The one good thing about Sunday . . .

Was the half-time Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet.

Tom Petty? bah.

Puppy Bowl.

Championship Sunday, Part 3

And now, to relax and enjoy Giants v. Packers.

Oh, Oh, and gotta love tonight's programming:

Fox: Giants v. Packers, in the third-coldest game in NFL history.

CBS: Special Report: "The Age of Warming."

Update: Third Tyne's the Charm--Fox beat me to it.

Giants 23, Packers 20 (OT). Couldn't decide whom to root for or against; based on the "what would help the Patriots most" principle, I measured Randy Moss's ability to run past Al Harris (considerable) against the public sentiment in favor of Brett Favre (again, considerable); plus the trouble for the Pats based on the Giants' having seen the Patriots before (marginal).

It is worth considering, just to consider, that anyone who has bet against the Patriots covering since the middle of November would have made a fortune. Philly was a nail-biter. They came within one stupid Baltimore time-out of losing to the Ravens. The Jets hung in for awhile, as did even Miami. The Giants let by double-digits late. And in the playoffs, both Jacksonville and San Diego hung in for 3 1/2 quarters, San Diego with their best three offensive weapons either out or seriously compromised.

Bottom line: in their last seven games, vs. the spread, the Pats are 0-7. This fact has to be discounted a bit, as the books in Vegas always add a "Cowboy Tax" (or "Irish Tax" or "Trojan Tax" or "Bear Tax") on the chic team of the moment, especially when said team has a certain history of success. But the truth is that the Pats have had to struggle for every win (or in the case of Miami, every win-that-should-have-been-a-stomp) since the 15th of November. Look it up: over two months.

However, the one constant in these seven games has been the wind--and mostly, the cold. They played Philly, Bal'mer and San Diego in outright wind storms. Giants Stadium in December and January is a wind tunnel. And things were hardly better in Foxborough against the other teams. In each situation, Randy Moss was effectively neutralized, Brady's passes fluttered and flew, and the Patriots pass-first offense was reduced to underneath bullets to Welker and Stallworth, plus out patterns to Gaffney.

What saved the Pats was--as Ted Cotrell, the Chargers' DC, said earlier in the week--the ability of the Pats' offense to play seven different types of football. With the Pats' biggest weapon, the bomb to Moss, as effectively neutralized as LaDanian Tomlinson's running game, with a superb and opportunistic Chargers secondary goading Brady into more interceptions this week (three) than he had incompletions last week (two), the Pats switched to grind-it-out, playing two and three tight ends, pounding Maroney between the tackles, and throwing screens and short-short-short outs, including two crucial first-down catches by Kevin Faulk, the game was effectively over by the seven-minute mark of the fourth quarter.

Now, looking forward two weeks, one has to consider all of the previous paragraph, plus the fact that the Giants' defense isn't as good as the Chargers', plus the re-match may favor Belichick over Coughlin--add all that up, and then add that the Super Bowl will likely be played indoors, in 71-degree weather, and no wind whatsoever. What you are left with are the Pats of the last two months plus a Randy Moss and downfield passing game that becomes a factor all over again.

Anyway, what I think as I go to bed.

Championship Sunday, Part 1

The start of Championship Sunday, aka The Greatest Sports Day of the Year.

First up, Pats v Bolts, and I'm where I've been every week (save the second Dolphins game): sick to my stomach.

So, okay.

Update: 0-0, first quarter. So far:

1. The high winds have eliminated any downfield passing.
2. The San Diego defense is controlling the line; I think the Pats have run for negative yardage thus far.
4. Tom Brady has more incompletions (three) than all of last week.
5. Phil Simms, a usually smart guy, is first out of the gate with the idiocy of the day: "All week long, the San Diego Chargers have been told they don't have a chance . . ." Oh? By whom? No, really, who said such a thing?

Brady interception. A weird silence settles over Gillette.

Third and goal . . . Rivers' pass . . . caught out of bounds. 3-0 Bolts.

Call it a moral victory for the Pats.

