I think I can speak for all of New England when I say, with irrational confidence, that I'm going to pretend nothing happened yesterday. Perhaps I can imagine the commissioner called Mr. Kraft and politely asked that the game be postponed until sometime in January of 2012 for reasons of national security. Or maybe I can hope that World War III started and all the players were drafted and immediately shipped off to North Korea. It doesn't really matter, anyway; what matters is that yesterday didn't happen!
I've unplugged my television and plan to spend all Sundays for the rest of the winter sleeping soundly, dreaming sweet dreams of Tom Brady, his hair blowing carelessly in the wind, throwing touchdowns and winning games with an ease and sweetness that can make even the most hardcore nihilist have hope for the future. I don't want to remember the day he took the form of his previously slain evil double, Bom, and bumbled around the field throwing passes into the dirt and looking terrified of the Jets defensive line.
I don't want to think about how painful it was to watch Rex Ryan, a man so ludicrously incapable of tact that he usually finds himself happily consuming the bag that his donuts are handed to him in, out-coach and outsmart the usually impregnable Bill Belichick. He left the field with an expression that made it clear he was perfectly capable of genocide that evening.
I fear for the sanity of each Patriot as they are sure to be dealing with the vicious slaughter of their families in the coming weeks. I plan to start a charity fund for a memorial in their honor.
Above all, I don't want to think about how the Jets, a team willing to spend more time in front of a microphone than a radio disc jockey talking about how awesome they are, were able to celebrate a playoff victory at Gillette Stadium and still managed to make themselves look even more classless than the week prior.
The stoic Patriots seemed confused and broken, shells of once great men, looking to the heavens for answers as to why they could be offered defeat at the hands of a team so starkly in contrast to their diligent professionalism and rugged good looks.
Instead of thinking of all this, I am going to spend my time playing with Legos, watching Back to the Future and taking my happy pills. In just a few short weeks, pitchers and catchers report to Florida to begin getting ready for the 2011 MLB season, and when they do I will awaken from my deliberate sports hibernation and start complaining about Terry Francona and wondering just how it is possible that Josh Beckett has gone from good to awful so fast.
And maybe, just maybe, I will watch the Super Bowl, assuming the commercials are hilarious and the Jets have been defeated by the Steelers, who then must lose to whoever the NFC hoists to the grand stage.
I am so bitter they could make me into candy...
Until baseball begins, I wish you all a safe recovery and hope the suicide hot line is fully staffed and ready for the tsunami of crushed souls about to come its way. I'm going to go finish off the rest of my nachos and try desperately not to cry.
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