Brady, Brady, Brady fever is alive in New England today and the game is just a couple hours off. Some of my family is in Atlanta for the game as much to get away from the cold as to see their beloved Patriots play. In preparation for attending a party at Kim and Neil’s today, I went to the Italian pastry shop and it was packed with happy folks drinking their espresso and predicting the game outcome.

For sure some of the gorgeous and perfect sweets I purchased will be swallowed whole if a bite is taken when a play is in process. I pray that those so excited watching the game don’t choke on sugar and butter confections. Ah but those are the risks we face in enjoying life!

Football is the U.S. madness, not unmatched by the UK’s passion for soccer. I like football, but when the outcome is close, I feel my heart flutter and I often look away as if I’m viewing a scary movie. I, who write murder mysteries, who examines the horrors of sociopathy and psychopathy, am unable to keep my eyes open during the stress of the game. Perhaps I am only able to envision loss if it’s fictional. Perhaps I am what a friend calls me, ‘A football wimp.’

But this game, and watching it, is supposed to be fun. How much fun for this wimp is there if I am hiding in the other room stuffing confections down my throat to insure that I’m still alive? Yet each year I watch the final football game of the year; so don’t you think that I must enjoy it? At any rate, my dear readers, no matter what ever team you’re rooting for, I applaud your interest and loyalty.

K. B. Pellegrino

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