On Saturday, I played golf. In December. In New England. The course was closed, and there were sticks and pine boughs in place of the pins, but that didn’t matter. I played.
I didn’t even care that I lost.
On Sunday I attended the Patriots game at Gillette Stadium. The Patriots lost to the Buffalo Bills. Since New England had already locked up the top seed in the playoffs, the game had no real meaning. The Patriots sat many of their starters, and as a result, they failed to even score a touchdown.
I didn’t even care that they lost.
On Saturday night, I attended my extended family’s Christmas party in Massachusetts. I was in the room for more than five minutes when my wife called over to me. Pointed.
I looked. Standing in the corner was my father.
My father was at the party. My father does not go to parties. My father does not leave his house unless forced to do so. My father does not interact with large groups. My father does not attend family functions.
My father was attending a family Christmas party.
Given my immature and petulant need to win at all costs, I’m not sure which was more improbable this weekend:
- Playing golf in December
- Not caring about losing my golf match
- Not caring about the Patriots losing their game
- My father attending the annual family Christmas party
It’s nice when life can offer up such a bounty of surprises.
