On Sunday, an average of 97.5 million people watched what just might prove to be the greatest Super Bowl in the history of the NFL, perhaps the most incredible championship game in all of sports. I was lucky enough to be in Phoenix take it all in.
And yet today, I couldn't be more depressed.
And that, my friends, is just one of the myriad reasons why I love sports.
What a spectacle in Phoenix. The undefeated New England Patriots in a titanic rematch with the Wildcard Cinderella New York Football Giants. The tabloids were giddy all week sizing up the quarterback's sexiness with the same enthusiasm used to describe Hillary and Obama's Q rating amongst women 18-30. And here I was, front and center at the big game, smugly optimistic that my team would undoubtedly complete the impossible 19-0 season. Hello platinum Vince Lombardi Trophy. Goodbye Mercury Morris.
But as the second quarter wound down, visions of a perfect season dancing in my head exited stage right.
Brady...in the shotgun...the snap...and he is SACKED at the Patriots own 23 for a seven yard loss...
Down goes Brady at the Patriots 16...Justin Tuck was all over him!
Tuck takes down Brady AGAIN...the ball is knocked loose and it's recovered by Osi Umenyiora! Giants Ball!
I looked at my brother Scott sitting next to me, and I watched as the blood in his face drained. I too felt a little dizzy and it had nothing to do with the Bloody Mary bar at the Tailgate. Because that's how you feel when you love a team and you buy into a system and a zeitgeist and a movement and a nation...THIS IS FOOTBALL PEOPLE...
Until you begin to see your own sports dynasty crumbling before your very eyes.
The Giants fans around us were smelling blood, and why shouldn't they as Eli Manning finally grew into his famous last name.
First and Ten...Manning...deep up the middle...AND HE FINDS BOSS FOR A GAIN OF 45...
Manning...fires it off to David Tyree..TOUCHDOWN GIANTS!!!!!And they take a 10-7 lead.
We sat stoically as the Patriots were unable to move the ball. Errant throws, the unrelenting Giants pass rush, and Tom Brady looking as immobile as The David.
The Patriots fans in our section, conferencing about the offense in hushed worried tones usually reserved for emergency rooms. Scott had been calling a beautiful game from his seat, but sadly no one on the field had been listening, and he had taken to wringing his hands and mumbling to himself like a mad Hamlet, bemoaning the absence of the no huddle.
Then, for a brief moment, all seemed right in the New England Sports world. Prince Valiant had struck again.
Brady...steps back...fires...RANDY MOSS IN THE ENDZONE FOR THE SIX YARD SCORE!!! TOUCHDOWN PATRIOTS!!!
The scoreboard read 14-10 Patriots, but those weren't the numbers that screamed in neon: 2:42 remained on the clock. Enough time for Eli Manning to write his own chapter in NFL lore.
Manning...he's wrapped up with three defenders...wait, he breaks free and slings it off his back foot..AND IT'S DAVID TYREE FOR THE 32 YARD GAIN!!!! HOW DID HE DO THAT?????
Scott turned to me and prophetically said, "That's the play this Super Bowl will be remembered for." He looked like he was going to hurl. And then, the dagger.
Manning back to pass...and IT'S PLAXICO BURRESS IN THE IN THE LEFT CORNER OF THE ENDZONE...TOUCHDOWN GIANTS!!!!
Chaos. Radio Silence. The blond chick in the Strahan jersey on front of us leaped into her boyfriend's arms. High fives and bear hugs erupted amongst perfect strangers united by a passionate love of the Big Blue. It was over, it was all over for the Patriots faithful, but as I looked around, I had a strange recognition. On their faces was the same look we had had six years ago, when Tom Brady had silenced the ghosts of Steve Grogan's past, and led the Patriots to their first world championship. It was now the Giants time to share the glory with their legion of fans for the first time since their 1990 championship, just days after the United States launched Operation Desert Storm. It was also Bill Belicheck's last day as a member of the Giants coaching staff...
And it was OK.
Then it was better. The Giant lover in front of us who had struck up a stat-based relationship with my brother all game long turned and extended his hand.
"Great game," he proclaimed, his smile bursting off his face.
"You wanted it more," Scott told him. "Congratulations. Enjoy the win."
We sat there and watched fathers take pictures with their sons with confetti raining down behind them, best friends wiping tears from their eyes, and soaked in the moment that every being who truly loves sports has come to know only so well...the agony of defeat.
That's when Scott uttered simple words that helped to numb the pain.
"It's OK," he said. "At least the Red Sox won the World Series."