“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.







