Get over it, Pats fans

"Listen, I don't mean to be a sore loser, but uh, when it's done if I'm dead, kill him!"

- Paul Newman as Butch Cassidy in the movie, "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

AUBURN, Maine — There was still snow on the ground Monday morning. The wood stove was hot as hell, providing comforting heat as I ambled toward the coffee pot to pour myself a hot one. Our silly cat was clawing at the door. I reached for the morning newspaper in the cold air.

Nothing had changed since Sunday night when the New England Patriots lost a heart breaker to the New York Giants. It's been seven days, and if you are still brooding or whining, get some professional help. There are plenty of shrinks in the phone book.

I didn't turn to the bottle for a little Southern Comfort or call my family in tears. No finger pointing from my sofa seat. No loud cursing. No banging on the stop sign outside my home on a quiet street in Mayberry RFD.

I am betting some fans wanted to throw themselves off a bridge Sunday. 

Not me! I hit the sack and drifted off without any tossing and turning.

I was over the Patriots' loss as soon I flipped the television channel to watch Masterpiece Theater on PBS. OK, I am a snob and enjoy watching British-made mysteries.

It's not that I didn't give a damn. I am not a disgruntled fan shopping around for another NFL team to root for next season. I will always be a Pats fan. Hell, I grew up in the Greater Boston area in a town that is a stone's throw away from Fenway Park.

Give up on the Pats? Never, god damn it! I am from Massachusetts, god damn it! That's like turning my back on the Bruins, Celtics and Red Sox. That would make me a communist, a traitor or even worse — a member of the Republican Party.

Look, Tom Brady and the rest of his crew marched off with a truck load of cash that you or I will never see in this lifetime. Nobody died and it was game that kept us all on the edge, especially when Brady launched a long-distance pass into the end zone. I knew it was a long shot, but that didn't stop me from acting like Pollyanna while the ball sailed into the air. I crossed my fingers and promised to give up four-letter words or never touch a drop of dark beer.

Well, not really.

Sure, watching New York take one Giant step past the Pats left me gut shot with a hole the size of cannon ball. But my wounds quickly healed with a strong cup of coffee and the love of a good woman.

I made no plans to travel to New York to disrupt the Giants' celebration. I am not a sore loser. I wish the Giants and Eli well in their next endeavor.

Of course, there will be THOSE fans who want to make a villain out of Wes Welker and label him a Bill Buckner, who was crucified by overzealous Red Sox fans who seemed to take pleasure in punishing this man.

So Welker didn't catch the ball and there were other dropped passes during those crucial 57 seconds. You know that that means — these guys are human. Anybody can screw up. Leave this man alone. He probably feels worse than any rabid Patriots fan covered in face paint.

You feel let down by the Pats' loss. Get a frigging life. Remember, knucklehead, it's a game. Accept it!

In Boston, it was sad to see that a handful of people were arrested after the game for acting like morons. So your team loses a close one, and that gives you an excuse to turn over cars and shoot up the neighborhood? Forget jail. Stick them in a deep hole in the woods.

Look, New England, we took it on the chin this time.

The best remedy for our broken hearts is to throw our full support behind the Celtics or Bruins.

Better yet, spring training is around the corner. Before you know it, the Boys of Summer will be back on the diamond and the memory of that cold day in Indianapolis will fade in the summer sunshine.