It’s Tuesday, two days after the fateful game, and like the rest of New England, I’m still in shock, sad and almost queasy with the pangs of the loss.
We all resisted the endless hype as long as we could manage… told ourselves it was bluster and foolishness. We convinced ourselves our players wouldn’t be effected by all the talk of perfection. They were pros, the coach was a pro.
We wanted to believe that our hero’s ankle was a ploy to throw off the other teams plans. That he was fine and healthy and ready to play the game of his life. Our handsome, humble, conquering hero.
Like the rest of New England, I watched the game on the edge of my seat, hoping against hope that our boys could pull it out one more time. That the dream could be. It was tantalizing possible still… so close… until the final gasps of that endless game. And then we knew the dream was done and our heartache began.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow. Yet swallow it I will.
Because today, as in days past, I’m proud to be a Patriots fan. Our team might have lost the game of their lives and the right to claim perfection, but they lost like champions. No crying… no blaming anyone else… no tantrums. Just disappointment and sober congratulations to the victors. Class all the way. Even in defeat.
So I’m wearing my team colors and holding my head high, proud to be a Pats fan. As proud today as ever.