Last One...'Til Next Year

I won a playoff pool in a tiebreaker because I borrowed from Plaxico's prediction.  The best part is, I really only used 23-17 because it was antagonistic.  The fact that I actually won with it only makes the entire thing better.  

Was that game amazing? Or was that game amazing?

It's funny.  It's actually hilarious.  For two weeks I was taunted, reminded incessantly that the Pats weren't just going to win, they were going to destroy the Giants.  Grown men made plans to skip work tomorrow to line the streets of Boston for an inevitable victory parade.  They scoffed at my insistence this game was actually worth playing. 

When Eli Manning lobbed that last pass into the night sky, into history, and ultimately into Plax's lap, I was temporarily afforded the opportunity to become 10 years-old again.  As I stood, arms outstretched, screaming uncontrollably, jumping up and down, I was utterly and completely lost in a life-affirming, sports-affirming moment. 

When all was said and done, however, I was one of a lonely few Bostonians welling up with excitement and pride as I walked home from the North End to Charlestown, head and Giants hat held high. Urged by a friend to put the hat away for the walk, I had respectfully declined as we stepped out of the apartment building and into the cold.   No sooner had I turned my back on a mob of drunken smokers in mourning, than a barrage of incendiary epithets were hurled my way. The breadth of my grin reached new heights.  There was no need to turn back.