Sunday, January 20, 2008
Brethren: The greatest weekend of the NFL season is over, and a great thing has happened. We have the battle lines drawn, the sand has been kicked away by a dragging ankle, the war paint has been applied. Good. Versus. Evil.
In the early afternoon game, Momma and I shared a table at a nearby sports bar with some North Kakkalak kindred. They were NC State/Meredith grads and therefore were rooting for Marmalard. I was okay with that, because I was obviously rooting against the Pats. We also enjoyed their company, because all North Carolinians know each other, we of course had several mutual friends. In fact, my mom's god-daughter (my god-sister?) was the Meredith grad's "role model" in college. So we had that going for us.
Beyond that, Evil set the table. They didn't allow a touchdown, and they weathered a bad Tom Brady day. And so doucheness marches on to Glendale.
In the second game, either team would have easily sidled into the "Good" role for me. We had either the most statistically relevant QB of all time or Elisha.
I went into the game thinking I was going to root for Fav-re no matter what. Brett Favre was gonna make Brett Favre plays all day and that was going to be good enough for me to be happy for the Packers to assume the "Good" role against the Evil Pats.
Little did I know Elisha would steal my heart.
Brethren (cont'd): Dear Lord, am I really an Eli Manning fan now? I didn't want to be. Not at all. But I couldn't help but find myself rooting for him as the game went on.
He played better. He made smart decisions. He didn't throw his girly, wobbly, non-spirals. He lead his team, his receivers, his defense, the New York Giants. He weathered two missed FGs and was the quarterback, the leader, of a team that pulled together a true team effort in -4 degree weather.
It was one of the most emotionally invested I've ever been in a playoff game that didn't involve the Panthers. Holy fuck.
So Elisha's our representative of Good. Dreamboat is the representative of Evil. Like I said, the battle lines are drawn.
Fuckin A. As Lt. Pete Webb told me tonight, "Here. We. Go."
We Are All Giants Fans.
Nacho: With four seconds remaining, I turned to Jersey, the resident Giant fan on Big Wangs staff and announced with assured aplomb, "Game over, Tynes's got this." When Larry shanked it, I remembered I had money on the Packers, and thus, this was a good thing. I was happy. And drunk.
I'm not as gung-ho about Elisha as Brethren, though. He still reminds me of every kid I ever played against in JV football, and not in a good way. It's his nose, it's just way too fucking big. I want to punch it. The way he moves his mouth in post-game interviews makes me want to slap him. You can tell he breathes primarily through his mouth. But damnit, the guys 9-1 on the road, and that loss was Week 1 to the Cowboys, in which, if I remember correctly, it was a pretty close game.
So while I'm not sure I would've survived two weeks of Brady/Favre lovefests, I'll watch with mild amusement at the shellacking the Pats will give the Giants in Glendale next month. I'm still not as filled with vitriol as most folks are with the Pats, I'd admire them even if I don't like them. We're watching a historic team, and that's pretty cool.
Well, the streets of LA were pretty barren this morning because of MLK Day, and the sky's looking dreary, a perfect setting for the saddest day of the year, in my opinion. I always hate the Conference Championship weekend, because it means football, and my reason for getting up in the morning, is going away. The season's too short, the offseason too long, and damnit, I'm not ready for it to be over.