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!

“Four-Year-Old Wiffleball Sign-Ups”

There’s a league for 4-year-olds that starts in April and runs to the end of May. Every Saturday Will is going to play Wiffleball with a bunch of other kids and learn the fundamentals of the game. Well, technically he’ll be perfecting the fundamentals since I’ve been teaching him to swing a bat and throw a baseball since he was about a week old. But I digress.

On the surface this seems totally innocuous and very much a win-win. Will gets to be active, play with other kids and learn about a sport all at the same time. And it’ll be valuable bonding time with him as we practice and get to be together doing something we both love. All of that is true. On paper this should be a very fun, laid back time during which I can take pictures and talk with other parents and delight in watching my son scamper playfully around the baseball diamond.

But I don’t think that’s how it’s going down.

To understand what I’m talking about, you need to know a few things about me. First of all, I’m a perfectionist. Not regarding everything in my life, but certainly regarding sports. And second, I’m a huge crybaby when things don’t go perfectly. Which is often.

When I started playing baseball at the age of 5 I showed promise very early. I had a great arm and I could hit. My first coach was a friend of my dad’s, a born and bred New Jersey guy named Bill. He was a really good guy underneath his gruff exterior, but he was also a miserable prick. He knew I was good so he held me to a higher standard. While other kids were being praised for their attempts to catch the ball, I was criticized even when I did catch it for not using the right fundamentals. Or if I didn’t hit the cutoff man fast enough. Or if I legged out an infield single he’d poke fun at me for not hitting it in the outfield.

Ultimately he made me better, but I carried lofty expectations with me when I advanced to the next leagues for older kids. And that’s when it got really bad.

I made the all-star team when I was 9 years old. We had a really great team and a lot of awesome players in our age group, and we’d play together every summer for the next four years. Our coaches really knew what they were talking about and I learned more than I ever imagined about baseball in that time. But they expected a lot. I mean it. A lot. For instance, when we were 10, I remember we lost a game to our rival, Franklin. And after the game they told us we let ourselves down, our parents down and disappointed the entire town. I was crushed and in tears. And I vowed to never let anyone down again.

As you already know, that’s impossible. But combine that need to please with a perfectionist’s attitude and you got me as a kid. The kid who cried when he struck out. The kid who cried and threw a temper-tantrum when he didn’t make a play in the field. The kid who—and I’m not making this up—cried after hitting a double off the fence because it wasn’t a homerun. And of course, the kid who nearly had a mental breakdown if we lost the game. Let’s just say there are plenty of pictures of me with my team holding second place trophies and crying hysterically.

A neurotic, hyper-competitive, perfectionist crybaby. Those were some good times.

But for better or worse, I’ve carried that with me even to now. While my athletic days have long since passed me by, that attitude resurfaces in even the most mundane of endeavors. For example, MJ will no longer go bowling with me. When we were dating, she was beating me in the 8th frame and I was so pissed off I started kicking the ball return. And those of you who have watched Patriots and Red Sox games with me can probably attest to the fact that I am, well…not exactly a sane person when things start to go south.

Even with Will I’ve seen the competitiveness flare up. I eagle-eye his milestones and make sure he’s ahead of the curve. I compare him relentlessly to other kids his age and older, and get legitimately upset if they can do things he can’t. Hell, his recent progress report from preschool showed him to be advanced in every category except letters. He’s average in letters. This struck such fear into me that I’m now going to work more on letters with him every single night until he’s reading Stephen King books.

Which brings us to wiffleball.

When I found out I had a son my first thoughts were of teaching him sports. Unfortunately, I fear I will be “that sports parent.” The one everyone hates. The one who takes a kids’ game way too seriously. The one whose son goes 3 for 5 and then criticizes him for striking out in the third inning. And God forbid Will is average or even below average at sports. I’m not sure I can handle that.

I was raised with high standards, with sports and even grades. While everyone else had the traditional grading system, mine was different. An A was good, a B was a C and a C was failing. I still remember my dad asking me why my A- couldn’t have been an A. And I don’t fault him for that, it kept me on my toes and made me work hard. But I also remember it feeling like an intense amount of pressure.

