Monday, February 6, 2012
I Got Dem Post–Super Bowl ABC Blues
In Florida, surrounded by New York Giants fans with hideous accents, who are going to rag on me the moment I walk out into the sunlight, I will write about my pain. Now then. Ahem.…
A is for asylum. At 6:30 last evening, before the start of the game, our living room was an asylum, as in “a place such as a church offering protection and shelter.” By 7:15, it was an asylum as in “insane.” Poor Katie.
B is for Brady. B is for bad. B is for Bundchen. Maybe the three are related—a long story if you don’t read People, Us, or National Enquirer. See photo. Notice hat?
C is for C-riously, Brady was bad last night, not bad during that record-setting 10-for-10 touchdown drive from his own 2-yard line, but bad when it counted: In the beginning of the game, he set the tone with that safety-that-was-really-intentional-grounding-in-his-own-end-zone, and near the end, he lobbed a 50-yard softball to the waiting arms of a NY linebacker whose name we now will never cease to hear from the likes of Cris Collingsworth—although I swear I can’t remember it this morning. Like who can forget David Tyree?
D is for drops. Brady would have looked better if his receivers had not dropped so many passes. They’ll be making a Super Bowl Bloopers video of the ball flipping wildly off the flailing fingers of Deion, Wes, and Aaron.
E is for Eli. He’s right. The Giant quarterback is Brady caliber or better. And this is something I never thought I would say: At this point in his career, Eli has won one more Super Bowl than his big brother and only one less than Brady. Peyton Manning is 35, Tom Brady 34, Eli Manning 31.
F is for an unprintable word.
G is for Gronk. Like the Boston Celtics game 7 loss to the LA Lakers in the 2009 championship game, all but decided when Celtics center Kendrick Perkins blew out an ankle in game 6, this Super Bowl may have turned on the turned ankle of the Pats’ most feared weapon, fleet titanic tight end Rob Gronkowski. He was a non-factor, last seen flailing for Brady’s final heave.
H is for haha, as in ironic laughter. Which is how I felt about most of the commercials. Too many dogs, for one thing. And usually the E-Trade baby is a lock, but last night’s E-trade ad was almost icky. Speed dating with newborns?!
I is for injuries. I know, Giants fans, your boys took their share of lumps last night too, so stop crying over Gronk. It seemed like every commercial was a cutaway from some Giant player writhing in pain. Two tight ends failed to return.
J is for Jesus, not always uttered reverently last night, I confess.
K is for kryptonite, or what the ball seemed to have for the Patriots Supermen every time a Giant fumbled. How many would-be Giant turnovers bounced right back into the arms of waiting New Yorkers?
L is for luck. I don’t believe in it. Really I don’t. But…
M is for Madonna. Girl, you’re not quite ready for a walker, but you should fill out your AARP form. I bet there are 50-ish women in my friend Vangie’s zumba class who are more flexible. And what’s with the headgear? You’re almost 54. Time to look in the mirror? Mick Jagger may be leering back at you.
N is for nice catch, Mario Manningham—although Cris Collingsworth, puh-leeze! Replaying the catch 10 times and comparing it to David Tyree’s catch in 2008 just won‘t wash. Did you notice how the color commentator said, “They’ll be talking about this catch for all eternity” and then hastily added “if the Giants go on to win the game”? Is it just me, or did television want the Giants to win, along with most of the fans in the stadium rooting for the “visiting” team?
O is for Ochocinco. Nice catch, Chad, you know the one I’m talking about, the only one. Now go away.
P is for Pierre-Paul, son and father. I had not read the story about the freakishly talented Giants D lineman from Haiti, whose blind father took care of him when he was a child. The image of the father in the stands, listening to play-by-play in Haitian French, was one of the best all night.
Q is for quiet, how I’m starting to feel as I near the end of the alphabet.
R is for running game, something the Pats gave up on from that very first very bad play. R is also for rock, the. As in, I truly thought the New England game plan would include Benny (aka The Law Firm) pounding the rock.
S is for stupid, as in Ahmad Bradshaw. He gave the Patriots one last chance to win with a touchdown that was really a sitdown. It was sort of like, Well, I made it this far and it is a touchdown in the Super Bowl so, what the heck, I’ll just sit here on the goal-line and see if anyone notices.
T is for Tom as in Coughlin, Thomas, head football coach, New York Football Giants. I am smiling this morning for Tom, good Catholic, father of four (including a daughter married to his right guard), former BC football coach, working his way slowly to the coaching pantheon. Proves that dogged guys can be winning cats. Good show.
U is for uhhhh, running out of ideas here.
V is for vanity, as in, All is. The good Catholic blogger in me said I should write this morning about the vanity of professional sports in America, but I had my pain to deal with first.
W is for walking, what I did after the game. I picked up my book to calm down, re-read the first sentence seven times, and told Katie I was going walking. I think I may have heard her mutter, Thank God.
X is for crossing out, what I am doing to ever watching the New England Patriots again. Until the first exhibition game in August.
Y is for yummy, as in the dinner Katie patiently made me as I snorted and fumed, and as in the great apple crisp I got as a reward for calming down in the third quarter. Let’s not talk about the fourth quarter.
Z is for sleeping, which I didn’t do much of last night. I woke up with a cremation dream at 4:45, never a good sign.
But I’m healing. Thanks for listening.
Posted by Webster Bull at 7:37 AM