there’s no crying in baseball. or football.

Looking ahead to this weekend’s NFL playoffs, I can’t help but be underwhelmed. Yes, the Patriots were unceremoniously booted from the playoffs two weeks ago (thanks for nothing, Brett Favre!) but I’m not going to sit here and wax poetic on what could have been. Surveying my playoff options, I put my support behind the Chargers because I liked them ever since the Pats played them in the AFC Championship last year. Thanks to LaDainian Tomlinson and his injured groin, and Philip Rivers playing like it was his first game, my fill-in team got eliminated on Sunday.

So now I’m back where I usually am: generally apathetic about the Super Bowl, more interested in the commercials than the actual game. It’s much different from last year, when I spent all day preparing for a Super Bowl party/inter-house battle, half of my friends being Giants fans, the rest of us Patriots supporters. As I’m sure most of America remembers, the Patriots lost by three points and I lost control of myself. Probably because I was seriously overtired and probably because I hate losing anything, even a game of Monopoly, I started crying. Sports rarely move me to tears, but in that instant, when the Giants fans in the room were going absolutely crazy, I was just devastated. Monday morning was even worse when I had to commute into Manhattan and see people wearing Giants apparel on every street corner.

Is there some sweet karmic justice served with the Giants being so soundly beaten by the Eagles? Uh, yes. I heard one sports analyst predicting it would be a Manning vs. Manning Super Bowl, but right now, it looks like the only thing Peyton and Eli will be playing in is the Double Stuf Racing League.

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