Sometimes, the most painful brand of heartbreak is the disruption of new love; young love, the kind of feelings you aren’t familiar enough with to make sense of. Deep down, you know they are irrational and shortsighted and fleeting and misguided and you don’t care because the alternative is a return to cynicism and nothingness. That doesn’t make it any easier when the euphoria turns like a spear to the heart and knocks you back into the dump, flat on your backside.
If you haven’t already guessed, of course we’re talking about the New York Giants. And if you’ve driven around a leaf-strewn New Jersey suburb over the past month, you’d get it. You’d see massive, 10-foot-tall skeletons wearing Cam Skattebo jerseys and kids at trunk-or-treat wearing Jaxson Dart Braveheart facepaint (and that’s just my street). This has cropped up after a thumping, ass-kicking win over the defending champion Eagles. A home game where you could beat your chest and act like an irrational, entitled jerk again.
