My stepson Ross is an avowed NY Giants fan and I’m a diehard Patriots zealot and our day is going to be rough. The fun thing is that we’re both busy imagining the ways our respective teams may lose– which is of course the preferred position of the true fan (who remembers with galling exactitude every miserable setback he’s ever witnessed, the fumbles, missed kicks, interceptions, O god it’s a nearly endless and cruel trick of memory we endure).
We are trying to imagine ways that we can be kind to each other. This is a sweet inter-personal delusion that we will maintain up til game time and then, well, it will be blood and feathers I’m afraid.
Years ago, when I was a college student I went to a bar in Geneva, NY, and it was early afternoon and a man walked in and put a paper sack on the bar and said: “Frank was one helluva a cock!”
He then pulled out old Frank!s legs, still tufted with ragged feathers and he stood them on the bar.
Alas, one of us is going to stand the old legs on the bar when it’s all over.
“Yep,” he said. “Frank was one helluva chicken!”
Go Patriots!
Planet of the Blind 