Big Blues and My Birthday, Too

Okay, so much for the Giants.

But before I get started, I figure I should make a confession: frustrated blog articles and throwback Bavaro jerseys aside, I'm not a big Giants fan.

In truth, I root for them, I wear their apparel (Back in the day, I wore a royal blue Giants starter jacket (remember how popular those things were, back in the early '90's? I actually had mine stolen out of my locker - ahh, public school - along with my asthma inhaler in the inside pocket. I walked the whole way home without a jacket, which pissed my Mom off - don't ever get on the bad side of an asthmatic kid's Momma, she will destroy all trangressors. Well, anyway, Mom was waiting to pick me up at the front of the school several days later when she sees some dipshit wearing two starter jackets at once (yeah, one on top of another - what an idiot) sure enough, one of them happened to be a royal blue Giants starter jacket. (Back then, most starter jackets were black, so a bright blue one was fairly uncommon) Well, my mom actually got out of the car and approached the little thug and asked innocently, "Say! That's a nice jacket! I'd like to get one of those for my son. Where did you get it?" To which the little bastard replied, "Uh, buh... guh... rap music, jolt cola" - did I mention this was public school? Anyway, Mom then asked if she could see the inside pocket, and not surprisingly, the tag that had my name written on it was ripped off. My Mom then pulled a Linda Blair, switched on what was probably the most satanic voice my sweet mother could ever conceivably muster, and snarled, "You know, I bet there was an asthma spray in that pocket, and I bet whichever kid you took that from had to walk all the way home in the cold without his jacket or medicine, you sword-swallowing assclown! Okay, she didn't actually get to say that last bit, because as my Mom was getting revved-up, the mouth-breathing dufus realized that this strange woman wasn't really asking him where to buy the jacket, but was in fact, quite accurately accusing him of stealing it. He blubbered, "Uh yeah, I'll give it back, okay, lady?" Sure enough, I was called out of science class the very next day to the assistant principal's office and given back my royal blue Giants starter jacket. This is probably one of my Mom's lesser-known triumphs, but I'll always give her props for it. Mom rocks.) Yikes, that sure was a long tangent... anyway, about them Giants...

"Ohhhhh! I was supposed to catch the ball?!"

Truly, I'm not a terribly big sports fan. My Dad is, though. My Dad loves the Yankees and the Giants. I love my Dad. Thus, I love the Yankees and the Giants. But does my Dad love me? (just kidding, of course he does) However, I will rarely actually sit and watch an entire game, especially a regular season game. I'm happy when they win, bummed when they lose, but for the most part, the fortunes of rich athletes representing New York does not emotionally impact my life for the most part (except when the Red Sox beat the Yanks... then my day is ruined.) I think I'm much more concerned whether they win or lose because I know it matters so much to my Dad. I'm disappointed the Giants lose because I know it bothers my Dad. If my Dad's bothered, then I'm bothered. Typically, Sundays during football season in la Casa de Crimmins are dark ones, indeed.

"Oh drat, lost again. Hmm, I wonder if I should take the yacht out tomorrow...."

My Dad is quite insane, though, when it comes to football. Because, from my perspective, he seems to derive absolutely no pleasure from the experience. He doesn't cheer. Once. Even when they're winning. He always has this resigned look on his face, waiting for the other shoe to drop, or in the Giants case, the other flag to be thrown on the play. The only emotions he exhibits, other than anxious dread, are flashes of frustrated anger, when the Giants do something stupid (which can be quite often). For a man who is so easy-going and mellow, it blows my mind that he puts himself through this torture, week after week, season after season. I guess I'll never understand.

But it still sucks that the Giants went out like a bunch of punks.

Sorry Mongo, No Pinatas This Year...

And so, I have reached the hallowed age of 27. Man, ten years ago I was a junior in high school, taking driver's ed... waiting to take the SAT's... and not yet gone on a first date or any of that jazz. And I still had a year to go to see Metallica in concert for the first time. '96 was the year of Trainspotting and Beavis & Butthead Do America. It was a very good year. Where will I be at 37?

Hopefully not still living at home waiting to finish med school... that's for sure!

Feedback Question of the Day:
"What's Your Favorite Birthday Memory? A gift? A party? Uncle Jed stayed sober?"