Saints Ain’t Human!

…that’s pretty much all I have to say on the topic of Monday night’s Patriots game.  Ouch.  …and not to be critical, Tommy, but about that black stretch limo that appears downfield…allow me to introduce him: Mr. Randy Moss.  Throw the brother the ball next time you see him cruisin’, eh?

Tom, Still Love Ya!

After:  (October)

59 to 0   –In Boston lingo, that’s fifty-freakin’-nine to zeeerohhh!  In the gorgeous snow.  Well, damn, those guys know how to make an old New England girl’s heart go pitter-pat.

Before:  (September)

I won’t go into details of how excruciating today’s Patriots game was.  It’s okay Tom.  I mean, I’m totally ticked off that the game was boooo-ring.  And we lost.  But I forgive you.  Don’t let it happen again.

Ah, Autumn: The Smell of Sports in the Air

Monday night, the Patriots.  Come from wayyyy behind win!  Last night, the Red Sox.  Classic rally to win 4-1.  Welcome back Matsuzaka!  This is the time of year that makes me love New England living:  the trees’ leaves revert to their natural glory, and my favorite athletes show their true colors.

It’s all about the ball

Man, the second and third quarters were snoozeable—but the first and fourth, well, they are why football keeps winter hot.  The 100-yard TD dash, the Fitgerald sprints that said “I’m making you old boys run for your money today!” and that gorgeous Baryshnikov-worthy, tippey-toe TD catch in the end zone.  Aw, baby!

Add music—lip-synch away, JH, you’re still amazing! and the still-steamy rocker babe Boss—and that is how to end football season.  Damn!

Soxtober

It’s Fall: the crisp air scuttles leaves along sidewalks, sparrows transport construction one twig at a time into abandoned air conditioners, and the Red Sox are up one game in the play-offs.  My eyes are slightly red-rimmed from sitting glued to the television until 1:20 am; my knees ache from two hours of yogi-style bending, and my sleep-deprived brain is is repeating simple words while grasping for sentences.  Yet I feel young and alive, mentally replaying in a fanatic manner the stretched limbs of Jon Lester, pitches rolling off extended fingers, and the side-diving catch of lightning-legged Ellsbury, black eyes riveted to the ball as if to magnetize it to his gloved hand.  Ah, October!

ADDENDUM: Aw, shucks! –Wait’ll next year…

Tom Brady

I’m trying really hard to keep my freaked-out football fan-o-mania to myself.  But we are dooomed.  Doomed!

And the poor thing.  Man, that looked painful!  Did they have to re-play, re-play, re-play it on the news from every flippin’ angle?  Torture.

Thank God for Randy Moss!

…And now the Celtics?

I don’t particularly like basketball, yet I couldn’t peel my eyes off the three Celtic newbies.  A second World Series title in my lifetime; undefeated football team; and exciting hoops?!  Man, I’m never moving out of New England! 

I Dream of Lowell…with His Silver Hair

Football season has begun, and the Patriots are snuffing everyone in their path. I am in football heaven yet again. I will live there, remote and bowl of turkey chili in hand, until sometime next February. However, ever since Mike Lowell hit his jersey number’s worth of doubles last year, I’ve felt vindicated for being a little nuts about him. See, I knew he was more than just a dreamy face, tan forearms, and sunbeam-reflecting silver hair! He’s a man’s man and a woman’s man rolled into one. This woman’ll be chewing her nails until good ol’ Mike has decided where to park his cleats next season.

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