Monday, November 16, 2015
Posted by el duque at 7:07 AM
The Giants lose football games the way a golden retriever chases a tennis ball. They just cannot stop themselves.
I can't take this. I can't take this, I can't take this, I tell you: I JUST CAN'T TAKE THIS! It's like watching the 2001 World Series against Arizona - all seven games, Brosius and Tino's HRs, leading to the humpback single - boiled down into one half-hour of torture therapy.
And here's the gemstone of this magical misery tour:
For the Gints, it's business as usual.
We blew game one against the Cowboys. A loss for the ages. We only needed to run out the clock. We couldn't. Then we blew game two against Atlanta. A classic fourth quarter collapse. Then came the recent loss to New Orleans - an out-of-body finger-breaker: A face-mask penalty lets the Saints kick a field goal with no time on the clock. You can't write that ending. Nobody will buy it.
Oh, but those were warm ups. Yesterday, we sat on New England's 5 yard line with two minutes left. A touchdown wins it. A FG puts us ahead. But I knew we'd lose. Everybody did. I knew we'd settle for the FG, so Brady could whisk his team down the field, which in the NFL is like eating a slice of pizza. I knew we would lose. Everybody in the free world did. It was another perfect collapse. With luck - or smarts (beyond Jason Pierre-Paw) - the Giants could be 9-1. Instead, they're 5-5. They'll finish 8-8 and out of the playoffs. Oh yes, there are a few more disasters yet to come.
I can't take this. Nothing in the Yankiverse compares to the Giants. Chasen Shreve's September doesn't come close. The Giants have made torture-losing into an art form.
After a loss like that, you roam the house, looking for things to break. I personally have come to wretch at the image of Tom Coughlin - our coach for life - with his head tilted like a dog, the beady eyes blazing, the cheeks flushed red - as another game turns into spit. And listen: I hate myself for this. Coughlin is a good man. He won two Super Bowls. He's a Hall of Fame coach, and I should cherish him. But I cannot take this. I cannot stand his face anymore, as he oversees the end of civilization. It's too much. No more, I say! Go ahead, Mr. Rumsfeld: Waterboard me, hook me up, anything, but not another loss like these. Can we just lose 51-0? Those will be like candy. Anything but this.