(Photo by Donald Miralle/Getty Images)

It’s Tuesday, another day for the regularly scheduled PFA (Patriots Fan Anonymous) meeting at 7 p.m. always held at the local community building.

I’m hermatile because I always make the meetings even though I backslide every weekend through the course of the regular NFL season. Call it a weak constitution, a fuzzy commitment to healing, or just call it an insidious addiction to all things Patriots.

I know I’m not supposed to be watching the Patriots games; hell, I shouldn’t even be watching football at all. All the pre-game and post-game shows, and even during a game, the sports announcers will always find away to mention the status of the Patriots team.

I should be finding constructive activities to distract me from my passions—anything that will keep me occupied and allow the healing process to move forward.

I’ve been trying to become a normal person with cares and concerns beyond the on-field endeavors of a certain professional football team. I’m just having a very hard time separating the reality of life from my Patriots fan-ship.

So every Tuesday I find myself back at these meetings drinking rancid coffee, munching on day-old doughnuts in anticipation of my weekly admission of failing to make it through another week of exorcising the Patriots from my life.

As I sit there through the reading of the objectives and rules of the meeting, I have time to reflect on what I will say when I take my turn at the podium.

As the meeting starts, I miss my opportunity to get my hand up first. A gentleman gets up to the podium and addresses the group: “Hi, my name is _____ (I’ll call him Terry, as this is supposed to be anonymous), and I am a Patriots Fan.”

The crowd responds, “Hi, Terry.”

It turns out that Terry has had similar relapses to my own. He recounts how he too has been watching the Patriots games.

With a tear in his eye he then admitted to a further faux paus of logging on to a certain Internet sports site and leaving acidic comments on a number of derogatory Patriots articles. He had sunk to the deepest levels of fanhood.

Instead of sympathy for the relapse of Terry, I feel a bit of kinship and pride for the man. All the while I was treading dangerous waters trying to sort out those feelings for myself.

As everyone else congratulated Terry for sharing as he made his way back to his seat, another fellow takes his place at the podium; we’ll call him Steve. After Steve introduces himself and admits his fanhood, we all welcome him: “Hi, Steve.”

Surprisingly, I hear another admission of football watching and Internet commenting. I know Steve and I always thought he came to these meetings only because he actually liked the crappy coffee.

I gained a large amount of respect for the man as he stood there and told his story.

As I sat there waiting for Steve to finish knowing that I had some demons of my own to purge, I couldn’t help myself from feeling conflicted once again. A plan was forming and I had no way of diverting my thoughts.

As the moderator asked if there was anyone else who wanted to share, I jumped to my feet. On my way to the podium, I made a concerted effort to walk by both Terry and Steve to give them a wink and a handshake.

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