It’s only now that I can begin to write about it.
The Patriots did not win Super Bowl XLII. I can’t believe I just wrote that. I feel like I am living some bad dream, and any minute now I’ll wake up on the morning of February 3rd and we’ll have a Super Bowl that evening, the one where the Patriots win. The one were Junior Seau finally wins a ring. Four in seven years. 19-0. Finally wiping that smug face off Mercury Morris and the rest of those 1972 Dolphins. Perfect.
Alas, it was not to be.
I am sad. It does hurt. And this has caused me a lot of introspection these last few days.
Sundays in our house from September to January are football days. I plan our activities around being home in time to watch the Pats play. Towards the end of this year’s season, when we were marching towards an undefeated record, every game took on that much more significance. And I was not always pleasant to be around. I am very physical during critical times in a game – I jump up and move around, I wave my arms and shout at the TV. B helps out by shouting, “We need a touchdown!” If anyone tries to talk to me while a play is unfolding, I shush them (this despite the fact we have a DVR and I can easily rewatch if necessary).
And this loss has made me rethink this.
It’s not that I’m bitter about losing (though I am, a little). It’s that I believe the whole thing became more important in my life than it had any right to. And that’s on me. Because I do not play football. Any win or loss by a professional sports team has nothing to do with me. I enjoy watching, and I enjoy rooting for my team. But to have let it occupy a piece of my heart? Well, that’s not right. I actually had trouble sleeping Sunday night, and I am not the only person I know to say that!
So, congratulations to the New York Giants, who certainly played the better game on Sunday night. I am going into football silence for a little while and cuddle with my children a bit more. Adjust those priorities just a tad, doncha know.