It's been a week now since our beloved Patriots inexplicably gave up that beautiful first-half lead and lost a heart-breaker to the Indianapolis Colts.

A week gone by, and still the wound is fresh. Visions of dropped passes, missed opportunities, and Belichick's half-sleeve hoodie haunt me in my dreams. It's still difficult to talk about anything Patriots-related, which leaves me at a loss whenever I want to change the subject of a boring conversation ("So how 'bout those Patriots?" is my customary topic-changer. Alas, I'm not creative enough to come up with anything else.).

As the pre-Super Bowl hype escalates, everywhere I look I see reminders of what could have been. I shield my eyes from sports shows on television, newspaper articles about the upcoming game, and even that spot of salsa on the carpet that lives on from last year's Super Bowl party.

Despite the intense (and probably excessive) emotional suffering I've endured since that AFC Championship loss, I've come to a conclusion that is both startling and uplifting. I've decided that I didn't want the Patriots to win, anyway. Yeah, I'm relieved - no, downright happy - that they lost. Because I just couldn't take it anymore.

Every Sunday for years on end, I've eagerly parked myself in front of a television (or on several glorious occasions, on the cold metal benches of Foxboro Stadium or those roomy seats in luxurious Gillette) and for three fist-pumping, teeth-clenching hours, I've cheered and yelled and pleaded for a Patriots win. I've slapped high fives in celebration until my palms were raw, I've dropped off the edge of my couch in utter despair, and I've squeezed my bladder tight to postpone much-needed bathroom breaks so I didn't miss any of the action, internal organ health be darned. As the years have passed, the intensity of my devotion has only increased, leaving me a panting, exhausted vessel of a fan after each game. More frequently these days, whenever third down comes around, I grip my chest to make sure my racing, pounding heart doesn't beat itself right out of my poor little ribcage.

The knee, ankle, and elbow injuries have become more frequent, as my leaps into the air to celebrate the latest Patriots first down are executed dangerously close to barstools, furniture, and, on one unfortunate occasion, the ceiling of a car (attempting to leap while in the passenger seat is not recommended, no matter how many yards the completion was for).

This is simply more physical abuse than my body can tolerate. After that mind-boggling near-impossible win over the Chargers two weeks ago, I suspected that the early death I fear so very much won't come at the hands of a drunk driver or disease or vengeful creditors. No, some day one of these agonizing last-minute, nail-biting Patriots wins will kill me. I'll choke on a chip or mistakenly leap off a canyon wall in celebration and it'll all be over.

So yeah, I'm glad the Patriots aren't in the Super Bowl. Because I just couldn't take it anymore, not one more game.

For this season, at least.

BILL ZUCK, a former Foxboro resident now studying in San Diego, will make sure not to watch any Pats games near canyons next year. You can reach him at wcz78@yahoo.com.