The Glory of McCann's Sundays

Doesn't this picture remind you of walking up to the bar on that crisp Fall Sunday morning ready to devour beers, wings, steaktidbit sandwhiches or whatever you sweet little heart desires? It does for me. I get a semi-chub (or should I say small tuna?) as I enter and get ready to grab my first free budlight of the day with my Jet's jersey on. I walk in to see that I have been beat there usually by the Feifdaddy and Tuna or any of you clowns that love our holy grail as much as I do. This is the ultimate sundayfunday...the ultimate mancave. Football on 5 different Tvs. As these sundays are so sacred there are some obvious unsaid rules. First and foremost...no girls allowed and no randoms unless previously okay-ed by the McCann's committee. Second...be ready to drink some beertowers...unless you gotta drive. Third....actually this is really just directed at Feifer....do not I repeat do not say your team is going to blow the game...show some confidence or you are really just a terrible fan. Guys we had an amazing year last year and I don't expect that to change. You must be willing to sacrifice your Saturday nights out to hang out with girlfriends so that you will be good to go for McCann's Sundays. You must be willing to make all possible sacrifices to make it there. Driving through any type of weather (snowday last year was classic). All I gotta say is CANT WAIT.

Introducing...

It's Saturday night September 10th. You're counting down the minutes until the first McCann's Sunday of the year. You don't want to go out tonight because you know there's a free Bud Light awaiting you as you walk into the bar at 11:30 AM. Unfortunately for you, you know you wont be able to sleep without a few brews due to the butterflies in your stomach over who to give the nod to as your #3 WR. A few brews turns into 10 and a few tequilla shots down at McGoreys and now you're asking everybody in the bar about your dilemma at WR and that's when you black out. You wake up at 11 and roll out of bed. You walk to the fridge and much to your dismay, you're out of Gatorade, so you settle for a big glass of water. Steve Breaston or James Jones. Breaston or Jones... Or maybe Lance Moore.. Crap... You just can't figure it out... You walk into the bathroom and brush your teeth, staring into your own blood shot eyes and thinking "How am I going to drink Beer Towers today?" You now sit down in your chair and decide that it's time to make the big decision. You log on to NFL.com and click on your matchup only to have a horrifying discovery. Chills run up your spine and goosebumps cover your arms. No, it's not Lukas. The Chris that you are matched up against is not the Chris you thought you were playing all week. Because on the screen staring you in the face are the The Husky Tunas. And nothing is more terrifying than that. Just ask Christine.