Gotta tell you, I'm writing this on Saturday afternoon, before we leave for Finley's birthday party. Of course, no matter what, we will be home in time to see the Ravens/Colts playoff game tonight.
Last night, on Friday, we were in WalMart and I ran into a woman from work who was purchasing for her infant son a Peyton Manning jersey. I reacted with shock and dismay, and she said, "Well, I like Peyton Manning. I'll still root for the Ravens, but Peyton Manning is funny!"
I can't hold it against Peyton Manning that the Colts left Baltimore in 1984, sneaking out of town in the middle of snowy night like deadbeat hoboes skipping out on their bill at a cheap motel where the "art" is screwed to the wall, as are many of the guests. It broke my heart, but that was a long time before a lot of people were even born, and what the heck do they care?
Nor can I really hold it against James "Jimbo" Irsay, owner of the team, who inherited the business from his bumptious father, Bob "Poophead" Irsay, about whom his own mother once said that he was the Devil On Earth. And a poophead. But Jimbo was just a kid when all this went on.
You have to look at this from the perspective of someone who had his young heart ripped out and stomped on, and then looks down the street one day twenty-six years later and sees his wife walking down the street with her fifth husband, Mr Peyton Manning. Don't punch him in the nose; she didn't leave you for him!
But she left you, and it still hurts. If you can't understand that, it must mean that you've never had that sort of hurt in your heart, and I'm happy for you.