It’s been some time since I’ve taken pen to paper (or fingers to PC as the case may be), however my recent move to the Boston area has supplied the impetus to do so.
A little background, I’m from Maryland, lived in various other locations and think of myself as a reasonably sane if not somewhat intelligent person (although some will argue the point). I’m an avid fan of all things sports and a huge fan of the purple & black. I’m also madly in love with an amazing young lady. It is because of the latter that I now find myself living in Boston.
If you never lived in Boston, it is truly a world unto itself. It is a city full of history with a picturesque waterfront and cultural wonderment.
It is also full of Bostonians.
Imagine a town full of New Yorkers with an inferiority complex, hungover and angry all the time and you get an idea of what you deal with on a daily basis (and don’t get me started on the drivers). These folks are also crazy for their local sports clubs, especially the NFL team (of whom I am not a fan of).
I’m confounded as to the amount of forced fed pro-Patriot propaganda one has to endure. You can’t swing a dead “lobstah” without hitting someone in a Pats shirt around here. I wanted to know how a fan base could be so blinded, so oblivious and ignorant to the repeated offenses (like what I did there?) perpetuated by this franchise.
As the days slowly and agonizingly pass in this self afflicted purgatory of “wicked pissah-ness”, I find myself loathing all things Patriots, even more than I thought a human had the capacity for. I needed answers as to why these bean-eating lemmings continually throw themselves into the jaws of lies and deceit. When engaged, the local populace made about as much sense as passing on third and goal at the one in the Super Bowl.
It was clear I’d have to figure this mystery on my own.
Oh, I have other pressing issues to deal with mind you, family, finances, and why I’m fascinated by the Ancient Aliens program. But the constant exposure to the cult of Brady gnawed at me like a cavity that hurts every time you breathe in the cold New England air.
I am fortunate to live in a nice apartment that, thanks to my girl, “we” are able to afford. The previous resident was obviously a fancy-Dan as we continually receive catalogs that are popular with the “pseudo hipster urban chic well-to-do-set”. I usually give them a cursory glance before depositing them in the garbage bin.
One day while perusing a Patagonia catalog (or one such pompous purveyor self-proclaimed socially conscious and outrageously priced haute couture garments), I began to connect the dots – expensive douchey clothes worn by pretentious d-bags, who claim the moral high ground and pretend to be progressive.
So typically New England elitist I thought, so Martha’s Vineyard, so Kennedy.
So…Tom Brady.
Bam, there it was staring at me like the overpriced Nano Puff Down Parka on page 18!
New Englanders have long been programmed subjects of the cult of Kennedy, glorifying and worshipping all things Camelot. The fading of the Kennedy name and subsequent lack of prominence formed a void in the collective psyche of New England serfdom.
Along comes Belichick, Brady & Co.
Now these guys are no Kennedys, far from it, but they were able to provide an emotional sports salve to the masses. As the team experienced more and more success it was easier for the mind of the New England sports fan to elevate and blur the Brady, Belichick bunch to Kennedy deity type status. As with the Kennedys, it became easier to overlook the “shenanigans” and “alleged improprieties” as long as it shone a winning spotlight on them and, by association, the regional populous as a whole.
Clearly I cannot blame the lowly Patriot supporter for their blind faith. This type of allegiance to a crown has been drone into them since birth, subject to a privileged few who prefer to do their magic behind a curtain with no questions asked.
Ask not what you can do for your team but what your team can do for you (as long as they don’t get caught).
So carry on chowder-heads, don your number twelve jerseys and faded hoodies and up the “wicked” ramparts of Camelot!
Perhaps ignorance really is bliss?
There you have it, mystery solved (at least to my own satisfaction).
Now I can get on to more important things, like finding that Nano Puff Parka in my size.
