The article’s title should clarify the unceremonious downturn my mood took last weekend.
In case you were wondering amidst the 21 Savage meme hysteria on Sunday evening, a football game was played. Only it was an encounter played for three quarters like two chess masters determined to have the game end in a stalemate, wanting to slowly wring the life out of the audience, something that Adam Levine had already achieved by grounding it into a pulp.
Regardless, in classic nihilistic fashion, I was rooting for my fellow classmates to be absolutely devastated. I followed a similar script for last October’s World Series and in a near-identical style. And I was karmically punished. As Stephon (not Stefan) Gilmore put his greasy mitts up to swallow up an under-duress and under-thrown and underwhelming wobbly duck from pseudo-underdog and underperforming Jared Goff, the dream ended. It would be New England. Again.
It’s a dream of mine that the Patriots’ demise will slowly be teased out in a melodramatic fashion, like an orange slowly being sapped of its juices on public display as everyone cheers watching, looking forward to tasting its citrusy delight. Two Super Bowl losses in a row? Tom Brady another year older?
On Sunday evening, however, the juice was bitter.
Bill Belichick must have somehow transformed this juice, which everyone else should be drinking in celebration of the Patriots’ slow demise, and used it as an offshoot of Michael Jordan’s “Secret Stuff” to give random players mammoth games. Julian Edelman, who literally has the athleticism of a quarterback and maybe showed up to the game because he missed the “Good Will Hunting” casting call, absolutely shredded pass-interference-evader Nickell Robey-Coleman all evening. Punter Ryan Allen and special teams “gunner” Matthew Slater could actually open a clinic on confining punts to five yards before the touchdown.
The most irrelevant, tangential side note of the special teams hoopla is that Matthew Slater has four first-team all-pro nods, which slightly edges the three possessed by Sir Tom Brady (or whatever he’s known as around Boston). I don’t hear everyone calling Slater the GOAT. (I kid, or do I?)
For another year, the Patriots rode another season of rhetoric emphasizing how everyone counted them out. They were the forgotten team, and in a sea of young and up-and-coming quarterbacks, Tom Brady was the forgotten gunslinger. They were a disenfranchised bunch not receiving the respect and attention they deserved. Fortunately, they rallied together around the colors of red, blue and white/silver to work towards a common goal. For the cherry on top, they knocked off the young and pesky upstarts from California to reassert themselves as America’s tried-and-true heartbeat.
The 2016 election comparisons aren’t supposed to be eerie, just a grim reminder. After all, it’s not like any of the players have been seen with “Make America Great Again” hats or anything. Right?