The point of the Ford Liberty commercial seems to be this: buy a Ford SUV, and a horde of woodland animals will enter through the sky roof to sing Neil Diamond songs. Works for me.

That McDonald's commercial, the one starring the spoiled little brat who teaches his family to release their inner black . . .

Moss on a reverse. 14 yards, looking like Kareem leading a Showtime fast break.

Two good passes to Faulk, and the end of the first. Now, on behalf of the Patriots, the timber wolf will sing Bob Segers' "Against the Wind."

Update: Three plays, Maroney touchdown.

Bolts' ball . . . completion to Vincent Jackson, who only gets one foot in. Didn't anyone see this? Won't anyone say anything?

First and goal at the nine: Turner for a yard.
Second and goal: Rivers flushed out, throws to Gates, knocked down by Bru (Bruuuu!, or as the University of Arizona-hating Desert Rose refers to this former Wildcat, Fat Teddy Bruschi.)
Time out.
Third and goal: complete in the flat to Chambers, who is undercut by Harrison seven yards from the end zone.
Kaeding field goal. 7-6 Pats.

Third-and-short, pass to Moss batted down. Hanson punt, downed inside the five.

Third-and-short, Rivers complete to Sproles.

With Mike Vrabel wrapped around his ankle like a terrier, Rivers throws an off-balance flutter that Asante Samuel simply snatches from Chris Chambers' grasp. Two plays later, Brady TD to Gaffney. 14-6.

Three minutes to go, Rivers throws an interception to Ellis Hobbs as if playing catch with his brother in the backyard.

Two-minute warning.

Third-and-two. Brady over-muscles a ball to an open Welker. Punt.

Sproles runs for 25 yards, ball comes out. Ruled down. Review.

Verdict: not even close to a fumble. The upshot is a free timeout for San Diego. (Would it have been possible for New England to decline the review? A green hanky, perhaps?)

13 seconds to go. Rivers overthrows; Kaeding out for the field goal attempt. Time out, Patriots.

Jim Nantz: "Belichick's trying to ice the kicker."
Astro-Girl: "Ice him? Belichick's gonna throw ice on him?"
Me: "No."
Astro-Girl: "Well, I wouldn't put it past him."

Kick is just good. 14-9, Pats.

NFL Final Four Set

Surprise of the season: San Diego--without Antonio Gates, without LDT or Phil Rivers for much of the second half, and (most impressively) with Norv Turner as their head coach--defeated the Colts 28-24 to advance to the AFC Championship in Foxborough.

Meanwhile . . . thirty-one seconds left. Giants over Dallas by four.

Update: Wow. I'm almost glad school starts tomorrow; I'm about to save myself from a week of listening to the entire state of Texas (including certain quarters of Houston) rag on Tony Romo. He may not have had a choice, but Giants cornerback McQuarters would have had to duck in the end zone to have that pass miss him.

Pats v. Bolts; Giants v. Packers.

Life with Astro-Girl

On our TV screen, this graphic, courtesy of "Sportscenter":

"Gates to have toe tested at the game."

Astrogirl: "They're testing people's toes at the gates? Hasn't this 9/11 thing gone too far?"

Will somebody please tell me

. . . what is the use of three people in the "Monday Night Football" booth if one of the most crucial plays of the game escapes not only their notice, but apparently that of their director, their producer, and their spotters?

Fourth quarter, MNF part II. Cardinals 17, 49ers 13. Cards' ball. About five minutes remain. Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea are on the same page. If the Cards score a touchdown, game over. If the Cards score a field goal, overtime, worst case (for them) scenario. If the Cards run the clock out, well, they run the clock out.

Second down and long. Leinart gets Fitzgerald open on a swing pass. Fitzgerald, not the stupidest receiver in NFL history, sees open field in front of him and runs toward the first-down marker. Anticipating a tackle, he leaps toward a space of ground past the stick, and lands on the ground in first-down territory . . . only his momentum slides him out of bounds before he's touched, the last thing he wants.

