In 1977 a Beacon Hill lawyer hired me to vanish his gas-guzzling Oldsmobile. $300 to never seen the Detroit pig again. It was grand-theft auto, but the risk was minimal. He’d report the car stolen the next day and collect on the insurance within a month.

I had disappeared three of his friend’s lemons during the winter. My technique was to drive the car to New York and park them along the West Side Highway. I’d chuck the plates in the Hudson and leave the keys in the ignition. This was my last job, because I was leaving Boston to share my life with a starry-eyed painter in Brooklyn Heights.

There was no looking back. I had quit my teaching job at South Boston High School, emptied my basement apartment in Brookline, and called Ro to tell her that I was coming her way. My future as a poet married to an artist ended when her roommate told me that she had departed for Paris in the morning. He shut the door in my face and I didn’t blame him. he was her ex-boyfriend.

My two options were to return to Boston in heart-broken defeat or stick it out in New York. My decision was settled by a phone call to James Spicer, who was the manager for the jazz pianist Cecil Taylor. I had $600 in my pocket and James had a spare bedroom in Park Slope.

I spent most of the rest of my life in New York, which wasn’t easy for a Boston fan. I watched Bucky Dent’s home run at the Empire Hotel and Bill Buckner’s error at the Milk Bar on lower 7th Avenue. While these two games against the Yankees and Mets were bitter defeats, the late 70s, 80s, and 90s were not kind to Boston fans anywhere.

Only the Boston Celtics brought us to the promised land in the mid-80s. The Bruins languished as almost-rans in the NHL. The Patriots came close on two occasions to be blown out in the Super Bowl two times against the Bears and the Packers. The Celtics descended into chaos under the coaching of Rick Pitino and ML Carr. Despite the lack of success I remained true to my home teams and was rewarded by the Red Sox’s miraculous shucking of the Babe Ruth Curse in 2004 and the Celtics’ winning the 2008 NBA championship.

The true glory belonged to the Patriots, winners on 3 Super Bowl. They would have won a 4th in 2008 if it weren’t for Placido Burgess’ incredible catch in the last minute of regulation. I watched the game very early in the morning. I was living in Thailand. The New Yorkers hooted with joy. They are poor losers and even worse winners. My business failed later that winter and I returned to New York with $100 in my pocket.

There was no thought of making a new start in Boston.

That city might be deep in my blood, but I don’t like living in the past. My friend AP offered me a soft landing at his brownstone in Fort Greene. Richie Boy and Manny gave me my old job on 47th Street selling diamonds. Same salary as when I left in 2000, which was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Everyone in the exchange was a Giants or Jets fan. As much as the Giants win rankled my pride, the Patriots’ true NFL rival was the Jets. Their fans clutched onto Jim Namath’s stunning upset over the Baltimore Colts in 1969 like the Holy Roman Emperor Otto IV. He had continued to sleep with his teenage bride for 13 years after her death. They seemed no threat to the Patriots’ domination of the AFC East, even though their record improved from 4-12 in 2007 to 11-5 this season.

Our two teams met twice in the regular season. The Jets winning the first and the Patriots routing New York in the rematch. The Jets barely made the playoffs, but their road victory over the Colts forced a rubber match in the quarterfinals. The Jets were a brash team. Their coach a fat big mouth. Trash talking was the order of the week for the Jets. Almost no one of the Patriots bothered to respond to the attacks. Their coach Bill Belichick was the strong quiet dignified type. His squad did their talking on the field and the Jets were underdogs, even though both teams were even matched across the board.

That was the case until Old Bill announced the benching of his star receiver for his comments about the wife of the Jet’s coach. She was into foot fetishism. His calling the Jet’s Rex Ryan’s foot soldiers was a cardinal sin in the playoffs.

“Never say anything that might piss off the opposing team.”

Old Bill sat the wide receiver for the first series, which ended in an interception without his favorite target on the field. Tom Brady never looked sharp during the first half. Old Bill’s punishing Wesley Welker had fucked with his head and the rest of the game Old Bill fucked up time and time again. The Jets won the game 28-21 and all because Old Bill took the high road.

Obviously he had not forgotten Vince Lombardi’s old adage.

“Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.”

Football coaches are sometimes stupidly poetic.

Of course Old Bill apologized for nothing.

And now when I come back from this short family visit to Thailand, I will only be able to say, “Wait until next year.”

Thanks Old Bill.

But you know what I am a Boston fan and I do believe in next year.

What else would you expect from someone who named his son Fenway.

At least it wasn’t Fenway Park Smith.

I didn’t want anyone thinking that my boy was half-Korean, when he’s Kreung-Thai/Kreung Superstar.