Aging Disgracefully

So where to begin? I think at the end. Of regulation time, that is. The Rams had the ball, with countless seconds on the clock, with the endzone in sight. The were down 23-20. In a decision that will surely be analyzed by conspiracy theorists for decades to come, Mike Martz did not go for it. The chronology:
1:24 -- First-and-10 from the Carolina 25: Marc Bulger passes to Marshall Faulk for 6 yards.
0:42 -- Second-and-4 from the Carolina 19: Faulk runs off right end for 4 yards.
0:03 -- First-and-10 from the Carolina 15: Jeff Wilkins' 33-yard field goal is good.
This much is certain: the world will long note, but never understand, why Martz, with sufficient time and an energized offense, did not try to cross the plane, denying the Panthers the oxygen of overtime. But isn't this exactly why we love watching sports? On the surface, Martz's decision was colossally idiotic, but on some deeper level wasn't it just a metaphor for so many of the choices we make all the time? The mistakes we knew we were making, to borrow from Eggers? Nonetheless, it was a sad affair for St. Louis.

But now my mind drifts to other sad affairs. The Patriots are playing as well, and I'm reminded of my old friend and classmate Vijay Bhagavan. Vijay was a fat, wonderful cannonball of a guy. A son of the Ganges and the Charles, he was perhaps the most devoted of Pats fans. Seven years ago Vijay died. Such a young death was a poignant reminder of the ruthlessness of Nature.

Memory is strange, and betrays more than it serves. But I don't think I'll ever forget Vijay's infectious laugh. Or his generous spirit: he was one of those rare people who exude only the highest caliber Mana. This was a man who sported one of the most epic beards (and bellies) of the American Century, and yes, his head was always covered by a Pats cap. I remember once asking Vijay if he could ever reverse his ancestor's journey and return to India. "Oh yeah. Absolutely. No problem. As long as it's Boston" he said with a mysterious brilliance that was Vijay's, and Vijay's alone. As unpretentious and down to earth a guy as you'll find, it was only after his death that I learned he was from a really high caste.

After his death the Pats took it all (another unforgettable spectacle, but that is a game I should have addressed years ago). I remember sitting on my couch in the strange darkness that followed the Patriots Super Bowl win. I raised a glass or two (or ten) of...was it Knob Creek?... to Vijay, who I knew was up there somewhere in the Sweet Hereafter, watching his boys. And in that darkness, the weirdness set in: a flood of memories that had been set aside for years burst through. There I sat, getting ripped with a ghost, sharing in the glory of a victory that was his, after all.

Certainly his death resonated far and wide. To begin with, Boston Market saw its sales plunge. For me, Vijay's death represented a nasty turning point in grad school. After that, the whole thing became a rather unpleasant gig. Maybe because he was gone. Maybe he had helped to take the edge off of what had always been a rough ride. Then again, maybe not. But now that Long March is over, and Vijay looms large in my mind on this weird night.

And the Pats are in the mix again. It doesn't matter who emerges from the Colts-Chiefs game tommorrow (and for my money, it'll be the oh-so-smooth Peyton Manning Experience in the end). In either case, they won't take the Pats, not at home. Right now I'd rather take on a Waffen SS Panzer division than the Pats at home.

At the risk of expulsion from my own home (no, no: even then I'm far too valuable to my wife...I think), I'm gonna back them against the Panthers, if it ever comes to it. It's my salute to Veejay, who I will miss for the rest of my life. He still works through me, and in strange ways. Patriots vincit omnia, my brother, wherever you may be.