Finally... A little daylight

The winds never stopped howling last night, but that didn't prevent me from falling asleep. As the Blizzard of 2005 was winding down, the Patriots had crushed the overmatched Steelers for the AFC title. So with that warm happy feeling, and a little Makers Mark in my blood, there was no way nature's fury was going to keep me from catching a few winks.

When I awoke, the skies had cleared and the big orange moon was preparing to set across the bay. The winds were still whipping though, having only downshifted a gear by daybreak. They'd done their best work overnight, transforming the drifts and piles into artwork. Shallow or even non-existent in some spots, deep and imposing in others, but with a collective beauty that rarely shows its face in these parts. A blizzard on Cape Cod is rare indeed.

As the sky brightened, I dressed in layered attire more befitting the Michelin Man and ventured out to shovel the necessary paths: Along the upper walkway, down the stairs, in front of the basement door, and up the driveway. The air was clear and crisp, but each gust sent a shiver to my bones. As the work progressed, I found myself enjoying the serenety and beauty less and less. My spirit was waning and in a state of drudgery, lamenting the fact that I'd abandoned the relative warmth of Atlanta for this. After all, the previous January hadn't been especially kind either, with two arctic blasts that found their way through every unsealed crack and crevice of the sparsely insulated summer home where I'd taken up residence. My visions, and my demeanor, clouded over as I made my way up to where the driveway meets the road.

Clearly I wasn't suited for this environment. Yet the birds, from the broad-winged seagull to the tiniest chickadee, seemed to be enduring just fine, if not thriving. The squirrels were bounding about through the drifts, searching for acorns and other edibles. At first I convinced myself that these creatures were performing these tasks out of necessity, with their very survival hinging on the few morsels they'd be able to scrounge up on such a day as this.

But I wondered -- if this is the case, why do they seem so full of life? You never see birds or squirrels crying or whining about the cold and snow. They just go about their work with a focus and a determination that can only come from enjoying what they do. And then it dawned on me that these critters aren't tied down to this unforgiving habitat. They could certainly fly, or scamper in the squirrel's case, to some other area if they didn't like things here. And this migration could have occurred over the hundreds and thousands of years that their ecosystems have evolved. Yet here they are, and here they've remained.

Which brings me back to the Patriots. As professional football players, they're obviously well-compensated for their work which includes hurtling themselves at full speed into the path of others of similar size and stature in the pursuit of a few extra yards here or there and, eventually, victory. Often they do so in harsh conditions of icy winds and blowing snow. Yet these particular players, these Patriots, have chosen to do so here in New England where such surroundings are more commonplace. Surely many could have chosen to play in warmer climates, or in one of those cozy comfy domed stadiums. In fact they all could have chosen to ply a different trade altogether. Surely there are moments where their will is tested, their energy is sapped, and their confidence sags. Yet here they've come, and here they've stayed. And, as they did last night in the sub-zero wind chill of Pittsburgh, here they've thrived.

It's all about choices in the end. In spite of daunting elements, the birds and squirrels live on as they have through the generations. In a climate most view as unkind, these Patriots have made Mother Nature their friend. And with that thought, my spine stiffened and I gained resolved. "I'm here to shovel because I choose to shovel," I thought to myself. And I forged onward, obstinate and determined, through the waist-high, starch-white drifts.

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Ironic as it may seem, the Pats' front office should be inviting Dick Lebeau to Jacksonville, as well as any victory celebrations which follow. And Rodney Harrison should get a triple-share of any post-season money.

Why? Because without them, there's a good chance the Patriots don't get Corey Dillon. And you can shave a few wins off the team's record if that's the case. No telling where that puts the them during the post-season.

From the Jan. 17 issue of ESPN the Magazine:

Dillon's agent, Steve Feldman, began shopping for a team. Oakland looked to be the front-runner, but the Raiders would give up only a third-round pick and (Cinci owner Mike) Brown wanted a second. Talks stalled. Then, at the advice of another client, Patriots safety Rodney Harrison, Feldman dialed New England. Yes, that New England. Selfless New England. Initially, the Pats brain trust didn't consider Dillon a fit, believing he was too me-first. "All that stuff in Cincinnati," Dillon says, "That'll make anyone leery."

But Belichick and Pioli heard raves from former Bengals coach Dick LeBeau and decided to give up the second-rounder pending a face-to-face with Dillon and Feldman...

Funny how things work out sometimes.