You could have told me anything. That the world would end. That Tom Petty would light another joint on the phallic heart/guitar stage, and the media would dub it "Weedgate." You could have told me that W was unable to attend (still convinced that he and bill Belichick are the same douche—kind of like how Superman and Clark Kent are never in the same room, at the same time). You could have told me that Hillary would have given Tom Brady a lap dance right after that hick Bradshaw handed him the Lombardi (a creative way to get more votes in the East for the impending Super Tuesday, me thinks). I would have believed it all…
Instead, my mind chose an alternate path, like those "Choose Your Own Adventure" books I used to buy at Linda's Used Bookstore in Visalia on lazy Saturdays in the 80's. At the bottom of the page it said, "If you want Tom Brady to throw the game-winning touchdown to Randy "Bridgestone Tread-head" Moss, turn to page 69. If you want Eli Manning to hit Plexico Burress in the end zone with a little floaterpass that is carried through the Arizona night by an invisible cherub, turn to page 96."
For shits and giggles, I turned to 96. And I saw the most awesome play in Super Bowl…scratch that…playoff hist…no…NFL HISTORY. I think the Gods of Manning propelled the young Eli out of the crux of certain doom, as he scrambled to his right, out of the grasp of the almighty Patriot clutches and threw a frozen rope at David Tyree.
Rodney "Vander-jerk" Harrison was sexually molesting Tyree, as the two winged knights of East Coast football, jumped…nay..flew in the air for the pigskin. Both had their hands on the ball, at it cradled on that little plastic bullring on the top of the facemask of Tyree's helmet. Tyree lost control about eight times by my count in the span of 2 seconds as Harrison pulled his body down in a WWE posture, forcing Tyree to do an inverted suplex as he hit Cardinal terra firma with the ball in his hands. It was nothing short of a miracle.
I was glad those lilywhite knights of silver Patriotism fell last night. A come-uppance was on New England horizon. But I didn't expect it…nay…I didn't believe it. I had to pinch myself when the realization came back to me half a dozen as I watched "Superbad" (over-rated) post game.
The New York Football Giants are Super Bowl XLII Champions
I couldn't believe it. I shouldn't believe it. No one believed it was a possibility. Even Eli. You can actually see him mouthing the words, "What in the fuck?" as he hoisted the trophy over Bradshaw's bald head. Tom Coughlin smiling like a sonofabitch (I read he only allows himself one smile on the leap year, he cashed in a month early).
I believe that Bill Belichick is really the devil's minion. I believe that Junior Seau wasn't meant to be fitted for a championship ring. I believe I saw Jeremy Shockey was wasted in a box seat sometime during the fourth quarter. I believe that the Patriots were the closest thing we'll see to perfection in this lifetime. And I believe, through all the horse-shit he's gone through with "Bootgate" and dumping his pregnant girlfriend in favor of a hot Euro-model, Tom Brady, that quintessential all-American boy, even in a loss (the worst loss in the modern era)—still gets to go home and bang the beejesus out of said model.
I believe that football can save your soul if you let it.
Feel the burn, Patriots. Feel the burn.
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