Now: the crucial point. The timekeeper, unclear as to the nature of the tackle, allows the clock to run. Leinart, content to let the clock run until next pancake Sunday, leisurely calls the play and trots to the line. Suddenly, a whistle. No, since Fitzgerald was out of bounds, the clock needed to have stopped. Extra thirty seconds.

Well, all right. We reset the clock.

But here was the crucial point. As all of this was going on, None of the three announcers in the booth made a single comment as to why the clock was being re-set. Instead, Mike & Mike seemed more interested in Mike Ditka's collegiate experience at (Larry Fitzgerald's!) Pitt, how Ditka planned to be dentist, and oh, how funny is that?

Good Lord. Where has the competence gone?

Not every day is a great day . . .

What made me fall in love with my Saturdays was my decision, in 2001, to spend much of the day jogging, sometimes twelve or more miles. I am slow, slow . . . there is no getting around this; these long jogs would consume three hours, four if I drove somewhere and parked, then drove home.

Slow. But very cathartic.

I attempted such a run today, the second or so in a few months, and I wondered: how could I have let this routine escape me? For absolute bliss, the pieces must be in place. I must jog:

1. at least twelve miles
2. on a Saturday
3. when the sun is shining

Mess with any of these elements (or have God mess with number three, I suppose) and bliss is avoided. Do all of these . . . and, well . . .

Headed out around noon, having seen the first few picks of the NFL draft, and with Astro-Girl ensconsed on the sofa, nursing a sore knee, and promising to call with developments. Love that Astro-Girl, cranky knee and all. (Or is it more of a balky knee, as she hyperextended the joint on a treadmill? George Carlin was right: sports injuries somehow involve rhetoric that is never used elsewhere. Who besides an athlete is hobbled by an injury? Do you trip and fall, sprain your wrist, and describe your injury as merely a wrist?) In any case . . . with Cleveland, at number three, having chosen offensive tackle Joe Thomas over Notre Dame quarterback Brady* Quinn, the day bristled with possibility.

Last year the big story, after the Mario/Reggie/Vince saga, was Matt Leinart sliding all the way to tenth, after being rated as high as third. That slide would have nothing on Quinn if Minnesota (seven) or Miami (nine) didn't pick him. Off to jog.

Down Westpark to Kirby, then a right on Kirby down the business district, then a left on Bissonet and a stretch through a residential district known as Southampton (south of Hampton Street; no private beaches here). A right down Hazard. Ring.

"Tell me something," I said. "Minnesota took Quinn."

"No," she said. "Adrian Peterson."

"Why Peterson? They already have Chester Taylor."

"That's what the guy said."

"Well," I said, "Miami for sure."

Occasionally, at a poker table, the best hands are those I have no participation in, having thrown in my 3-7 off-suit and paid no money, and thus reduced myself to a spectator as the pile in the middle of the table rises and one person (the cranky old guy with the Budweiser hat, say) will suffer humiliation in the presence of nine other players. Today was such a day, even as I was twice removed, my Walkman having gone missing months earlier.

Miami was Quinn's flush draw. Dolphins or bust.

Rice University, turn left. The dirt track is a shade less than three miles around, or so I'm told. Ring.

"Miami," I said.

"No," she said. "Miami took Ted Ginn, Jr. Who's he?"

"The guy who scored the opening touchdown against Florida in the BCS. Then his teammates piled on him and hurt him and he left the game."

"And they picked him over Quinn."

"That's what you're telling me."

"Quinn doesn't look so good. He was talking about how he knew the Dolphins' playbook and their coach, and then when the announcement came he kind of hid his face. How can you feel sorry for a Notre Dame quarterback?"

"Life of the green room."

Adult athletes--paid hugely, with access to the best restaurant in town, a meal ticket through life, and incredible tail--are subject to very few off-the-playing-field humiliations. One is this: The Last Man in The Green Room, subject to the classic ESPN medium-wide shot, just enough to take in the spread of empty tables around him. In the past, it used to be worse: no family, agents, or friends. Just one solitary soon-to-be millionaire looking like one of the unicorns Noah left behind. Now, help is other people. I wished I was there.

