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I almost called this post, Tom Brady is dead. (I still might. Lot of post to be written. Stay tuned. -ed.)
My friend Matt called me up last week to ask if I wanted to go with him to the Patriots game. Matt is a Jets fan and my boys would be playing Gang Green at Giants stadium. I thought about it for all of, oh, two and a half seconds, and said yes.
I went to my very first NFL game last year at Gilette and I loved it! The crowds, the field, the players. Everything. Oh, and that Cassel put up a big fat W against the Rams didn't hurt either.
But an away game.
Ruh roh.
I would be bringing it New England style, trust that. And I was willing to get beat, doused with beer, whatevs: I am Sparta...er...Dawn.
I set my alarm. Got dolled up in my Pats sweatshirt with my Brady jersey on top. I grabbed my car keys (complete with Patriots' keychain) and headed out the door. As I walked to the elevator, I decided it wouldn't be prudent to park my car whilst wearing my Brady jersey at Giants stadium. I'd put it on after I walked a safe distance from my brand new Beamer. The son should not suffer for the sins of his mother.
As I took off my jersey, a voice from behind stopped me.
"Hey! You can't do that! Brady needs us today."
A strapping man in a Ladder 35 T-shirt was carrying stereo equipment and walking behind me toward the elevator.
"Hah. I still have on my sweatshirt. I'll put the jersey back on when I get to the game, don't worry."
"Oh, you're going? Good! They're gonna need you today."
"But we're going to win right...I can't be in the middle of a Giants stadium full of happy Jets fans."
He grimaced.
"I dunno...it's gonna be close. But it's Brady, right? You see the game Monday?"
"Hell yes!"
We high fived. The elevator reached the basement. We exchanged names and parted at his jeep.
"See ya."
"Good luck today!"
I had to drive out to Williamsburg to pick up Matt and his BFF Brian.
"How come you're not wearing a Patriots jersey?" Matt asked, getting in.
"Oh, it's in the trunk. I don't want any harm to come to my car."
He laughed.
Brian and Matt are hilarious. Matt, an unrepentant total hippie who bicycle rides everywhere and hates the man and capitalism, takes great pleasure in mocking me for driving a BMW named after the founder of Yale University. "How do you relate to normal people?"
"Are you normal?"
"No," Brian yelled from the backseat.
Brian then informed me that he and Matt are in a bicycle gang -- not motorcycle -- bicycle. You can tell this by the intimidating tats they have on their feet.
Brian then cracked me up doing impressions of the traders at his company who are all "bros" most likely to do time for date rape.
"That's just how they roll."
We couldn't find an address for the stadium, so I just inputted the city and hoped for the best.
This was the best: getting to East Rutherford and seeing signs that said "To Giants Stadium," after following these signs we started to see signs that said "Permit Holders" and they pointed toward the stadium; the other signs that said "Nonpermit holders" pointed somewhere in the vicinity of Hoboken.
"You can't park on our property without a permit," a burly man told me as I inched too close to the "Permit Holders" lanes.
Racist.
Lincoln freed the slaves, buddy. I can be on your property all I want!
Jerkface.
We followed the signs to Hoboken and came upon a lot that said "nonpermit parking. Ten bucks. At your own risk." There was a bit of a line and we waited in it. But as we sat there the scene looked sketchier and sketchier. The driver in the BMW in front of us must have been thinking the same thing because he pulled out of the line and headed back to the highway.
"Uh...should I follow him," I asked.
"It's your Beamer," Matt answered.
True dat.
I peeled off behind my fellow Beamer guy.
I followed him to a hotel lot about two miles away.
Here parking was $25, but they provided a shuttle bus back to Giants Stadium in East Rutherford.
How bullshit is all this?
I parked Prince Eli (the aforementioned BMW named after Elihu Yale) and put on my Brady jersey. I locked all my valuables in the trunk and set the car alarm. I was ready!
"Um...Dawn?"
I looked up.
"Yeah?"
Brian pointed to my wide open driver's side door.
D'oh.
He slammed it shut, I reset the alarm and this time I was really ready!
Giddy up!
We took the shuttle bus to the stadium.
The bus was filled with Brady jerseys.
"I'm surrounded," Matt groaned.
