I for one, can't begin to describe the profound sadness, disappointment and fugue that linger while having to inch my way out of the parking lot scrum at what's now the Hard Rock and onto the Turnpike. It's even progressively worse when we've had victory well in our sights only to have the Fins revert to last minute form, like that GreenBay game thanks to The Meatball's time management. Don't want to go for drinks, don't want to hang out, just wanted to get home to a dark room and veg as fast as possible. It's never fun, but it's actually torture when you need to flee the scene of the crime as quickly as possible. But that's just me.