Yo Soy Fiesta


I was going to write a Super Bowl post and about how much I love the New England Patriots and being a Pats fan; about how I was never really into football until the arrivals of my sons, how Mrs. Kuhl and I began watching Pats games on winter weekends as we cradled a baby in one hand and a bottle in the other, and about how, years later, there I am, standing in front of the TV watching the fourth quarter of SB 49, my heart pounding like I just sprinted 800 meters; about how the Patriots appeal to me not because they win so damn much or often pull victory from between the lion’s jaws but because of their “Do Your Job” culture and Belichick’s insane work ethic; about how that buy-in culture discourages showboaters and demands discipline and how men like Tom Brady and Vince Wilfork are role models as fathers and husbands in an NFL that doesn’t care if a player punches a woman unconscious in an elevator; about how I was never more proud to be a Pats fan when they offered free exchanges on Aaron Hernandez jerseys; about how, in a Connecticut town divided between Giants and Pats fans, I use the Patriots to teach my sons to be lovers not haters, and to root for their team without putting down others (except the Ravens because many of the Ravens are thugs who should be in prison who try to injure other players); and about how hatred of the Patriots is a metaphor for contemporary America, a place where people no longer believe that success derives from hard work and good luck (with “luck” defined as being in the right place at the right time after being in the wrong place 99 times beforehand) but instead assume you must have cheated and stolen to win, even when there’s no evidence of it.

I was going to write all that. But instead I’m just gonna repost this photo from Twitter. Go Pats.

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