So here it is, and I do foresee another major upset: the Swiss miss, Alinghi, with its turncoat Kiwi skipper and crew, to get past the last U.S. entry, Oracle, and then best Team New Zealand, thus taking sailing’s grandest trophy into the mountains.
OK, you don’t give a damn about the America’s Cup (or that it may never again be American in anything but name only.) Or that two NHL franchises have declared back-to-back bankruptcies. Or that the Chinese Internet revolution has made Yao Ming an NBA all-star starter over Shaquille O’Neal. Or that Bud Selig is trying to figure out how to rehab both Pete Rose and the all-star game at the same time. Nah, you’re just ready for some football.
And who can blame you? The NFL championship doubleheader may be the best TV take in all of sports. Stellar football matchups without all the baggage that the Super Bowl carries. You don’t have to dodge the fat butts of friends who are more obsessed with onion dip than the score. You don’t have to respond politely to the inane questions of once-a-year fans (“Can they use the West Coast offense on the East Coast?”) who feign interest. And you don’t have to endure a halftime show–“And now Wayne Newton, backed by 100,000 women clad in American-flag bikinis, will sing ‘God Bless America’”–that runs longer and features less talent than any episode of “American Idol.”
This NFL championship weekend can be counted on to deliver eight hours of unbridled football bliss. My anticipatory juices are already flowing. Indeed, because they are destined to overflow, my wife is absenting herself from the house for the entire pregame, game and postgame revel, which in my case spans the holiday weekend. Thus I’m already practicing my revel yell: “Give me more, more, more.” So let’s get down to the main course. As Terry Bradshaw might say–and I know he’s going to wish he did–you can’t win the Super Bowl if you aren’t playing in it.
TAMPA BAY VS. PHILADELPHIA
If there’s anyone left who still doubts that visitors from the planet Rael bestowed upon its chosen few the secret of cloning, then check out these two defenses: fast, sure-tackling, aggressive, even their mothers can’t tell them apart. That isn’t true, however, of the offenses, where the Eagles boast a far superior line and a little more speed and versatility. If I were assured that Donovan McNabb is healthy, with his mobility offsetting the Tampa Bay pass rush, I’d back Philly in a heartbeat. Still, I like even a gimpy McNabb over the resurgent Brad Johnson. Indeed, at every key skill position on offense, Tampa Bay lacks what would threaten the Eagles Super Bowl destiny: raw speed.
This game will ultimately come down to the hard-earned home-field advantage, demonstrated quite convincingly to the Bucs’ dismay in the playoffs the past two seasons. That advantage is particularly acute at Veterans Stadium, a raucous pocket of ill will that is the epicenter of the civic antithesis to the City of Brotherly Love. There are more distractions than just the noise and torrents of abuse. (Tampa fans better hope there isn’t snow to arm the fans.) The field is the league’s worst, a veritable minefield, and it takes a lot of practice before a player can ignore the nagging fear that every step might be your last.
Then, of course, there’s the subfreezing weather, predicted to be down in the teens as the sun sets on Sunday. Much has been made in the past about how Tampa Bay had never won in the cold, a losing streak that was halted in the season’s final week against an injury-riddled Bears team. And Buccaneer fans can rightly argue that the team is now ideally constructed for cold weather: a punishing defense coupled with an offense that features a straight-ahead power runner in Mike Alstott and a short-passing game with sure-handed receivers. But cold is about far more than style. It is a state of mind. If you don’t live in it and practice in it, it is inevitably a distraction. No Florida kicker will ever replicate what Adam Vinatieri, a South Dakotan, did in last year’s Snow Bowl. For Veterans’ final football game, Philly may need the cavalry if they hope to get one last baseball season out of the stadium.
TENNESSEE VS. OAKLAND
This is another case of two defenses that appear to be more than a bit clonish. Check out the yardage the teams yielded this season, less than two yards apart rushing and less than one yard passing difference. Those stats prove the old Mark Twain adage that stats are just another way of lying. First of all, Oakland played the toughest schedule in the entire NFL; in their 10 AFC contests, they didn’t get to feast on a single team that finished with a losing record. In their most recent games, the Raiders shut down three high-flying offenses, holding foes fighting for their playoff lives–the Broncos, Chiefs and Jets–to a total of just 26 points. The defense boasts a pair of veterans, Rob Woodson and Bill Romanowski, with more playoff experience between them than most teams. And, finally, Oakland’s cornerback woes have been addressed with the return of both Charles Woodson and Tory James from injuries.
The differences are even more glaring on the offensive side of the ball. The word “warriors” is one of those military throwbacks that is bandied about the NFL far too often. But if ever a team warranted it, the Titans do. Steve McNair, Eddie George and Frank Wycheck are all your proverbial trench-fighters, nitty-gritty guys who muscle out every possible inch. Don’t forget that this Tennessee nucleus came up just one yard short of a possible championship in the Super Bowl three years ago. On the other hand, this edition of the silver-and-black doesn’t deal in mere yards, let alone inches. This is a team that rips off whole swaths of the field in rapid-fire fashion. Rich Gannon executes the pass offense to perfection. Here’s one stat that is no lie: the Raiders averaged 40 more yards per game through the air than any other team.
Gannon is, of course, blessed with a plethora of riches on the receiving end including two wide receivers, Jerry Rice and Tim Brown, who are redefining the NFL aging process. The Raider team and its fans have always projected a decidedly uncuddly Hell’s Angels image so it has never been exactly an easy team for outsiders of a certain maturity level to embrace. But anyone of a certain age has to be more than a little charmed by this collection of graybeards on both sides of the ball. They are about to demonstrate that NFL football is not just a young man’s game.
Now, you know that I know how all this is going to turn out on Super Sunday. Do I need to remind you of my pick last year: New England 27, St. Louis 24. (And not that any boasting beyond that clairvoyance is necessary, but I’ve been picking winners this season in my local pool at almost a 50 percent clip). So for a short time only, I will make my Super Bowl prediction available–on a proprietary basis–to each of you who sends me $10,000, an autographed picture of either Red Grange or Bronco Nagurski and all the telephone numbers of Joe Millionaire’s rejects.
