A Quarter Century, Division Champions, and Other Minutiae

I wish I had more to report and more interesting anecdotes to share, but my mind is still recovering from the recently completed semester, and I am bereft of bright ideas for blog postings. I'm going to wait another week to post about my plans for my upcoming three-week vacation (!), and so, I will use this opportunity to catch up with reports of recent developments and debauchery over the past weekend.

Football Interlude

I am proud, however, to start with the Buccaneers NFC South Division Title Edition of the weekly Football Interlude. The joy of victory was tempered only by the fact that it was won against an Atlanta Falcons team that has not only lost its Pro Bowl quarterback to a two-year prison sentence for animal cruelty, but one that also saw its head coach unceremoniously bolt literally in the middle of the night for a job as head coach at the University of Arkansas, leaving the Falcons literally headless and leaderless for the final three games of the season.

Now, there has always been a measure of bad blood between the Falcons and Buccaneers, perhaps because they were almost certainly the worst teams in the league between the years 1984 and 1998 (when Atlanta made its first and only Super Bowl appearance, a lopsided defeat at the hands of John Elway's Denver Broncos). In 2002, the divisions were re-aligned, and the Bucs and Falcons were now slated to play two annual editions of the "Battle of I-75". There is no love lost between these teams or their fans, and although the Bucs have dominated the series, there is enough animosity to make even the most meaningless of meetings between the two somewhat interesting (you never know who will be ejected for throwing punches, who will spit in the face of an official, who will try to tackle the opposing coach, etc.).

This time around, however, it was difficult to feel much more than sympathy for fans of a team that has essentially abandoned them this year. My good friend in New York jokingly suggested that the Atlanta Falcons organization issue refunds to season ticket holders, and while this is as likely as the last-place squad making the playoffs, Atlanta's fans deserve far better than that with which their team has disrespected them this year. As a result, I will say that I feel for you, Falcons fans. You deserve more, and I have no doubt that, if your ownership demonstrates even an ounce of professionalism this off-season, you will be back on track after a good draft and a fresh start.

That being said, it was an absolute pleasure to watch the Bucs unceremoniously dismantle the Falcons 37-3, a score which included the Bucs' first-ever kickoff return for a touchdown (courtesy of Michael Spurlock), and cruise to their third Division Championship since 2002. Jon Gruden has patched together a ragtag group of has-beens, never-weres, old men, and unproven youngsters and has likely saved his job by quietly guiding them to the playoffs the year after a dismal 4-12 finish.

The Big 2-5

Tomorrow is my 25th birthday, which I'm told is the last "big" birthday before 30. As a result, I decided to have a "big" birthday party this past weekend, and despite the first real blizzard of the season and the fact that everybody else was holding their holiday parties that same evening, the turnout was great, and I'm humbled that those who took the time to slog through the driving snow just to spend some time celebrating with my friends and I.

The evening began with dinner at my PhD cohort's favorite hangout, after which the more intrepid among us trekked to an upscale lounge, where we had reserved our own booth, complete with our own liter of Jack Daniel's and caraffs of the appropriate mixers. There, we proceded to drink, drink, dance, and be merry (and drink some more). I saw some old faces and some new, and after a time, all began to run together in a whiskey-induced haze. The evening's end, sadly, is only an alcoholic blur to me now. Perhaps my liver is beginning to raise the white flag, or my body is simply telling me that it is time to mature a bit. Whichever it is, I do know that I spent some time worshipping at the porcelain alter before collapsing into bed and waking up--lightheaded and dehydrated--just in time to watch the football game.

Tonight, despite the events of the weekend, one of my close friends and I are going out on the town again, although the evening will be decidedly more tame (with the quantities imbibed a bit more measured than they were on Saturday). I am taking tomorrow--my actual birthday--off of work, and I am determined to have a pleasant, productive, clear-headed day.

All of this leads me to wonder why I continue to follow a tradition that, while nice for a child, seems almost unnecessary now. Granted, I am beyond grateful for my wonderful family and terriffic friends, all of whom have always gone above and beyond the call of duty in making my birthdays special.

When I was a kid, there was nothing I anticipated more than my birthday. It was like Christmas, Hanukkah, New Year's, and summer vacation combined into one magnificent, joy-filled 24 hours. My parents always made a production of it, and I always felt like a little king. This is one of the many aspects of my childhood that I cherish--the fact that, be it on the occasion of a birthday, the last day of a school year successfully completed, or simply a moment when my world needed brightening, I always and without exception felt loved.

Sometimes, I feel as though I am loved by those I care about more than I deserve to be, but that is likely an insecurity of my own construction.

Now, the whole birthday thing seems a bit silly to me. After all, I'm just a working stiff like everyone else. Where kids need love and nurturing and reinforcement of the notion that they are great and sweet and have the world at their fingertips, adulthood, by contrast, carries with it a certain innate resignation to the fact that we must all pull our weight, that we are not as unique as our parents told us we were, and that the next generation always holds more promise than our own (this last one, I actually do not personally believe, but I will include it as a general rule, to which I guess I am an exception).

This is probably digging too deeply into the issue. I will continue to celebrate my birthday, to accept gifts, and to feel awkward when this one seemingly arbitrary square on the calendar rolls around. I love celebrating other people's birthdays, but as I've gotten older, I feel increasingly strange when other people celebrate mine. Perhaps, like a falling tolerance for alcohol and a rising need for stability, this is simply one of the many side effects of growing up.