Wow—it's Friday night here in New York City, and it still feels like Sunday.
What a week we had.
If you're a Giants and Mets fan like I am, you're probably just getting the feeling back in your fingers from the numbing events of the past five days.
I need not to go too deep into Sunday's game—Lord knows we've beaten it to death on this site—but I can't help myself.
I've sat through too many shitty Giant games to let this one pass without comment...
Sunday—man was I nervous. My annual SB party was under way. About 60 people showed up. I needed a few to take the edge off.
This was no ordinary edge, mind you.
The game was like a surreal mirage. How the hell did Eli get away? Tyree CAUGHT that ball? Against his helmet? Are you shitting me? Was that our defense out there turning Tom Brady into their own personal pinata?
Oh my God—IT IS!! This is a joke, right?
Plaxico is open...fade to black.
Monday morning came and went, but Monday afternoon arrived with a vengeance. I guess your head is supposed to weigh 60 pounds after eight beers, a dozen Bombay and tonics, and endless rounds of Amaretto shots.
It's a good thing I used to be a stunt drinker for Dean Martin, or my liver might have given out.
The New York Times gave me a sanitized version of the game, but it was hard to read it with eyes fighting to stay closed. Thank God for TiVo—even though Joe Buck and Troy Aikman had no clue what they were watching.
Two boobs. They should have been out boozing with me. Maybe they were. Hell if I know.
Tuesday. Time to go to the parade. One problem—it started an hour ago.
Hey, it's on TV. Let me watch it...all day long!!!! I did not move for seven hours. Thank you, Depends.
Then I watched the game again. We won for the third day in a row.
Wednesday. Uh, oh. I take classes in the morning. (Lamaze. Just in case my water breaks.) It was getting close to 1 PM. I raced home to watch the unveiling of the Mets' latest experiment—Johan Santana.
Wow, was this a snoozathon, but who better to watch this stuff than me, heh?
Johan Santana is standing next to Omar Minaya in a Mets hat and jersey! They really got him! Man, I gotta put more ice in my drinks...this is great!!!
Thursday...my birthday. 47 years old. I looked in the mirror. I didn't look a day over 60. Must have been that gin.
That's what got WC Fields—so they say.
My wife and kids called me (we all live in the same house) to wish me a happy birthday. Apparently they had been talking at me all week and I was non compus mentis.
The Mets had announced that Billy Joel would be playing a concert at Shea on July 16th. My task: find a way to get tickets—that is if I ever stopped watching the replays of the Super Bowl and the Santana press conference.
Friday. Today. Everything is back to normal. My family welcomed me back to Earth. I strolled the streets of Queens with a newfound bounce to my step and my new Super Bowl Champions hat and treated myself to a nice brisket at Ben's Kosher Deli.
I felt 10 feet tall.
What next, I said...what NEXT???