Anybody who has spent any amount of time with me during the NFL football season knows that I am huge New York Giants fan. This glorious gift was given me by my older brothers as part of their lifelong mission to give me emotional noogies. To wit: being a fan of the G Men is to be consigned to a life extreme highs, rage-filled lows. In the last few years it’s made me a professional analyst who’s sole storyline is the imminent coaching death of Tom Coughlin.
Last weekend Big Blue went limp and soft as a parapalegic kitten in front of the lowly Washington Redskins in what has become an all-too-familiar late season crap fest. Thanks to three years of late season collapses Giants fans these days come in two varieties:
1) the overly neurotic urban weirdo with a thinly veiled inferiority complex
2) the rage filled kvetcher who begins all his sentences with “you know he won the superbowl in ’07 but … ”
I’ve turned to the latter to get through these dark times. That and I am now on a strict schedule when it comes to games. I monitor my screams of anguish to a certain number when there are other humans present. Every time Justin Tuck, the supposed defensive captain of this squad of underachieving slowpokes, saunters over to the sidelines with the gait of someone going to the fridge for a chicken sandwich I have a distinct urge through my tv at all of them.
But so goes the life of fan. And as such I am really looking forward to Jets vs. Giants this Christmas Eve. Like all fans of both teams the only real wish we have this holiday season is that both team show up and play like they care about winning.