Something about the start of football season gets me pumped. All it takes is a little crisp fall air and the smell of stale beer turns me into a smack talking feisty fan. I dig out my lucky tee-shirt, sox, tiara (laugh all you want I swear it works) and post the college and NFL schedules on my fridge. Sure I love the game for all the right reason. The trick plays, the massive displays of testosterone, that no f*****g way pass that wins it as the clock runs out.
But I also have a huge soft spot for a certain Pats QB in his tight white pants. I'm like a squealing pre-pubescent girl at an NSYNC concert every time he gets a close up shot. So this Saturday when Tom fell to the field clutching his leg a seasons worth of ogling brilliantly flashed in front of my eyes and went dark. Oh my tender heart.
This year I guess I'm just in it for the love of the game. No ulterior motives for me. Except perhaps a sideline shot or two of the gracefully recovering TB.
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