The Mayor of Man Town is a Chick???

Wednesday January 24, 2007 | 8 comments (now closed)

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Where did I go?

Nowhere, fast, that’s where. I apologize for the absence of new material. After one year and 136 true Blogs (those measly little Asides don’t count) I figured I was due for a little R n’ R. That and some pesky work projects conspired to drain the glass of its sand, leaving me with precious little time to log on and regale you all with the sordid details of my so-called life.

Since I’ve been gone there have been some happenings that deserve comment. I have a string of Blog entries coming up – hopefully the start of a rejuvenated Ed Zone – but some of these little ditties don’t warrant exclusive playtime, so I figured I’d run ‘em through shuffle and lay down a few fat beats here. Actually, there’s only one main event that I feel the need to apply comment to.

This past Sunday evening I settled down on the couch alongside Andi to watch the New England Patriots battle Peyton Manning and the Colts in the AFC Championship Game. When the Pats quickly jumped out to a 20 – 3 lead, I thought things were in the bag and we were headed to our 4th Super Bowl appearance in 6 years. As it turns, while the game was a classic battle, this game would be no Snow Bowl. Nope – we’ve got to actually win it for that comparison to be made. So that warm and fuzzy feeling was fleeting as I spied a dark omen moments before half-time. More on that in a moment.

As the clock approached eight-o’clock, we paused the game and turned our attention to Colin and Aria and the normal bedtime routine. With approximately 3 & ½ minutes of game time remaining, I figured we could get the kids in bed, read a couple of stories and return at the start of halftime where we could use the twenty minutes of downtime to get back to the future. Once the kids were snug in bed with visions of the patented Manning face dancing in their heads (you know, that incredulous “How’d a dumb hick like me get here?” look that both Peyton and Dubya have perfected) – we returned to our couch-side vigil and commenced the catch up phase.

Again, the score was 20-3. I decided that I would use the magic of DVR and fast-forward through all the commentary to get to the actual plays. Imagine my surprise when I burned through three minutes of game time in approximately twenty-five seconds as Manning and company marched down the field at will. The Pats defense was sucking wind and we weren’t even at the half. Fortunately they pulled off a deep field stand that resulted in the Colts kicking a field goal – leading us into halftime up 21-6. Not a bad lead but still, there was something about the Pats sudden lifelessness that didn’t bode well – and the Colts were set to begin the 2nd half with the ball.

All this is prelude to the revelation of a traitor in my midst. Flashing forward, with approximately six minutes left to go in the game and the Pats huge lead completely evaporated (the lead having changed hands several times) and both teams knotted up 31-31 (and run-on sentences suddenly back en vogue with a vengeance), Andi looked at me and said:

Andi:   “I think I’m rooting for the Colt’s now.”

Me:     “Wha, wha, WHAT????” 

Andi:   “Well, think of the Red Sox and the Yankees. For years, the Yankees dominated the Red Sox and kept them out of the World Series. We’re kinda’ like the Yankees to the Colts. We’ve already won three times this decade… don’t you think it’s time we share.” 

Me:      “There’s no sharing in football. There are no hugs and kisses. This is Prime Time Smash Mouth Football, lady!!! A team is down 21 – 3, ya’ curb stomp em. A camera man gets in your way – ya’ deck him.”

A week prior I was watching the game in front of a 46” LCD HDTV with my buds and some brews. This week I’m being urged to buy the world a Coke and a smile so we can all just get along.

Of course, I kid my wife Andi. I’m fortunate to be married to a girl who is interested in sitting down and watching the game and for the most part, one who will usually root, root, root for the home team. Maybe I’m just cranky. Maybe it’s just the grim specter of that game’s freakish finale that haunts me.

Maybe I just really want that 46” LCD HDTV.