber-esque flowing locks, Bill Belichick’s unrivaled coaching or Tedy Bruschi’s legacy of winning.

I think of my dad.

Dad and I started this tradition before the Patriots were THE PATRIOTS. Before the Palace of Kraft was constructed in 2002, we attended games in a rundown shit-house known as Foxboro Stadium. Before lowering ourselves into individual seats, we froze our asses off on aluminum benches. And prior to Belichick and Brady giving all New Englanders something to cheer about, Patriots fans suffered through 40 years of being football’s joke.

But none of that — none of it — mattered to me as a kid.

For eight Sundays a year I was in my glory. I got to tag along with my dad and his friends and go to a real, live professional sporting event. But make no mistake, it was less the game than my temporary inclusion as “one of the guys” that I cherished.

My dad and his buddies treated me like a quasi-grownup. They swore a lot. They cursed Tony Eason and the lousy Patriots’ defenses of the late 1980s and early 1990s. They cracked crude jokes. Not to mention as the low man on the totem pole I had to sit all the way in the middle of the row. But as a little kid who didn’t have the strongest bladder, that meant I was getting up fairly often to go to the men’s room. Which meant I was disturbing the guys. Therefore the price I paid for my constant urination was getting punched, kicked and put in headlocks as I ran the gauntlet toward the bathroom.

I absolutely loved it.

Soon the other guys gave up their tickets and it was just three of us. Two tickets for my dad and one for his best friend Rick, who I refer to as “Uncle Rick.” My brother and I split the games down the middle (four for each of us) while Rick and my dad attend all eight home games.

We have a super-secret ninja parking space that allows us to leave for the game an hour before it starts and get home 45 minutes after it ends with no traffic. Each week during the fall and winter we don our Pats gear and traipse through the Foxboro woods toward sprawling Gillette Stadium.

That walk has been made through rain, lightning, hail and blizzards. But we make that walk every time. Because it’s our walk. It’s our game. It’s our THING. Luckily my dad is one of my best friends, but even if we didn’t get along so well we’d have the Patriots. Our Patriots. Our inside jokes about the people who sit near us. Bitching about how the Kraft family has turned our football stadium into the Mall of America. Wondering why our beloved quarterback won’t cut his fucking hair.

Someday Will is going to take that walk with us. At some point I’ll punch his ticket for the “One of the Guys” club and this thing will become our thing. We’ll park at the same house, traverse the same woods and have the same heart-to-heart talks on the way. Because those in-depth discussions seem much more manly when you’re on your way to a football game!

And those games will be our thing, borrowed but still new in so many ways. Even if Will doesn’t like football, that’s OK. The game is secondary. Because I’ll tell you right now, I didn’t freeze my ass off and trek through snow and ice for 25 years just to see football games. I did it to see football games with my dad.

Years from now I want Will to look back at the times he was chilled to the bone and soaked to the skin and smile. Not because the Patriots won (although that’d be nice), but because he remembers us doing our thing. Together.

Having gotten all that mushiness out of the way, I’d just like to say I CAN’T WAIT TO WATCH THE PATRIOTS KICK THE HOLY HELL OUT OF THE GODFORSAKEN SHITTY JETS WHILE REX RYAN HAS A FUCKING MASSIVE CORONARY ON THE SIDELINES!!!!!!

Whew…that’s better.