I don’t want to be That Sports Parent. I really don’t. But I think it might be inevitable. Thankfully MJ will disembowel me if I get too out of hand, so it’s nice that I have her to correct me. Yet even if I’m not expressing it, I’ll be thinking it. I already have visions of Will as the star catcher hitting the game-winning homer to take the state title. Yes, I absolutely intend to live out my dreams of unfulfilled athletic glory through my son. And yes, I’m also aware of how pathetic and unfair that is.

But I think Will is going to ultimately thank me during his Cooperstown acceptance speech. The road to the Hall of Fame starts with Wiffleball!

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.

I don’t say this lightly or without a wealth of experience, and my credentials are beyond reproach.

My father has had New England Patriots season tickets for 39 years, which means I’ve been going to games practically my whole life. I used to go to eight home games a year, until tickets got too expensive. So now I go to a minimum of four games a year. Until this year, my dad also had Boston Celtics season tickets as well, so I have experience at the Garden. Throw in hundreds of Red Sox games and a sprinkling of Bruins games throughout the years, and I’ve pretty much seen it all. The good, the bad and the REALLY obnoxious.

To the untrained eye or the live sporting event rookies, it might not seem like there’s much to know when going to a game. Sit, watch, clap and that’s it right? Wrong. There is a subtle art to being a truly great fan. Which is probably why there are so few great fans out there. Unfortunately, there is no shortage of ass clowns ruining it for the rest of us.

So without further ado, I give you the 9 Most Annoying Sports Fans.

1. THE CELL PHONE TALKER

I hate this person. With a passion. Not only that, I don’t understand him/her. You pay all that money for a ticket, get drunk on $8 beers and instead of watching the game you decide to jump on your cell phone, call your friends and wave every time you’re on camera. Idiot. For the record, the only acceptable time to use your cell phone is during halftime or in between quarters. Even then you’re only allowed to text or check your fantasy team. No conversations. Ever. Because even if they’re not on camera they’re talking on the cell phone and ruining the game for you. My question is, why are they always talking about something uber-personal and inappropriate?

“So I went to the doctor…yeah, I got the results…CHLAMYDIA! Can you believe that shit? No I didn’t wear a rubber…you know I hate how it feels.”

2. THE JUMBO-TRON WHORES
A close cousin of the Cell Phone Talker, these people are equally annoying. While real fans are there to watch their team win, the JTWs are only there to watch themselves on the stadium big screen. You’ll recognize the JTWs easily because they’re either dressed in wacky clothing sure to catch the cameraman’s eye, or they’re dancing. Yup, dancing. During every timeout and break, they launch themselves out of their seats and dance wildly. If they succeed and see themselves on the Jumbo-Tron, the shrieks and screams are deafening. They get 4 seconds of glory and then it’s either back to the beer stand or leave in the third quarter to beat traffic. Either way, they need to be exterminated.

3. SIGN HOLDERS
I swear these idiots always manage to sit in front of me. They bring in a homemade sign that they think is really witty and/or charming, but no one else sees it that way. Normally it’s something to suck up to the network the game is on, like:

Another
Brady
Championship

So just like the Jumbo-Tron Whores, they stand up at inopportune times during the game and hold up the sign, which blocks the view of the poor people behind them. Rule of thumb: don’t bring a sign to a game. Ever. It won’t be funny, you probably won’t get on TV and you’re going to piss me off to the point that I verbally berate you to the point of tears. Now here’s your sign!

4. THE UP & DOWNERS
Sometimes it feels like all 68,000 people in Gillette Stadium are sitting in my row. Why, you ask? Because they are CONSTANTLY sitting down and then leaving their seat. They sit down then they need some food. They sit down then they need a beer. They sit down and drink their beer and then they have to pee. And pee again. And again. Meanwhile the entire row has to stand up and let them pass each time like we’re in an 80s aerobics class.

That wouldn’t be so bad except they give no thought to the timing of their arrivals and departures. Instead of using some common sense and waiting until a timeout or even in between plays, they decide to inconvenience everyone at the worst possible times. A huge third down in the fourth quarter of a one-score game, the crowd working itself into a frenzy, the center about to hike the ball and then—some douchebag causes the entire row to stand and you end up missing some of the play while simultaneously pissing off everyone behind you.

Stay in your seats or use some common sense, morons!

5. THE STATISTICIAN
This guy is a real piece of work.

You can spot him even before he speaks, because he looks like he’s spent the week in his mom’s basement memorizing statistics in order to show off at the game. Even though you’ve made no overture of friendship towards this person, he will seek you out and give you stats you don’t care about and don’t want after every play.