A cut through Rice, a drink at my favorite fountain, the one attached to a building that probably goes by a different name but is certainly the computer lab. Into the quad. Ring.

"The Texans," she said.

"Not Quinn."

"No," she said, "Amobi Okoye."

A good pick, at tenth, with Okoye having three hundred pounds and about as many IQ points. Good Will Punting is nineteen, the youngest NFL draftee ever, by virtue of graduating from Louisville at such an age. (Sniff--Louisville. Save it. Okoye was accepted to Harvard.) His family emigrated from Africa, he spoke no English, but a few years later, at twelve, was begging the local high school principal to let him enroll. Two months, he said. If I can't do the work I'll leave. Instead of leaving, he finished high school at fifteen.

Wonderful story. Now if he can use all those brains and motivation to placing Peyton, Vince, and Byron on their collective asses.

"So," I said. "I almost hate to ask. Quinn."

"He's still there," she said. "He's got a hot girlfriend with him."

"She's about to go sit with Ted Ginn."

"That's mean."

"Who's next?"

"San Francisco," she said.

"They've got Alex Smith. Next."

"Buffalo."

"Maybe. But I think they'll stick with Losman."

"St. Louis."

"Bulger. Next."

"Carolina."

"Carr backing up Delhomme. Next."

"Pittsburgh," she said. "Would Pittsburgh take him?"

"Ever hear of someone named Rothlisberger?"

"Yeah. Okay. Next is Green Bay."

"Aaron Rogers backing up Favre. Next."

"Jacksonville."

"Byron Leftwich."

"Then Cincinnati."

"Carson Palmer. Don't think so."

"Tennessee."

"Vince Young."

"Yeah, don't think so. Then the Giants. Oh, Eli Manning." She ponders this. "So in other words, he just slid out of the top 20. I mean, we're getting to the good teams. And good teams are usually good because they have a good quarterback. So like the lower he goes, the lower he goes."

I wondered: who, in the twenties, would take him? The draft was face approaching the realm of the elite, the territory of Rivers, Brady, and Peyton.

Would Chicago, at #31, dump Rex Grossman?

I concluded my jog an hour later. She met me at the door. "They're up to 22," she said. "They took Quinn out of the Green Room and into the Commissioner's private room."

Hey, I thought, not fair. This kid (who by the way is 2-8 vs. USC, Michigan, and bowl opponents) gets to run and hide from ESPN when the going gets tough? Is he saving his gumption for Ray Lewis?

On TV, someone announced that Dallas was shopping #22.

"Oh," I said, "That's it. Probably to Cleve--"

I said it here, it came out there. Magic. And out came Quinn, with the expression of a latter-day Willie Loman who had just been told that the head buyer will see him, after all.

Then it was off to the ballpark, to the Astros, and to the newest discoveries at Minute Maid Park:

1. Really, really good fajitas that cost less than hot dogs, and
2. Hunter Pence.

Sportswise, it is hard to endure the week I just endured. My first team, the Yankees, and my second team, the Astros, lost an aggregation of fourteen games in a row. As Robbie-Boy pointed out, the best Yankee game all week was the rain-out. The Yankees followed form by leaking in the press that Torre might be gone by Sunday sundown, should the Sox sweep. (For whom? Girardi? Mattingly? Is this a team that will respond to Torre lite? Mount Piniella was the only logical replacement if Torre had to go, and Sweet Lou--by virtue of so many years in the American League--is slowly discovering that the Cubs are less a ballclub than an excuse to drink in the afternoon. Piniella is taken.) The Astros, fully used to falling behind and mounting a cavalry charge late (it worked in '04 and '05, not so much in '03 and '06), simply brought up centerfielder Hunter Pence, aka, Brightest Everyday Prospect Since Berkman.

Arrived at the park at four. (Beach blanket day, first ten thousand.) Roof open. Let us take the scene as read: Long shadows chiseled against the bright green grass, etc. Astro-Girl went off to look for t-shirts, I went down to watch home batting practice.

At the cage, there were the guys: Bidge, Brad, Berkman, Lee. The new guy, Loretta.