We got off and started walking past the tailgaters.
Oh, My Christian ears.
The slurs and insults being hurled in the direction of my Brady jersey are virtually unrepeatable.
Except apparently Tom Brady is a homosexual and the Patriots suck.
I kept my head down.
"You guys are my muscle, right?"
Matt started whistling and looking off in other directions.
"Actually, I'm the one most likely to start hurling insults at you when we get inside," Brian added, "But if anybody else tries to get involved I will end them. I'll be all 'Tom Brady can suck my cock,' and some guy will jump in and be all "yeah, Tom Brady sucks," and I'll be all "shut the fuck up. Was I talking to you? Was anybody talking to you? You watch your mouth in front of her," and then I'll deck 'em.
I was laughing my head off.
Oh yes. This was when I was having a good day.
Giants stadium, by the way, SUX. With an x. That's right. The bathrooms are gross throwbacks to my days as a Brooklyn public school kid in the 1970s. (Um...I mean I wasn't born in the 70s.) The seats are crap and dude everything says "Giants Stadium" everywhere. I took shit from my facebook friends for saying this, but how do you stand that...like with your face showing?
I'm a fan of New York's underdog baseball team, the Mets. If Citifield said "Yankees Stadium" all over it, I'd spit. And vomit.
OK. Anyway.
We had beautiful seats, on the endzone...which kinda made it hard to see the endzone. Hmm...hey, Tom? Was that your excuse too?
Ugh.
I was surrounded by Green.
One guy was wearing the Green Hulk hands that they made for that movie a couple of years ago. Was that cross promoted at Giants stadium?? Cause if it wasn't...dude, missed opportunity! They are perfect for Jets fans.
Some American Idol fucknut sang the National Anthem. He was doing all this stupid harmonizing shit to it, like The Star Spangled Banner needs his flash in the pan assistance to be great. Hey, Constantine. I don't. Sit your ass down. Love, The Star Spangled Banner.
The game started and the Patriots looked bad.
Four and out. I was queasy.
We drew first blood, but it was just a field goal.
I had the same feeling I had while watching The Superbowl that was Canceled two years ago. We were ahead on the scoreboard, but we were losing.
So many missed opportunities. No one could get open. Brady couldn't hit the broadside of a barn. The officials were definitely calling the game favorably, but we weren't doing our parts.
The Jets fans were making fun of me. One guy made me laugh when he saw me tweeting: "texting your friends about how cute Tom Brady is, sweetheart? OMG LOL?"
I wanted to join in when they started chanting "Boston sucks" "Boston sucks"
"Boston sucks".
What? I'm a Brooklyn girl AND A YALIE! BOSTON SUCKS, WHAT UP?
But I understood that in this context they were saying the Riots suck. AND THEY DO NOT.
Er...well, they did...but that's for me to say and you to find out.
Or something.
Second half whatever was protecting the Patriots from defeat vanished. The talisman was broken and the Jets were scoring all over our faces.
I started to dread seeing Tom on the field. Failure after failure after failure. I started screaming for them to just "go for the field goal," as soon as they got possession. In Gostkowski I trust.
Oh, mighty vomiticus, please take away my sorrow.
I gave up on the game in the 3rd quarter. About three quarters after Tom Brady, so I should be commended.
Giants stadium was fit to be tied.
They ran out the clock, taking knees like good boys and that was that.
Tom Brady's first regular season loss in...a long dang time.
A well earned loss, I'll add.
The Jets fans were gracious.
"We told you Tom Brady sucked."
"Have a nice drive back to New England, wherever that is."
"Nanana hey hey hey goodbye."
"Brady ain't shit."
I hid behind Matt.
"Aw, you're safe. They'd only hurt you if we lost."
"Yeah, it would be a little douchey to win AND beat me up."
A Pats fan -- a DRUNK Pats fan -- grabbed me into a hug from behind.
"Don't worry, honey. It's just one game. The season is long," his breath reeked of beer and his Boston accent was thick.
"Um...thanks." Stop touching me.
The boys were also very sweet.
"Hey, it's ok...maybe you guys will beat the Bengals or something...oh...right."
FUCKERS.
Preseason. That doesn't count...I...um...
Hate everybody.
Tom Brady is dead.
To me.