It’s been a rough week in Looperland.
I haven’t posted on my blog but once since Sunday.
I haven’t watched ESPN for more than five minutes all week, save for the U.S.A.-Mexico soccer match.
[Aside: Signing Day was a so-so for the Maize and Blue. Terrelle Pryor is still trying to decide between the good guys from Ann Arbor or the evil Buckeyes and the Sweatervest. Rich Rodriguez needs this kid. Michigan needs this kid.]
I haven’t even bothered checking SI.com to find out when the next Swimsuit Issue hits stands.
There is even a sheet tacked to the wall outside my office-slash-glorified cubicle of things not to say in front of me …
… And they’re all things that have to do with the Super Bowl.
I know this might not be “newsworthy” anymore in the “timely” sense, but, frankly, pain is timeless.
I haven’t been able to bring myself to pay attention to my usual channels of sports information and write and think about sports because of Eli F—ing Manning and the New York Giants.
The thing is, I can’t knock them because they played a great game, the game they had to play in order to have the best chance of winning.
What I can knock, though, is Belichick’s stupid red sweatshirt. Why the hell would he change from the 18-0 gray cut-off job? Why?
It makes negative sense.
First of all –– and I know he was in Phoenix, but the game was indoors –– he cut the sleeves too short. You’d have thought the hooded, brooding Emperor look-alike was getting ready to spend a week on Muscle Beach!
And red? WHY RED?!
If it wasn’t alarming enough on its own, the red cut-off shook me to my core. It was sensory overload and instantly reeked of bad karma –– not that I’m superstitious, which I am.
In the end, I didn’t move for about 30 minutes after the game; I was shocked. No amount of PBR or beautiful smorgasbord of artery-clogging food could remedy the situation –– trust me, I tried.
People tell me, “It’s just a game.” While that’s true on one level, it’s still completely bogus.
Yes, it was a football game, but it was the first game ever involving one team’s chance of becoming the first 19-0 team in history.
It was supposed to be the culmination of a season of wrath, controversy and incredible accomplishment, and it went horribly, horribly wrong.
What did we get to show for it after the final horn?
We got 18-1.
18-1. The biggest, ugliest “1” in the history of pro football.
“18-1.” You better believe that’s on the list of things not to say around me.