I decided to be cynical. No one pretends to mountains of knowledge like the batting practice crowd--the people by the cage, that is, not the minions out in the bleachers shouting, "Here! Here!" every time a ball makes the warning track. These were serious people. And this was serious business, aided by dialogue inspired, it seemed, by Kiss Me Deadly.

"Puma looks good."

"Needs to go the other way."

"Overanxious."

"Should stay in his shoes."

"He'll get going."

Okay, I thought. Here's my chance. To everyone and no one I asked, "Where's the boy wonder?"

Silence. Finally, painfully, a woman asked, "Who?"

"Pence," I said, feeling an onslaught of ass-sweat.

"Oh," one guy said. "He's busy throwing up in the dugout."

Ah. smiles all around. A look to the outfield scoreboard: 2-0 Yanks. Yes, but for how long?

Then, to my seat, and to the Astros-Brewers game:

Second inning, 0-0. Up comes our boy: lanky, with the classic hiked-up pants leg look. First major-league at-bat. Pence goes to two strikes, fouls off about a thousand pitches, then takes called strike three. First time I've ever seen a hometown player get a standing O for striking out.

Up again a few innings later, he's hit by pitch. Pence trots to first. One batter later, breaks up a double play. Cheers.

Few innings later: There now, his first hit, a clean single. Then a call for the ball, one of the all-time coolest sports traditions (rivaled by, top of my head, buying a round for the house after a hole-in-one. And maybe Midnight Madness. And that USC plays Notre Dame every year).

Now, the really good part. Batting behind Pence, Adam Everett, the Doctor of Leather, gets one of his two doubles of the night. And . . . here it comes . . . Pence flies around the bases . . . no, he glides around the bases in huge, effortless strides that recall Dave Winfield in pinstripes, or perhaps Bernie Williams circa 1998.

"Good Lord," someone says.

Imagine this: From the crack of Everett's bat, 40,000 minds were as one: second and third. No. Left field in Minute Maid is the smallest in the National League, the smallest in all of baseball save Fenway's. Three-fifteen to the foul pole, and it damn well stays three-fifteen until the scoreboard gives out, at the power alley. Everett's double, then, travelled 315 feet on the button. Not an inch further. Length of one football field, plus half of one end zone. And by the time Geoff Jenkins had collared the ball . . . done deal.

Pence scored standing.

From first.

Didn't even draw a throw.

There were other hi-lights--a great running catch here, some clever Berkman baserunning, good pitching from Sampson and Lidge--but really, this was the game.

10-1 Astros.

Along the way I saw: 3-1 Yanks. Torre keeps his job for another day.

Both losing streaks over.

Oh, it got dark eventually, without my noticing.

And?

And this:

Not every day is a great day.

But today was a great day.

(*Corrected by Anon.)

One year ago today . . .

It hardly seems worthy of anyone's attention now, but last year marked one of the most notorious mornings in major-sports draft history. This was the day that the Houston Texans took Mario Williams over Reggie Bush--or, for that matter, Vince Young. I wrote of the event thus:

There is no better place to measure the pulse of the Houston sports scene than the Buffalo Wild Wings sports bar in Rice Village. BWW had been planning its draft party for weeks. Special “Vince or Bush” pint glasses were made up. An ad read that “parties of 8 or more” would receive specials on wings.

For a big event–-a UT football game or an Astro post-season game–-you can barely get in the door there. Clearly a mob was anticipated for today. Instead, the place was a graveyard; only ten people in the dining area, maybe double that in the bar. The bar itself should have been three deep; today, two people sat silently and stared ahead.

Back in the dining room, the extra staff lined against the wall and looked at rows of empty tables. When Mario Williams’ name was called, the booing was half-hearted, almost obligatory. Why pick on the kid? Some cheering from the Longhorn faithful when Vince was chosen, some “Oooh”ing for picks four through nine (translatins: Matt’s still on the board!), then when Matt went everyone turned their attention to the Astros game.

Houston has become a baseball town, and pro football here is officially a joke. I honestly didn’t think that was possible.

