Saturday, February 16, 2008
A Super Bowl For The Ages
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light
And somewhere men are laughing, as they pat each other's backs;
But there is no joy in Boston - mighty Brady has been sacked.
For so many fans, Super Bowl XLII was another re-creation of Ernest Thayer's famous poem about the mighty Casey. And much like the Mudville faithful, those fans sit today in silence, wondering what in the world just happened.
"Eli Manning?" I'm sure they're saying to themselves. "Tom Coughlin? David Bleeping Tyree?!?"
But in the midst of the confusion, forming itself out of thin air, the thought must be sinking in:
We were this close to perfection.
For nearly six months, football fans could hardly leaf through the sports section (let alone finish an episode of Sportscenter) without an almost-constant reminder of what perfection is. We'd all heard that perfection is "the highest degree of proficiency, skill, or excellence," because another sportswriter took the time to visit dictionary.com and make a simple comparison.
We all saw the pre-game montage of the various New England Patriots explaining what a perfect season entails. I'm sure all the Pats fans had all but handed the Lombardi trophy to their favorite celebrity playboy-slash-quarterback before Jordin Sparks had even lip-synched the National Anthem.
But here we stand, hurtling through space on a big blue marble where the truth of the matter is this:
The New England Patriots just lost the Super Bowl.
For the record, I couldn't be happier. I despise the Patriots and all they stand for. I'm sure I'm not alone in my loathing of Bill Beli-cheat's inhuman, robotic glare; or of Tom Brady's "I'm-better-looking-than-you-so-I-father-children-with-supermodels-just-because-I-can" air of self-importance; or of Wes Welker's creepy 1980's mustache. It looked like he had an anemic caterpillar glued to his upper lip, for crying out loud.
But here's what makes this game, this epic failure, so timeless:
The Patriots blew it.
They straight up blew their shot to add their name to the list of immortal teams in sports. They had the chance to do the impossible, or at least the very improbable, and they ended up as just another footnote in history.
From now until the end of the world, when people remember the 2007 New England Patriots, they will not be discussing perfection. They will not be waxing poetic about Tom Brady's pocket presence, nor of Mike Vrabel's pass-rushing prowess, nor of Matt Light's textbook blocking technique.
One word will forever haunt the New England Patriots of 2007:
Cheaters.
We don't need to re-hash the details of the Tape-Pot Dome Scandal (I'm sick of the overuse of Spygate, so until we come up with a better name for the videotaping scandal, I'll use whatever political references I remember from ninth-grade history class. Feel free to send in your suggestions anytime.) There's a new story going around about how the Patriots even taped a practice that the Rams went through the day before Super Bowl XXVIL... uh... QRS... TU... Whatever 36 is in Roman numerals.
Anyway, whatever evidence comes out from this point on, it has already been established that the Patriots cheated. They broke the rules of the game to gain a competitive advantage over their opponents. They decided that it's better to have a tainted win than an honest loss, and that will never, ever be removed from their legacy.
And that, in the end, is why are so many of us, as in the Thayer poem, laughing and listening to the band play.
Because there's nothing we like better than seeing some slimy shyster get his comeuppance. Think back to the plot of every action movie you've ever seen. Some nasty little egomaniacal headcase thinks that his way is the only way, and he (or she) is so bent on attaining some goal that nothing is off-limits.
And how do they all end? With the hero, a hard-working, imperfect-but-still-trying-to-do-the-right-thing guy (or gal) finding some way to bring down the bad guy.
And you know what? We all keep going to see this movie. And we all keep hoping that the good guy will find a way to beat the bad guy, against all odds. And when he does, we all feel good inside. Again.
That is why, all across this favored land, the sun is shining just a little brighter today. That is why I got up this morning with a little bit of a spring in my step. That is why those poor souls in Boston won't find a sympathetic ear from anyone but their compatriots.
The Mighty Patriots -- the once-undefeated, record-setting, nearly-perfect, running-up-the-score-in-the-fourth-quarter, posing-on-the-cover-of-GQ, counting-their-chickens-before-they-hatched Patriots -- have struck out.
