Tom Brady’s injury – and I promise this will be the last post mentioning it, but I do live in Boston, and it is currently a bigger story than anything ever, and so it’s all one can possibly think about – and my eerie premonition of it reminded me of the fall of 1993 and Dan Marino’s Achilles injury.
Dan Marino was both loved and hated in my household growing up.
Picture my family’s house in 1993 – which, if you know the house I grew up in, is easy to do, because it is a complete and total shack that you don’t know how people live in it, let alone how it’s still standing – and the characters inside. My mom, the Jim Kelly devotee; my little sister, the Dolphins fan because she liked aquatic animals at the time; me, the Steve Young obsessed 49ers fan; and my dad, amused that he lived with three women obsessed with professional football, although it was all his fault that we did. (My little brother wasn’t born yet.)
On that Sunday afternoon, I believe we had just watched a Bills 1pm loss, and my mother was livid. The Dolphins were up with a 4pm game against the Browns, and my sister had brought her stuffed animals out into the living room so that she could play with them while watching the game.