This year, I couldn't even rouse myself to leave my apartment. I'll watch the first few picks, then go for a run.

The Houston Texans aren't even worth my anger.

NFL to priest: Drop dead

A church in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn has invited a group of youngsters (by which I think they mean "boys") to a pre-game Mass tomorrow, after which the priest and congregation will retire to the basement to watch the Super Bowl on a 42-inch LCD television. After the game, the TV will be raffled off, and the proceeds (past the cost of the TV) donated to various church youth functions.

Not so fast, says the NFL, whose lawyers sent the (offending?) priest a letter demanding he cease and desist.

No, I'm not kidding. Apparently the NFL's lawyers are too concerned that too many clusters of too many people assembling to watch the game (as opposed to being at home, watching it in their livings rooms) will adversely affect the Nielsen ratings for the show, which would harm the rates the televising network could charge, which in turn would, down the road, harm the rights fees the league could charge for televising the game. In that spirit, the NFL has taken it upon itself to forbid the showing of the Super Bowl for any money a) to large groups in venues not usually used for the watching of football, and b) on screens larger than 55 inches.

So: no churches. No Kiwanis dining rooms. But sports bars are okay. (Incidentally, I recall their being some trouble about sports bars showing too many games, or not paying rights fees, or something. As I remember, the NFL threatened to get tough, the bars threatened a nationwide boycott of Budweiser, which pays a zillion dollars in ads fees to networks during NFL games. End of story.)

This kind of overreaching reminds me of how vigorous the NFL goes to protect the trademark of the name, "Super Bowl," so much so that the subsitute names merchants use in hawking their wares ("Big Game," "Super Game") have become a running joke. How long before the subsitutions are thought to be actionable?

Already the NFL, sensing a PR nightmare for serving Fr. Flanagans across the country, is starting the backpeddle.

Incidentally, I have found a trick that makes watching NFL football a bit more bearable. It is a trick I had heard of, but never thought to employ until now.

It's this: Unless the day's fare is a match-up of two unfamiliar teams and is a game I have been waiting for all week . . . I never watch any pre-game shows whatsoever.

The single pre-game show I have seen in a month was CBS's, before the New England-San Diego playoff game, just to get some insight on the Chargers' blitzing, which was brought to me by splendidly intelligent Jason Taylor of the Dolphins. Taylor's statement about Tom Brady--"He's one quarterback you can't pressure by getting close to him; he only feels pressure when you knock him down"--was something I had noticed all season, but hadn't put into words quite as well. But beyond that one time, nothing, natta. Don't want to hear the picks, don't want to hear the fake laughs, don't want to hear who's got something to prove. During the week after the Pats-Chargers game, I stayed away from all TVs on the assumption that there was nothing new anyone had to say about the Patriots and Colts. The game itself was marvelous and heartbreaking and I don't think I missed a thing.

(Now post-game shows are another matter; I don't mind watching someone comment on something that actually happened that day.)

Tomorrow? Colts? Bears? Wake me up at twenty past five, Central time.

The Patriots, one week later

The 1998 and 1999 Yankees were, quite simply, the greatest baseball team ever assembled. Even the best baseball teams have a glaring weakness or two. The 1927 Yankees had no team speed--not that they needed it. The 1976 Reds had mediocre starting pitching, and the 1989 A's starters were awful after Dave Stewart and Bob Welch. (It is telling that A's, for all their talent, only won the one World Series interrupted by an earthquake. This happenstance allowed them to sweep: two games were won by Stewart, two by Welch--each, two weeks apart). Both the Reds and A's boasted explosive offenses, above-average defenses and deep, suffocating bullpens--give them a lead after six and you were done.

The Yankees came close to both the A's and Reds in offense and had a significantly better bullpen, anchored by the Hammer of God himself, closer Mo Rivera. Their starting pitching put the A's and Reds to shame; the '98 model had two Cy Young Award candidates (David Cone, David Wells) supported by Andy Pettitte and Orlando Hernandez; the '99 version boasted Roger Clemens as its fourth starter.

