I’ll never forget those Thanksgiving dinners of my childhood, when extended family from all over would gather at our home to enjoy delicious food, good company and lob personal insults while ranking the NFL’s 28 teams.
Grandma calling dad a mouth-breathing turd for believing Dave Brown would keep the Giants in the wild-card race… cousin Ira stabbing Uncle Merl in the shoulder with a fork for claiming the Bengals—not the Oilers—were the worst team in the AFC… the profanity… the physical violence. The moments that will stay with me until that hypnotist I’ve been seeing is able to successfully cram them deep into the recesses of my subconscious mind.