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Sports

Coping with a Super Bowl Loss and Bill Simmons

The way Bill says sandwiches--"Sandwidge-ezz"-- makes me want to buy a Derek Jeter jersey and piss on the handles of his luxury SUV.

In 2004, a long time ago, the Red Sox cast a spell on Boston sports fans. Their penchant for drinking, guest-bartending after big wins, and Johnny Damon's hair and beard made them a perfect team to break the imaginary curse created by a redheaded racist hack journalist named Dan. They also were an exciting team. Manny Ramirez bashed home runs, which we were convinced were carried aloft by weed and not HGH, David Ortiz seemed like a gentle giant in the mold of Jim Rice. Pedro Martinez and his Jheri-curl dominated batters, and the pasty, goateed white people on the team seemed less honky because everyone around them was so cool.

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That year after they won, you could have sold anything to me celebrating the 2004 World Championship Red Sox—I picked up Bostonredsox2004champions.com on GoDaddy seconds after the last out of Game 4. Amidst the flotsam of branded shot glasses, iPod cases, refrigerator magnets and DVDs was “Now I Can Die In Peace,” the thick tome of Boston homerism penned by legendarily long-winded, reference-happy ESPN columnist Bill Simmons' book. Like a true Masshole, I was gifted it for Christmas and read it cover to cover before New Year’s. Despite some unfortunate Sopranos, Star Wars, and Pearl Jam references, I enjoyed it. Since that time Simmons has become a human who really bothers me like a sore under my tongue. He’s become Editor-in-Chief of the self-satisfied pop-culture site Grantland.com and scored an endorsement from Subway, but his writing hasn't progressed, his shallow-but-constantly-referenced knowledge of music and culture hurts my brain, and the way he says sandwiches—“Sandwidge-ezz"—on his podcast makes me want to buy a Derek Jeter jersey and piss on the handles of Simmons’s luxury SUV.

Still, we rooted for the same team Sunday. New England lost—Tom Brady looked overhyped, Wes Welker just an average receiver with a bad mustache—but without a "What the fuck, you fucking piece-of-shit asshole" moment like last time’s helmet catch. This one was a bad collection of mental errors—Brady’s intentional grounding safety to start the game set the tone. The game was also really fucking boring. The only good part was guessing which boring music icon will bungee jump into Madonna, who was fumbling around in boots like an NYU student on the hunt for a "hunk" and a Meatpacking District Yogatini.

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In New York, the displaced Patriots faithful were commiserating over absinthe at a Cobble Hill bar. We bitched about the press coverage that would inevitably fellate Eli Manning, scowled at the adulty-baby costumes (jerseys) around us before somehow winding up somewhere where they sell sugary drinks where boring men go to talk about Proust and The Wire. I sat there wondering if I really even liked football, or if it was just a bridge to baseball season, a reason to waste a Sunday.

Then I headed over to Simmons’s read “Simmons’s column on Monday," and things got worse.

There's no "silver lining" in a loss: Part of being a Boston sports fan is feeling bitter and miserable, and not letting things go unless there’s a win. (Once that happens, you’re free to vandalize your city and gloat for years.) It’s been said before, but Simmons is officially out of touch. Bill, most of us don’t get the chance to sit two rows in front of "Hirschy,” and I didn't see Brady’s Hail Mary in person, but, yes by reading this article that is geared towards consoling me, I know you did.

Simmons continues: "This was a throwback Super Bowl. You walked to just about everything. You ate unhealthy food, drank beer and inhaled secondhand smoke."

Apparently the Sports Guy has lived in Los Angeles so long he has forgotten that this is what people in most major cities with fair-to-excellent public transportation do… every day. Yes Bill, normal people walk places and eat garbage, I'm pretty sure that's called America. Luckily, there’s another silver lining for Bill, his wife and children, two things I really give a shit about. I'm flooded with enough Facebook posts about "a quiet night with the wifey," and pictures of of kids doing mundane things only amusing when performed by a cat—I don’t need to again be reminded of how happy Bill Simmons is in his ESPN-built house.

But wait, Bill is still bitter, man. He sounds off: “Know this: I hate New York fans more than ever before.”

Please don't patronize me, I like New York fans and I live in New York City. If I go to Yankee Stadium and Gino Badabingo doesn’t lecture me with his hot dog breath on possible trade candidates, I'd think the place had gone soft. If every guy in my eye-talian neighborhood wasn't wearing an LT throwback jersey Tuesday calling me a "homo" and yelling "Bohhhstin Sucks" in a Scorsese-extra voice, I'd move back to evil Boston. I want to read incoherent tweets from Jim Jones and Juelz talking shit. I’d rather deal with all of that than move to a place inhabited by Bill Simmons clones.