It feels like I'm living in a different world than the world in which I was living yesterday: A world where the Giants are a mediocre team, a world in which Eli Manning is a mediocre quarterback and everybody hates him, where Tom Coughlin is crappy head coach, Michael Strahan an aging, about-to-retire-without-a-ring football has been.
The world in which I was living yesterday was a terrible, terrible world to be in. A world where a raving asshole like Bill Belichick is revered as some great man instead of the low class tyrant he is, where a team from my most hated epicenter of evil -- Boston, Massachussetts -- was about to be labeled the best football team in history, a world where dickheads like Randy Moss get to boast about how great he is and gets rewarded for it by a God rotten enough to allow such a person to excel.
Two nights ago, the night before the Super Bowl, it felt like Christmas Eve. Because I knew the Giants were going to be in the Super Bowl, and I couldn't wait, couldn't wait, couldn't wait -- just like I was 10 years old again.
It felt like the kind of Christmas Eve where you had asked Santa to bring you a gift that you knew he was unlikely to allow. Maybe it was too expensive for the elves to make, or too big to fit in the sled; you just knew that the chances of your getting that gift were minimal, but it was still Christmas Eve and you were excited anyway.
Funny thing is, I didn't even ask Santa for a win. I was just asking for a close game. So it would still be fun to watch, and so also, if we held our own against a team that nobody could beat, that we'd at least have something to build on, and gather some confidence going in to next year.
Well then came Christmas Day came, and Santa brought me everything I ever wanted and more: an unbelievable comeback victory against the hated juggernaut that was the N.E. Pats, an old school Giants defensive attack with sacks and hits and hurries on Brady all day long, a heroic game saving play with Eli Manning busting out of a sack and throwing to David Tyree -- who caught the ball in coverage with his helmet -- for a game saving 3rd and long conversion into Pat's territory, and, finally, a last minute touchdown to take the lead for the last time against a team that was about to make history, the stopping of which, itself, was the making of history.
Thank you Santa, thank you, thank you, thank you. Oh and you can add David Tyree to the list of New Yorker names that Bostonians will never be able to utter without their brains imploding. Put David Tyree right there next to Bucky Dent, Aaron Boone and Mookie Wilson.
One last thing to say about all this. I owe the Giants an enormous apology. When they started the season 0-2, I had written that they were toast. That they would be a .500 team at best. When they got into the playoffs, I predicted they would go out in the first round. I never gave up loving them mind you, but I sure never thought we'd be here, today. Well fuken-A am I ever glad I was wrong.
Ed Decker