Fandom in Massachusetts

Super Bowl VVVVVVVVVIIIIX is this weekend, and it's a weird one for me. As I've documented in the blog and by word of mouth, I've questioned my allegiance to the Washington Redskins and their mostly-reprehensible football organization. After moving to Massachusetts this past summer I was even more curious how regional ties and home-team coverage would affect me. I was able to watch 6 (or so) 'Skins games this season. They're still bad. I'm used to that. This season however, there was a tinge of scrappy youth that timidly emerged at points, peaking with Roy Helu's undersized explosiveness towards the end of the season. To my wife's dismay I'm still a fan.

The thing is, I also watched most of the Pats games on tv. They're cool. Most importantly: their owner is a mensch, not a slimeball; Belichick is brilliant; Tom Brady. A Redskin fan is so acclimated to sub-mediocre quarterbacking and coaching, that Brady/Belichick is shocking to watch on a regular basis. More than shocking, its enjoyable.

So what about this Super Bowl. I still feel more New York than New England, but as a Skins fan the Giants are enemies. Becky has insisted that the Super Bowl has never been as hyped and ubiquitously reported as it is this year. At our new jobs our coworkers show their Pats spirit to a degree we never saw in New York. Women! Women are bonkers for the Pats here, and it's not just because of Tom Brady's face. So, Becky is rooting for the G-men. I'm rooting for the Pats. But if they lose and I see pictures of New Yorkers partying in the streets, I'll probably get a little homesick. At least there's the Mets. Yipes.

Pizza Superlative

I had to drop off my transcripts and such for my Brooklyn College application today. The campus is on my way home from Kingsborough, and serendipitously, I was passing through at lunchtime. Why serendipitously, you ask? Because DiFara's Pizzeria on Avenue J, is only a couple blocks away from Brooklyn College. My memory failed me briefly and I walked several blocks in the wrong direction, but this just stoked my appetite. I waited about 15 minutes for my slice, not bad considering the pizza is made by just one guy. One guy. He's been doing it for a long long time. There were no seats available, so when I got my slice—square with pepperoni—I took it and a root beer outside, and did the best job I could at savoring and not scarfing. It was not easy. The exciting revelation that came over me:
at that particular and fleeting moment, I might have been eating the best slice of pizza in the entire world. I for one believe that intelligent life exists outside of Earth. Most likely though, they don't have pizza. Therefore: I might have been eating the best slice of pizza in the universe. I'm completely serious.