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   The unspoken background to last night’s New England Patriot - Buffalo Bill cliff-hanger has to be the proliferation of “Suicide” Pools (simple, pick a winner and move on) in North American culture and the fact that hundreds of thousands of punters had the Pats as their pick. Yours truly was one of the throngs tuning in anticipating an easy advancement to the second round, even casually surveying the Week 2 spreads, contemplating next weeks pick. As I sat down for a quiet beer at the Rail, I didn’t have a worry in the world. I had no idea what was in store. Oh, and lets be clear, I have never, as in never ever ever, gone out of a Suicide Pool in the first round. I have tormented the life out of people who have, however.

   Where to begin? A ragged ass Tom Brady played the worst first half of his career - overthrowing, under throwing, at times not throwing at all, clearly displaying the effects of a lengthy rehabilitation process. There was zero chemistry between Brady and new bullet receiver Joey Galloway, essentially reducing the Pats offence to a ten man squad. The Bills had been maligned viciously in the press due to an underwhelming preseason performance and they clearly came out with epic ambitions for their night in Foxborough. A battle between the rookies on the visitor’s offensive line and the stalwarts with the Pats defenders turned into an astonishing victory for the underdogs. The game settled into a rhythm of consistent underachievement by the Pats and gutsy determination from the Bills.

   With five and a half minutes to go, I threw up the white flag. I sat at the bar in utter disbelief as the Patriots surrendered a TD to fall behind 24-13 and seemingly out of contention. Friends and pool competitors tumbled by, doubled over with ferocious laughter as I attempted to put my loss into context. Utter humiliation. Utter embarrassment. Me, the king of the pigskin, out in the first round (along with Sally the Office Temp and Pervez, the non-English speaking janitor who took Detroit because they were Leee-ooons). Today was going to be a reflection on the worst bets I had ever made, the most mortifying and shameful moments when I completely failed to grasp the rudimentary aspects of a competition or horse race. Then…well, as they say, cue the bloody comeback, mates…

   A brilliant, improbable turn of events allowed Brady to zip two touchdown passes in the final five minutes for a 24-23 win. My mood changed in mere moments from sullen depravity to unfettered joy. Yep, I was hugging my pals and chugging the delicious beer of changed fortune. I danced along the Danforth like a Columbian midget reunited with cocaine or a college grad nailing a job in the government. Sweet is the dance of victory and sweetest of all is the dance of the man who surrendered-with-five-minutes-to-go-and-then-watched-his-team-score-two-touchdowns-for-a-miraculous-win.

   Bring on next week, bitches…