When the dust settled three Sundays ago, and it was established that the New York football Giants would be the team charged with the daunting task of defeating the New England "team-of-destiny" Patriots, I vowed I would not watch this year's Super Bowl.
It wasn't simply that my beloved Chargers had just valiantly lost to Belichick's boys or that I thought the Jeremy Shockey-less Giants were probably the worst team that managed to make the playoffs. No, I simply couldn't figure out which team I hated more.
Watching the game seemed, to me, like a lose-lose situation.
First of all, the match-up meant that a team from either New York or Boston would be crowned champion of a major American sporting league. Seeing that this was a guaranteed outcome of the game (because the Pheonix stadium is a dome, my initial hopes of lightening striking the field and canceling the contest were squashed), I did not see any incentive to actually witness the outcome.
Second, I hate Eli Manning. Sorry, Coach Cutcliffe.
Four years ago, he was my absolute least favorite figure in all of pro sports. The little punk actually had the gall to refuse to play for the Chargers after they drafted him. My only solace was being able to thoroughly enjoy watching him spend the first three years of his career in the NFL looking like a lost puppy dog. If the Giants could somehow pull off the amazing feat of defeating the undefeated, he would certainly get the glory. And I would certainly feel like vomiting in my mouth.
Fortunately for me, this year, one entity did manage to amass more of my contempt than Eli Manning. That would be his Super Bowl XLII opponent, the Patriots. The 2008 version of the New England franchise is to pro football what Barry Bonds is to Major League Baseball: shamelessly arrogant cheaters and cancers to their respective leagues, hated mercilessly by everyone outside New England.
As the next two weeks progressed, two facts dawned on me. First, I wasn't going to boycott the Super Bowl. I internally justified this by arguing that the commercials would be too priceless to miss (and by the way, the E*Trade baby, Planters nuts girl and Donkey Lips charging a car battery from his nipples certainly lived up to the hype).
Second, on the extremely minute chance that the Giants did pull off the upset, seeing the look on Tom Brady and Belichick's faces en vivo would more than make up for Eli getting some glory.
A few days before the game, I came up with what would be my ideal outcome for the game.
First play, Eli Manning drops back, trips over himself, lands on his head and goes out with a concussion. He is replaced by whatever no-name the Giants have as their backup quarterback, who consequently leads the offense to seven straight touchdown drives.
Furthermore, Tom Brady's left ankle is shattered by Michael Strahan and he is forced to exit the game. Finally, Rodney Harrison and Junior Seau both rupture their spleens midgame due to complications from their years as blatant HGH abusers.
Anyhow, right before kick off, I finally committed to rooting for the Giants. At first, I thought I was just pretending. But as the game wore on, I realized I had actually underestimated both my utter contempt for Tom Brady and Co. and the looming possibility that in four quarters his team would be crowned the greatest ever in football.
By half time, I began pondering what household object would work best as a noose and where I could use it to hang myself from. I also began an internal debate over which STD I hoped Tom Brady would contract in the sex-fueled celebration that would surely ensue after the imminent Patriots victory.
Well, OK, the Giants defense was at least making the game enjoyable by giving Tommy Boy a collective punch in the mouth.
Then something happened. At some point in the fourth quarter, at the ripe old age of 27, Eli Manning's balls dropped, his voice cracked and Peyton's kid brother became a man. I was watching it on HD and I swear I saw a facial hair or two sprout.
In all seriousness, the performance he turned in during that fourth quarter was probably one of the most enjoyable feats I have ever witnessed in professional sports, let alone a usually wholly disappointing Super Bowl. Those final two drives rendered the 18 previous games won by New England absolutely meaningless, and forced all talk of the Patriots' "perfect storm" or "team of destiny" garbage to rest permanently.
And for that, Eli, you are temporarily out of my doghouse. That is, until next year.
Dan Belzer is a Trinity senior. His column runs every Thursday.
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