The dominance of the 98-99 Yankees can be summed up in three statistics. First, the team went 22-3 in the postseason over those two years. In the three-tiered Wild Card era, there isn't even a second place. Second, the Yankees went 8-0 in two World Series. Two consecutive sweeps in a row is without precedent. Third, the eight wins over two years are part of a 14-0 World Series run that began in the 1996 Series and continued through the 2000 Series. The '96 and '00 editions were lesser versions of the '98-'99 juggernauts for different reasons. The '96 team was an odd mixture of veteran badasses (Tim Raines, Cecil Fielder, Darryl Strawberry, Mariano Duncan, David Cone), top journeymen at their absolute peak (Paul O'Neill, Tino Martinez, John Wetteland, Jimmy Key, Joe Girardi), and Stick Michael prodigies coming into their own (Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, Andy Pettitte, Mariano Rivera). Add one Hall-of-Famer enjoying his clover (Wade Boggs) and one clutch-hitting back-up catcher (King Leyritz) you have a champion.

The 2000 club was the outlier, the 87-victory fluke, the team that invoked all the cliches, winning "on pure pride" or whatever over three teams that were, each of them, probably more talented--in the case of Seattle, demonstrably so. The A's and Mariners both thought they had the Pinstriped Monster beat; and the Mets, in the Series, played as if winning were a formality, and found themselves on the tail end of at least two games they should have won.

As this run from Heaven was going on, I asked myself a few questions:

How would I react when it was over?

How would I react when I had my heart ripped out, the way this Yankee team ripped out the hearts of so many others?

How would I react when Mariano Rivera, the Hammer of God, failed to get it done?

(Digression here. How great is Mo Rivera? Imagine an all-time starting line-up: nine position players, right-handed pitcher, left-handed pitcher, reliever. Babe Ruth goes in right field. Walter Johnson, your right-handed pitcher. And Mo Rivera is your reliever. These are the three who defy argument. I drive between campuses all day, this is my job, and when a current ballplayer is on a sports radio show, and Mo Rivera comes up in conversation, I swear, there are a few seconds of silence, after which the current ballplayer whispers something like, "The guy's a freaking witch.")

Little did I know that all three of the above would happen at once--literally the instant that Luis Gonzalez blooped that sawed-off, one hundred and twenty-five foot dying quail over Derek Jeter's glove. The Diamondbacks, that Series, outplayed the Yankees in every aspect of the game except closer, and the difference in the respective abilities of Rivera and Byung-Hung Kim was reflected in the fact that the Yankees--who three times had starting pitchers chased in the early innings (Pettitte was tipping his pitches, and Game One starter Mensa Mussina was driven bonkers by a week-long layoff and by having to pitch in an unfamiliar park) and sported the worst batting average in an extended Series since the 1919 White Sox (who, let us not forget, lost the World Series on purpose)--were still able to scrape their way to a 3-2 lead in games heading back to Phoenix for Game Six.

We all know what happened in Game Seven. Rivera's inexplicable meltdown: three hits allowed, one hit batsmen, one crazy wild throw that pulled Jeter off the bag and prevented an easy double play. For years, the domestic shorthair cat who had moved into my apartment had served as a harbinger of Yankee fortunes: if Jeter or Paul O'Neill or Brosius came up to bat in the late innings, Ferris would run to the bedroom, anticipating my joyous screams. When Rivera would appear in the ninth, Ferris would fall asleep in my lap, certain that all was well.

And it was, in the years between Sandy Alomar's home run in the '97 playoffs, Rivera's first year as closer, and Gonzo's bloop. I had been so certain the Yankees had done it, had won their fourth Series in a row, I actually relaxed.

This was when my heart was ripped out. Two friends had come over to watch the game; after they left I turned all the lights out and stared at the ceiling. Eventually I fell asleep, only to wake up again and again, every ninety minutes or so, and to one thought: Someone tell me that didn't happen. It didn't happen. Didn't.

But of course it had.

This was the moment I remembered watching the end of the Patriots' game last Sunday. And that's all I have to say.

