Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Bernard Pollard, Repo Man

I’m currently homeless. I am without home.

I’m not destitute, in any way. I don’t sleep on the street (regularly), I don’t panhandle on corners, and I’m not roaming the Earth like Jules from Pulp Fiction. I have a roof over my head and eat fine. I just don’t have a place I can call “home” at the moment.

It’s an odd position in which to find myself. I left Boston for LA a little over two months ago, and haven’t adjusted quite yet. I have been unbelievably lucky to have a group of people who have gone out of their way to help, but it’s a long “re-learning” process. Errands that were done without thought back home have to be done for the first time. Two weeks ago, I had to figure out where to get a haircut. I desperately need an oil change, and have no idea where to go. I live in this city, but haven’t come close to making it my own.

The flip side of that coin is that Boston – my family, my friends, the city itself – has moved on without me. I’m disconnected from the only place I’ve ever known. Friends have gotten new jobs, or gone back to school, or gotten engaged, all while I have been three thousand miles away. I’m not the only one who has suffered through this either. Millions of people out here have gone through this weird transition before, and millions will follow suit. It’s a conscious choice, one that you can’t allow yourself to regret. It’s the sad, inevitable byproduct of desperately attempting to Live the Dream.

So I’ve been trying to figure out how to cope with this odd detachment from the East Coast by observing other people who have made the transition. Some people are lucky enough to get involved in relationships that take off the edge. A few invest themselves in television and movies, which is followed with as much fervor out here as we follow sports back home. And some, well, some like the sauce!



Personally, I’ve gone a different route. I dove headfirst into my job, attempting to immerse myself in even the smallest details. And while this (hopefully) is quite beneficial towards forwarding my career, it gets fucking STRESSFUL. So, as a shock to no one, I figured I would use sports as my escape. This decision didn’t seem too difficult. I’ve always loved sports. My sports fandom history speaks for itself. In the transition from Boston Sh!tShow to West Coast Sh!tShow, sports would be my Constant.





This actually ended up being harder than it seems. I don’t believe in an East Coast Bias, but its not hard to argue that its more difficult to follow East Coast teams with a three hour time difference. Sox games generally start at 4pm pacific. I work until AT LEAST seven. Its gamecast or bust. So while I follow them as passionately as is possible, I can’t really kick back and enjoy a game over beers, which is what I really need.

But I DID have football.

The Patriots, with Tom Brady at the helm, were gonna be my savior this year. Games start at ten, which sucks, but at least I can fucking watch them. Plus, a whole day of football watching can be completed with enough time to sober up so I don’t reek of booze at the office on Monday! So I got overexcited about this past Sunday. I picked out the bar a month and a half ago, a sports bar with a patio so I could smoke while watching the game. I talked about it for weeks. I can’t really afford to do much at this point, but I was gonna make an exception for Sundays. It was gonna be me, my fellow Pats fans, and Tom Brady, and for three hours, I was gonna feel like I was home.

And then Tommy went down.




The rest of the Hysterics have covered every possible angle, so I won’t bore you with the details. It’s just terrible. And while I still love the squad, and think that anyone who counts them out is criminally foolish, its not gonna be the same this year. We’re gonna struggle to win games we would have steamrolled through, and we’re gonna lose games we would have won. We’re not gonna be dominant. We’re going to be normal again.

I don’t care if the hit was clean or not (though every time I read a quote from Pollard saying Brady screamed, I wanna fucking stab him. Shut up asshole, you fucked him over, accident or not). I just know that, at that precise moment, Ron Pollard destroyed part of my link home. I’m not there to commiserate with fellow fans. I’m not there to watch the local news reports. I’m just. Not. There.

The team will move forward. I promise you Bill Belichick already has. And within a few days, the legions of Pats fans will have moved on to dissecting the Jets, and finding faults and flaws in Favre’s gunslinging style, and talking themselves into this season. And every step they take forward, I somehow feel farther away.

The region will move on, once again. And once again, they’ll do it without me.



















Damn that's depressing. I need something to cheer me up.







Ahhhhh. That's better.

5 comments:

Sh!tShow said...

I'm gonna get harassed about timestamps again, but this is NOT MY FAULT!

GHABB,Y~! said...

How does she hold all of those beers? She must be made of magic...and nipples.

futuremrsrickankiel said...

ZOMG U FUCKED UP UR TIMESTAMPS

...just kidding, I miss you :)




...thought I changed the locks on this thing, dammit!

Hazel Maes Landing Strip said...

Sh!tshow, you can post 45 minutes after me about the same subject matter ANYTIME.

Rocco said...

I believe she is carrying six huge mugs with her left and 2 with her right. Impressive.