Sunday, Sunday, Sunday
One of the best things about living on the west coast is that NFL games kick off at 10 a.m. on Sundays. This morning I was excited because it’s not just any Sunday, it’s the playoffs. During the NFL Playoffs I’m like a kid on Christmas morning, I can’t fall asleep the night before and I’m up at the crack of dawn waiting for the game to start. Since my favorite team, the New York Jets, was playing today I was even more excited, so I woke up The Slackmistress at 7 a.m. to have breakfast with me and then paced nervously waiting for kickoff.
For those of you not football savvy let me explain something; being a Jet fan is largely an exercise in heartbreak. In my lifetime they have never been to the Superbowl much less win one, and while they have twice been within one game of the Superbowl they have never gotten over the hump in my 32 years. In addition while they have had a few awful seasons they are generally good enough to keep me hoping but just flawed enough to make me feel like I’ve been kicked in the nuts come playoff time.
You would think that with this history of failure I’d keep my expectations reasonable but what kind of fan would that make me. At 10 a.m. I’m on the couch and ready to cheer them on against the Patriots (Side Note: The one time I attended a Jets playoff game in person was against the Pats and it is detailed here). At 7-0 Patrriots I’m doing fine, it’s early, at 7-3 Patriots I’m hopeful, at 10-7 Jets I call my father and I’m ecstatic, I start wondering if I can get to NY so dad and I can watch the Superbowl together. That was the highpoint of the day, the Jets hung in there into the 4th quarter when the game got out of hand. With two minutes to go The Slackmistress sends me a text message saying “I wish the Pats would get hit by a truck but stay alive long enough to taste their own blood”. That my friends is the kind of girl you take home to meet the family.