Pats' Postmortem

Almost ready to talk.

Finally, part 2

Fell asleep last night with the laptop in my, well, lap. To finish up on the Patriots this past weekend:

2. There is something awe-inspiring about Bill Belichick's ability to consistently win with only one historically superb star. The Packers of the sixties had eight Hall-of-Famers; the Steelers of the seventies had eight or nine; the Niners of the eighties and Cowboys of the nineties, when all is done, will have around a half-dozen apiece. The Patriots, right now, have Tom Brady, and maybe Adam Vinatieri (whose cause, ironically enough, would be helped by a big game this weekend against New England). Richard Seymour, Rodney Harrison? Maybe, maybe not. Teddy Bruschi? Deion Branch? Sorry. Ty Law? Long shot.

The only historical parallel I can think of (I was discussing this with Robbie-Boy on Sunday) is Bobby Knight. Personal shortcomings aside, Knight won three Final Fours and 880 NCAA basketball games with one future NBA Hall of Famer, Isiah Thomas. (By contrast, Dean Smith had James Worthy and Michael Jordan on the same team.)

How Bill Belichick succeeds is, first, bringing in players very good at very, very specific tasks, and, second, running his squad in as heartless and calculated a manner as possible. There was no earthly reason to cut Deion Branch loose; the money they saved was not needed to stay under the cap, and the amount they came in under the cap cannot carry over. Yet here they are, one win away from the Super Bowl.

3. With this season's version of the Patriots showing vulnerability, it is time to look back and truly appreciate the Super Pats of a few years ago, a team whose playoff games were almost relaxing to watch. I've rooted against Peyton Manning for a decade, but his 20-3 loss to the Patriots in the 2005 AFC Championship Game was the only time I felt sorry for him.

It is difficult to explain this to anyone under forty, but until the 2002 play-offs, the Patriots were the team of disappointments and freakish accidents, a team better known for its drunken rioters from Brookline and Framingham than anything it performed on the field. This was a team that once played a home game in Alabama, a team whose coach was fired/quit heading into the playoff bye week. When the Pats were bad they were putrid; when they were good it hardly seemed to matter, as when, in 1985, they appeared as the designated Super Bowl punching bag for the Chicago Bears. After the game, it was reported that half the team was on coke (though in fairness, if I were going up against Richard Dent and Mike Singletary I might need a little something myself). This was a team that ran fourth in Boston behind the Celtics, Red Sox, and Bruins (and when Doug Flutie played at Boston College, fifth).

The fulcrum was the (correctly called!) Tuck Rule game against Oakland in 2002. Since then, in every game but one (Denver last year), every bounce, every close call, every freakish event has broken the Pats' way, no more so than this past Sunday. And so we look to this Sunday, to see if the magic sustains itself.

The Day After

Someone tell me what happened. I was ready to ask for a re-count.

There were two certified Hall-of-Famers on the field yesterday. One rushed for 187 yards and two touchdowns. The other threw three interceptions. Guess who won?

San Diego spent 45 minutes blowing New England off both sides of the ball. Leaving aside the weird Denver game that turned on two atrocious calls (pass interference near the end of the first half, and the no-call on the fumble out of bounds in the end zone) and several weird flukes, Brady has never looked worse in a game so big. Bill Simmons on ESPN.com postulated a month ago that Brady is badly hurt, somewhere, not that we'll know. Bill Belichik keeps such matters a secret worthy of North Korea, and so it will be February 15th or thereabouts when we read in tiny print that "Tom Brady entered Boston Mercy hospital for elbow surgery." Or knee surgery or back surgery or whatever; no way does the Brady of three years ago not drill Ben Watson between the numbers on that down-and-in.

New England 37, New York Jets 16

Nice to know you can count on a few things in life, Tom Brady and Bill Belichek among them.

Next up: San Diego.

Funny thinking of Tom Brady (who is not yet 30) going up against "the kid," Phil Rivers.

Texans' Ryans NFL Defensive Rookie of the Year

So we got that, at least.

Reggie? Vince? Matt? Er, Mario?

The debate rages on.