Enemy Perspective
When my Giants won the Super Bowl, I realized I had to write about it. To get in this issue at the last minute, I had to promise the El Editor I wouldn’t kick Pats fans while they’re down. I will do my best to adhere to said promise, though I may just put on some slippers before I start kicking.
I’d be nicer about it, but I cannot begin to tell you how much crap I took from Pats fans over the past few weeks.
My tenure as a New York-sports-fan-living-in-Boston was downright joyous for the first few years. When I moved here in 1999, the Red Sox were an afterthought on the Yankees’ path to World Championships. The Giants went to the Super Bowl in 2000—even if they were summarily destroyed by Trent Dilfer’s Ravens, which is a ridiculous sentence in and of itself. (But they still made it.) And aught-three was a very good year for me: my alma mater, the Syracuse Orangemen, won the NCAA tourney and Boone upper-decked the Sox.
At that point, I was on top of the sports world. I’m sure I talked a lot of crap. To Bostonians, I’m sure listening to me at that time would have been as annoying as listening to Shannon Sharpe and Emmitt Smith debate gay marriage.
So when the Pats dynasty ascended into greatness, it didn’t bother me. There was no New York-Boston rivalry on the gridiron. I even thought, condescendingly, throw these people a bone.
Heck, I even rooted for the Pats in every single one of their dynasty Super Bowls. Why not? There was no reason not to. And for once I got to cheer for the home team. It was nice not to have sports leprosy for a few weeks.
But then, the juju turned on the basepaths, too. With two Championships, the Red Sox have obliterated any sense of domination the Yankees had over them. Seemingly overnight, my sports world turned upside-down. Boston became the City of Champions. I became an outcast destined to live on the lam, sort of like the A-Team—minus the cool van and renegade sense of purpose.
That made me long for life on the other side of the lines: in other words, I began to contemplate a move to New York City. There, I could be among my own kind. All you Sox fans will be happy to know you’ve basically driven me out of town with all your Championships. I liked you guys better when you were loveable losers.
I’m sure you’re thinking I’m pathetic, and I’d agree. I love my sports teams enough to move out of a city that has become essentially inhospitable to me.
Sports are my escape. Like every true fan, Sports are the joy I turn to when work sucks, when I’m not getting laid, when I need something else to think about besides my mountain of debt. In other words, every minute of every day.
And suddenly, Sports were too serious. Every Sox-Yankees game had become personal, every Santana-to-Sox trade rumor a death sentence. It was me-stick-an entire city. After years of toiling under my whip-like wit, Bostonians rose up behind their Big Papi Spartacus in ’04 and crushed my reign. Maybe I had it coming.
Sufficiently downtrodden by October ‘07, I was now faced with the potential of another head-to-head with Boston when the Giants went up to Green Bay and the Pats welcomed the Bolts.
When both teams won—and you can’t blame me for thinking this—I had mixed emotions. My team was in the Super Bowl: that was awesome, who doesn’t want that? But so were the Pats. And while I had faith the Giants could beat them, I’m not an idiot. I knew what they were up against. The Greatest Team of All Time.
That’s the way my sports luck has been since 2004 and a certain comeback: The Yankees have the 2004 ALCS in the bag! Oh wait. The Yankees eat away the Sox’s 14.5 game lead in ‘07 to make the division a race! Oh wait. The Giants make the Super Bowl! Oh wait, the Greatest Team of All Time is waiting for them. Part of me almost wished Big Blue hadn’t made it. I didn’t need another reason for Bostonians to hold sway over me.
(Think this isn’t as bad as 86 years or the 40+ for the Pats? Maybe not. But you weren’t living among the enemy like I am. How many times could you smile and fake-laugh when bandwagon coworkers rip on you in assembly-line fashion every day? I’d rather they take turns punching me in the nutsack. In Fan Years, I think my past four here have been like 25 years living in a Sports Hometown in terms of “crap taken.” I have grey hair now, and you know what they say about Mr. Grey.)
Up against the Greatest Team of All Time, you can only imagine what the two weeks before the Super Bowl were like. True fans of the Pats knew they had kinks in the armor, even if they were small. But most Pats fans? They were convinced—absolutely convinced—the Pats were unbeatable.
And they told me about it in droves.
I’m not going to pull the “if I had a nickel” thing, but I think I deserve some kind of medal for not punching at least one bandwagoner repeatedly in the face while screaming, “DID YOU NOT SEE WEEK 17?!” or “IF NORV TURNER HAD ANY BRAINS AND TOMLINSON HAD ANY BALLS, THE PATS WOULDN’T BE HERE!”
I held myself in check. Super Sunday arrived. The game kicked off. It was immediately clear the Giants came to play. I held my breath and hoped the other shoe wouldn’t drop.
It did. When Randy Moss was inexplicably single-(un)covered on the goal line with 2:45 remaining, I had two reactions:
- Did I have enough in my savings to quit my job and move to New York in the morning? And:
- Eli, if ever you are going to silence your doubters, please do it now.
Amazingly, the Eli answered my prayer came through. In a play on par with the Immaculate Reception, Eli escaped impossible pressure and chucked it to former Syracuse (two alma mater mentions!) standout David Tyree, who caught the ball with his head. I know it’s stupid but I can help thinking—because Tyree is a ‘Cuse guy—he caught that ball for me. I needed that to happen.
And the Pats gifted the final score by inexplicably pulling a Giants and single-covering the team’s best WR with an undersized corner. Miraculously, the Prophet Elijah had led his team to the Promised Land.
For the first time in nearly four years, one of my teams did all my talking for me. I got a stay of execution. To say I am euphoric right now is an understatement. For the first time in four years, I am untouchable. I even wore my Giants’ shirt to work today over my dress shirt and no one said anything. To their credit, Pats fans have been congratulatory thus far—with a couple of easily-ignored exceptions. Any true football fan knows the Giants deserved it.
My Giants went up against the “Greatest Team of All Time” (now with sarcastic quotes!) and came out on top. Is this equivalent to a 3-0 ALCS comeback? It feels like it to me. I’m sure you don’t agree. But that’s what makes it fun, agreeing to disagree.
I’ll even be a good sport and offer a consolation prize: You don’t have to dwell on this epic loss very long. Pitchers and Catchers report on February 14th.
But until Opening Day, I have bragging rights. Come October, we’ll see who wins ‘em—if I’m still here, that is.