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Trading Spaces

 

There was a buzz about Boston yesterday. Grocery stores ran out of chips. Strangers were talking in bars. I sat at a bar watching football, waiting to go home and put on my jersey, waiting to get to my friends house with the big TV, to watch the real thing. We were buzzing about a win. But we were not all so optimistic. Sports Illustrated had Wilfork on the cover, they picked the Pats for the Superbowl win. But who thought a team with a losing record could beat the defending Superbowl champs of last year? If you did, congrats, and I certainly hope you put money on the Seahawks last week.

With my Pats jersey on, I was ready to go. No snuggie, but I have never worn it for a playoff game, so it wasn’t worth the risk. Every Sunday is more or less the same. About ten of the same people, at the same house, fighting about the same things. Nine Pats fans, and one very quiet Jets fan. Or so we thought.

One or two things had changed for us. Our hosts had bought a bigger TV, and had rearranged the furniture for my birthday party the night before. We sat in different seats, no one feeling committed to superstitions, as it was only the Jets.

Quickly the game became reminiscent of our Drew Bledsoe days. Brady had time, to do nothing. It wasn’t that the Jets looked particularly fantastic, more that we looked Pathetic. It was if the Pats had been enjoying my birthday festivities the night before as well.

Half joking, no, quite serious, I commented on the fact we had switched seats. We were all in different places, as were the Patriots. No one responded, paralyzed with fear and pizza.

The half came and went. And we still looked bad. Something had to change. My father texted me, believe in Brady. But I didn’t believe in Brady. Or my father. Or Belichick, the reliable men of my life, somehow lost in the Jets defense.

A friend finally took matters into his own hands,

“Okay, let’s move the furniture back.”

And immediately we all moved the furniture to where it had stood in the last Patriots victory. I had no idea I could lift a couch. Our strength and speed was dazzling, and we had moved all of the furniture before the next play began. A play that lead to the first Patriots TD. We had done it. We sat far more comfortable in out normal seats, on our usual couches. Feeling we had cosmically changed the game by changing couches.

But despite our interior design, Brady still looked like Bledsoe. Jerseys were thrown. A Jet’s fan spoke up. And finally, just now, a dear friend was able to talk me out of my Pats jersey, and back into near sanity. And I think to myself, if my friend, a Raiders fan, is still watching football every season, I might make it after all.

 

Don't ask, Don't tell

Like many of the teachers at my school, I do not have much time for sports.  We mostly communicate about sports through the morning messages for “students” outside of our classrooms. Sometimes, I find, we even get a bit competitive. Who can create a better word problem out of the Celtics game. Who can use the Patriots game as teambuilding message, and so on.

The only time I really have for sports (guilt-free) is listening to my radio on my daily commute. My commute is about 2 hours, which would be enough time to gain some valuable sports knowledge, unfortunately it often seems this doesn’t exist from the sound of rambling idiots on the airwaves.

Yesterday, morning, however, I learned something from sports radio. They read aloud Steve Buckley’s article from the Herald. A Boston sports guy outs himself. On the radio one thing I heard a lot of, was who cares. And that sort of stuff doesn’t matter anymore. People don’t discriminate like that anymore.

My first reaction was, well, I guess this is Massachusetts. We are more opened to that than other states. But then I thought about it more. Yesterday instead of writing I had to do a whole class lesson on why students should not call each other lesbians, as well, as many other derogatory words. Being gay is definitely not something people don’t care about. My sister is engaged to a woman, and somehow, I felt I couldn’t say this to my class. I knew it would cause scandal for some of them. They are ten years old. They are not inventing homophobia; they are getting it from somewhere. And this is Massachusetts.

It’s sort of like when people don’t even notice race. It just isn’t true. Of course you notice a person’s race. It is the differences, after all, that make us so interesting. The whole “not caring” thing, to me feels like an excuse to not have to talk about it. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

 For a radio show that talks a whole lot, suddenly, they stopped talking.