“And for that I found myself in a stupor of wonderment as I pondered the situation of the family tradition gone terribly wrong.”
Let’s face it. Being a fan in New England for the past six or seven years hasn’t really brought on feelings of bereavement. Around these parts, the chatter among us usually consists of where we are watching the big game and what time everyone is going to the parade in Boston after another championship is clinched by the illustrious sports town.
Now, hold on a second. Let me get back to where the “where we are watching the game” part. To some, the big game is code-word for bars; at least the people I know. It doesn’t matter that the experience of another New England victory (besides Super Bowl XLII…still can not rid the vomit taste from my mouth) will more than likely end up in severe loss of funds due to dollar drafts which always grow into rounds of expensive drinks; bruised and/or broken extremities; and the possibly of some dramatic type of run-in with the law enforcement. To summarize: they never get to see the actual game and miss out on history.
The other option is to watch the big game at a buddy’s house where a plethora of food and drink are provided and the largest high-definition television on the block just so happens to grace the living room. 99.9% of the time I am that buddy. I’m not complaining, nor am I bragging, but there always seems to be some sort of enticement when it comes to the connection of my house – and watching sporting events.
It hadn’t occurred to me until the night Boston took Los Angeles to the wood shed and completely embarrassed them to win number seventeen that my house had been the hot spot for games for the past fifteen years. There had been countless nights of emotion, excitement and extreme let-down for each “main event” watched. I can remember back to the days before High Definition when my father began the tradition once the 45” Mitsubishi television that not only was the first of its size but, was also covered in real golden oak was purchased. Not the cheap veneer make that, in present day, would be made in China.
For each larger-than-life sporting event on the ticket, half the block would show up to our house. Most were in awe of the, at the time, size and clarity of the television. I can remember my father telling me to invite some of my friends as he always put it, “the more the merrier”. Everything from Tyson’s next knockout to the Patriots shellacking at the hands of Brett Favre were the main events on Loomis St.
Then the second generation came. As I inherited the tradition a new piece of equipment was needed. An upgrade from analog to digital had happened and the Mitsubishi had been stored in the basement and replaced by a Toshiba 65” 720p projection television. In honor of the responsibility I remained loyal to the tradition and continued to host the Patriots Super Bowl victories, Mike Tyson’s fall from grace in Tennessee and a reversed curse in 2004. Even if there wasn’t a huge event, I was more along the lines of Chip Douglas in The Cable Guy, minus the leather jacket with tassels dangling from the arms, maxing out the sound system while hosting karaoke parties.
Then, along came the next and current show stopper that has become an object of my friends’ affection and worship. The 72” Mitsubishi 1080p DLP TV has kept the guests’ eyes glued to every pitch, free-throw and snap captured in HD. But, the third prototype of the Gould tradition has had odd effects on game nights. Not only has the tradition evolved into a small gathering for Red Sox – Royals games, but, I can see having to provide some sort of entertainment for the neighbors during the Olympics in London.
This is where the tradition has evolved. No longer does the term “main event” only trigger an assemblage of people. Now, shows such as Dexter and Boardwalk Empire draw a crowd. Slowly the tradition of hosting the big game had faded and digressed into an ugly monster. Soon, my cell phone began ringing off the hook and my friends would show up unannounced with beer and wine in-hand. I began to cringe at the fact that my house had turned into the local pub/theater and hindered my own enjoyment of watching games at my home without carrying a plate full of hors d’ oeuvres. And for that I found myself in a stupor of wonderment as I pondered the situation of the family tradition gone terribly wrong.
To solve the revolutionized tradition that had taken a turn for the worse, I simply disappeared. No longer would I watch games on my television. In fact, I would refrain from turning the lights on in my house to provide for a worthy diversion that would thwart my neighbors towards either the bar or their own home to enjoy a Wednesday night baseball game.
After a few weeks of exile from the Gould household I slowly found myself more in control of being the host. I set the rules straight and finally people began to understand that it’s actually rude to show up at someone’s house, uninvited at 10:30 PM to catch a west coast road trip skirmish. Now, I had the ball in my court and I was calling the shots.
Today, I look back and breathe a slight sigh of relief. I never thought that my own creating would pull a Frankenstein and turn against me, but it certainly did. However, with some minor tweaks instilled, the practice of showing up at my house unannounced had changed radically, for the better of coarse. For the time, I could sit back and relax because I had no longer been obliged to the obligation of a tradition gone wrong.