For instance, if I cheer on Tom Brady for a great throw he has to add his two cents by saying “Did you know Brady is completing 67.9% of his passes and has a quarterback rating of 109.5?” Yes, as a matter of fact I did know that. But unlike you, I don’t feel the need to validate my existence with near useless statistical analysis that no one wants to hear about in the heat of a game!

6. THE “STAND UP” GUY
Usually it’s good to be a stand up guy. But this guy is not good. Not good at all.

This idiot—usually heavily intoxicated—is convinced that the only way to be a true fan is to stand up at all times to cheer on the team. And he feels it is his mission in life to shout “STAND THE FUCK UP, GET ON YOUR FEET, STAND UP YOU PUSSIES!” in order to fire up the crowd. But what he doesn’t realize is the crowd wants to put him in front of a firing squad.

This jerkoff doesn’t realize that standing and cheering at a game is completely dependent on the action and the situation. In a regular season game, it’s fine to sit except for big moments and huge third downs on defense. I still yell and cheer while I’m sitting, and I know when to stand and when not to. Fans also pay hundreds of dollars for the seat, so why not use it?

7. THE ANNOYING HOUSEWIFE/GIRLFRIEND
Call me a sexist if you want to. I don’t care, because this one is very, very true.

Usually this occurs when the only way guys can buy season tickets is if they promise to bring their wives/girlfriends with them to the games. Even though said women have ZERO football knowledge. Needless to say, when they get to the game they become Cell Phone Talkers, Jumbo-Tron Whores and Up & Downers. They’re interested in everything BUT the game. If they do pay attention for a few minutes, they shout idiotic things like “GET A TOUCHDOWN BRADY!” or “WES WELKER IS SO LITTLE AND CUTE!”

The worst is when they talk to each other about their sex lives, their impending purchases and what they wore to their high school reunions. I’ve never seriously considered violence towards women before, but when these hens are clucking in my ear for three hours, I’m seeing red.

8. THE WAY TOO DRUNK GUY
Everyone knows this guy. And has probably been this guy at some point (myself included) so I do allow for a little leeway here.

It’s a football game, so drinking is a good thing. Hell, being a little drunk is a plus in my opinion. But if you’ve had a 12-pack out in the parking lot and then a fifth of Jack on the walk to the stadium, you’re going to be a mess. These are the guys who can’t stand up straight so they’re teetering and falling on people during the game. And since they’re drunk they’re loud. Any drunk will tell you the louder they get the funnier they are, and so you have a really drunk guy screaming either inappropriate or unintelligible things. He’s laughing, but we aren’t.

At best he’s a nuisance, at worst he vomits on you. Either way you’re not coming out a winner.

9. THE BEACH BALL/WAVE PEOPLE
No beach balls and no wave. Ever.

If you pay hundreds of dollars for a ticket and feel that the best athletes in the world playing at the highest level imaginable is second to batting around an inflatable beach ball, do yourself a favor and just put a gun to your head. Or if that’s too extreme, don’t come to the game. Because we don’t want you. Or your damn beach ball.

Same goes for The Wave. Seriously, it’s not 1987 anymore. The Wave wasn’t even that cool then, and it’s even less so now. I’ve seen people at Fenway Park do the wave in the 8th inning of a one-run game during a pennant race. It makes me sad that people are that idiotic, and it besmirches the name of true Boston sports fans everywhere.

That’s why whenever I get my hands on a beach ball, I pop it. Sometimes the idiots boo me but I don’t care, because the real fans thank me or give me an approving nod for righting an obvious sports wrong.

I have my dad to thank for this because he taught me right. From the time I was little he physically restrained me during the Wave. I didn’t understand it then, but I thank him for it now. To think I could’ve been one of those obnoxious douchebags…I shudder at the thought.

The point is, watch the fucking game. It’s what you’re there for!

If you’re wondering what makes for a great sports fan, here it is:

Be intelligent about the game but not a stat snob. Be happy drunk and not shitfaced. Go to the people around you for high-fives and create good vibes. Sit down except for big plays. If you’re going to yell out taunts to the opposing team, time them right for maximum effect. Talk about the game and nothing else, unless it’s halftime. No beach balls and no Wave, you’re there to watch the game. Ditto with signs. The cell phone should stay in your pocket.

So, did I miss any?

“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.