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light
And somewhere men are laughing, as they pat each other's backs;
But there is no joy in Boston - mighty Brady has been sacked.
For so many fans, Super Bowl XLII was another re-creation of Ernest Thayer's famous poem about the mighty Casey. And much like the Mudville faithful, those fans sit today in silence, wondering what in the world just happened.
"Eli Manning?" I'm sure they're saying to themselves. "Tom Coughlin? David Bleeping Tyree?!?"
But in the midst of the confusion, forming itself out of thin air, the thought must be sinking in:
We were this close to perfection.
For nearly six months, football fans could hardly leaf through the sports section (let alone finish an episode of Sportscenter) without an almost-constant reminder of what perfection is. We'd all heard that perfection is "the highest degree of proficiency, skill, or excellence," because another sportswriter took the time to visit dictionary.com and make a simple comparison.
We all saw the pre-game montage of the various New England Patriots explaining what a perfect season entails. I'm sure all the Pats fans had all but handed the Lombardi trophy to their favorite celebrity playboy-slash-quarterback before Jordin Sparks had even lip-synched the National Anthem.
But here we stand, hurtling through space on a big blue marble where the truth of the matter is this:
The New England Patriots just lost the Super Bowl.
For the record, I couldn't be happier. I despise the Patriots and all they stand for. I'm sure I'm not alone in my loathing of Bill Beli-cheat's inhuman, robotic glare; or of Tom Brady's "I'm-better-looking-than-you-so-I-father-children-with-supermodels-just-because-I-can" air of self-importance; or of Wes Welker's creepy 1980's mustache. It looked like he had an anemic caterpillar glued to his upper lip, for crying out loud.
But here's what makes this game, this epic failure, so timeless:
The Patriots blew it.
They straight up blew their shot to add their name to the list of immortal teams in sports. They had the chance to do the impossible, or at least the very improbable, and they ended up as just another footnote in history.
From now until the end of the world, when people remember the 2007 New England Patriots, they will not be discussing perfection. They will not be waxing poetic about Tom Brady's pocket presence, nor of Mike Vrabel's pass-rushing prowess, nor of Matt Light's textbook blocking technique.
One word will forever haunt the New England Patriots of 2007:
Cheaters.
We don't need to re-hash the details of the Tape-Pot Dome Scandal (I'm sick of the overuse of Spygate, so until we come up with a better name for the videotaping scandal, I'll use whatever political references I remember from ninth-grade history class. Feel free to send in your suggestions anytime.) There's a new story going around about how the Patriots even taped a practice that the Rams went through the day before Super Bowl XXVIL... uh... QRS... TU... Whatever 36 is in Roman numerals.
Anyway, whatever evidence comes out from this point on, it has already been established that the Patriots cheated. They broke the rules of the game to gain a competitive advantage over their opponents. They decided that it's better to have a tainted win than an honest loss, and that will never, ever be removed from their legacy.
And that, in the end, is why are so many of us, as in the Thayer poem, laughing and listening to the band play.
Because there's nothing we like better than seeing some slimy shyster get his comeuppance. Think back to the plot of every action movie you've ever seen. Some nasty little egomaniacal headcase thinks that his way is the only way, and he (or she) is so bent on attaining some goal that nothing is off-limits.
And how do they all end? With the hero, a hard-working, imperfect-but-still-trying-to-do-the-right-thing guy (or gal) finding some way to bring down the bad guy.
And you know what? We all keep going to see this movie. And we all keep hoping that the good guy will find a way to beat the bad guy, against all odds. And when he does, we all feel good inside. Again.
That is why, all across this favored land, the sun is shining just a little brighter today. That is why I got up this morning with a little bit of a spring in my step. That is why those poor souls in Boston won't find a sympathetic ear from anyone but their compatriots.
The Mighty Patriots -- the once-undefeated, record-setting, nearly-perfect, running-up-the-score-in-the-fourth-quarter, posing-on-the-cover-of-GQ, counting-their-chickens-before-they-hatched Patriots -- have struck out.
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