The Miami Dolphins perfect season of 1972 remains safe from intrusion for yet another year, and so does my battlecry for living successfully behind enemy lines in New England. Yes, My Friends ("I've been listening to John McCain imitations of Ronald Reagan far too often lately"), 5>3, the mantra which was perilously close to revision, which I was fully prepared to alter, is safe for at least another year.
More importantly, as permanantly affixed as are the footprints outside Hollywood's Chinese Theater are these vital statistics...
Bill Belichick will [b]never[b]be considered a better Super Bowl coach than Chuck Noll.
Tom Brady will [b]never[b] be considered a better Super Bowl quarterback than Terry Bradshaw.
This decade's Tuck Rule/SpyGate New England Patriots will [b]never[b] be considered a better dynasty than the Pittsburgh Steelers of the '70s.
5-1 in Super Bowls trumps 3-3
4-0 in the franchise's golden era trumps 3-1
Steelers' most recent SB win has been more recent than the Pats' latest
Living in New England, one must keep the upper hand on these annoying pricks.
As I retired in my humble New Hampsire abode a few short hours ago, I took great solace in knowing that thousands of little New England boys and girls, staying up late for the coronation of their "Perfect Patriots," went to bed in tears, their parents needing to cancel their pre-orders of "19-0." I took great comfort in the thoughts of adult New Englanders, from Rho Diland through Houlton, Maine...ayuh...were tossing and turning, a night of teeth-gnashing amid thoughts of what might have been. I took great joy in the vision of Bob Kraft, removing his cuff links, de-attaching the white cuffs and collar from his blue shirt, patted on the head by loyal Myra...or Myrna....or whatever the hell her name is.
It's okay, New England.....you all know what's really important to you....
Pitchers and catchers reports in 12 days.
All week long, I'd braced myself for my Winter of Discontent, my 3rd & 6 Purgatory, to suffer another nightmare that would permanantly afflict my soul. The nightly news, smiling anchors on assignment in Arizona, their segments entitled, "Perfect Patriots," every day listening to the insufferable buffoon Fred Smerlas, and Pete "The Meat" Shephard on Boston's WEEI....debate only how wide the winning margin would be. Their callers, not one of them worried, predicting all manners of blowouts.
There was no doubt among this undeserving fan base. The Boston Globe's editorial section running opinion pieces on the Patriots' plans to have their rolling Duck Boat parade in the midst of the Super Tuesday Primary. How would it affect voter turnout?
I was invited, first to my brother-in-law's, then to my sister-in-law's, to watch the SB. My friend, WoburnJoe invited me to a Super Bowl bash as well. My message to all was the same, "I can't watch this game with you people." I couldn't abide their shouts of glee. I also could not tolerate their talking about other subject matter in the midst of their own team's Super Bowl. Such irreverance abounds within the in-law segment.
So, I watched in my playroom, while the rest of the family scattered on the upper floors. Lights were off, shades were drawn. It was but me and a bottle of Rossignol High Bank Red from the vineyards of Prince Edward Island (I'd inexplicably not picked up any beer for this one). I drained the bottle, and suffered and whined my way through SB XLII. Yes, the Giants were hammering Brady, but would he, battered and bruised, be holding the Lombardi at the end?? Would I be resigned, once again, to abruptly shutting off the TV once the Patriot victory was secured, unable to watch the hated enemy hoist their 4th??
I was resigned to this bitter fate until the play that will live for the ages. Eli, ala Ben, escapes from the clutches of Pats defenders, and heaves it downfield to David Tyree, who momentarily lodges the ball with one hand against his helmet. Twenty-five yards to go, which appeared to be as long as Hopkinton to Boston. A sideline toss, first down at the 14, with 39 seconds remaining. I was admittedly unprepared for a Giants TD on the very next play. A fade to Plax...he's wide open....please, please, please....you big mouthed punk, the only ex-Steeler that I actively root for....please don't drop it. He caught it, TOUCHDOWN.....could it happen!!
Watching alone, I rarely make a sound, rather pacing, dwelling, whining to myself the entire game. This time, I erupt in hoots of joy, shouts of unbridled enthusiasm. One massive sack of Brady later, and a few incompletions, and it's all over. I run upstairs, fling open the back door, scream...."Giants, Giants, Giants, 5>3, 5>3,5>3," into the New England night. It didn't matter that it was a mixed Giants/Steelers cheer.
What an enjoyable evening lie ahead. The Belichick interview, his clipped answers a stark contrast to the dignified interviews of Brady and Moss. Brady, even in defeat, I've got to concede that he always, always, always, says the right thing. Too bad though, for Pats fans, that when Brady gets heat, he becomes Tommy Maddox, whereas our QB, only gets better!! No one asked Belichick about going for it, in his best Mike Tomlin imitation, on 3rd & 13 from the Giants' 32. Obviously, he had no confidence in his kicker, but the arrogance of that play call was the story of the 2008 New England Patriots season. The local newscasters, long faces abounded, they were close to tears.
They, once again, were the Perfect Patriots, no record was safe, no margin of victory was enough, their destiny was that of the Best Team Ever. This best of seasons will now become the most haunting of all for those that were about to upgrade thier "3X Super Bowl Champs" bumper stickers.
Two years in a row now, these despicable Patriots have been unable to deny thier opponent a TD in the final minute; two years in a row Coach Belichick looks white as a ghost post-game; two years in a row 5>3 lives on.
My joy, my glee, in this Winter of Discontent, is now unrestrained. Mrs. Swiss, also rooting against the Pats (as much as an Anti-Fan can), as she resents the success of Brady, and rightly detests the rude comportment of Belichick, eventually tires of my being "too happy" with the defeat of the local 11. I can't wait to go to work in a few hours....can't wait to witness firsthand the sadness of the local populace....can't wait, as I did two short years ago, to call friends and colleagues on their office voice mails after hours, laugh like an effin' hyena, scream epithets, "18-1, 18-1, 5>3, 5>3."
The sun will shine today, a smile will be affixed to my face. Could this another version fo PEIS (Post-Euphoric Immersion Syndrome). This time rather than PEIS, Undifferentiated....it's PEIS-18 & 1 Axis. HAHAHAHAHAHA......
Added bonus, I won $50 in the work pool. [b]5>3[b]...still safe.