Another Sunday, Another Soul Crushing Fucking Patriots Game

Patriots game, huh? Big shocker.

Every Sunday, same fucking story.

Wake up. Head pounding. Kids already screaming.

Coffee tastes like regret.

Then I remember it's game day.

And I think, 'Maybe this time.'

Foolish hope. My old man always said hope was a four-letter word.

He wasn't wrong.

Hour before kickoff, I'm already halfway to a pre-game buzz.

Need it.

Need something to dull the inevitable pain.

The wife asks why I even bother watching.

'Tradition,' I mumble. 'Masochism,' she mutters back.

She's not wrong either.

First quarter. Looks good. A glimmer.

Second quarter. Okay, maybe. Still holding on.

Half-time. Head to the bathroom. Take a long, quiet shit. Five minutes of peace.

Third quarter. The unraveling begins.

Interceptions. Dropped passes. Piss-poor coaching decisions.

By the fourth quarter, I'm just drinking.

Not watching anymore. Just drinking.

The kids are drawing on the walls. The dog's barking at shadows. My glass is empty.

Another goddamn Sunday. Another L.

My liver takes a hit. My soul takes a beating.

'At least they tried,' my wife says. She doesn't get it.

It's not about trying. It's about expectation.

And the crushing weight of disappointment.

Another week to dread the next Sunday.

Another Monday morning hangover, made worse by a shitty game.

Fuck 'em. Fuck it all.

Pass the Jameson. It's only Tuesday somewhere.