In the spirit of full disclosure, I thought I would begin my column with a quick disclaimer: If you, dear readers, are expecting reasoned analysis, insider information or even relatively competent sentence structure, you've come to the wrong place. Koko the sign-language gorilla is currently handicapping football games at a better rate than I am. I quit watching the Rose Bowl this year in the fourth quarter to go drink at Sigma Delta sorority (score at the time: 38-26 Trojans). I'm more interested in Jake Plummer's porn star 'stache and Kyle Orton's fantastic neck-beard than the play of their respective teams. If you're looking for insight, try Sports Illustrated's Peter King.
On second thought, scratch that. In King's most recent column, he describes Seattle linebacker Lofa Tatupu as a "little pepperpot" before launching into a long discussion of his recent switch from Starbucks latte to Bigelow Green Tea. I can do better than that.
There were some exciting games this weekend. In Indianapolis, kicker Mike Vanderjagt won a hotly contested three-way choke-off with Jerome Bettis and referee Pete Morelli, missing a potential game-tying, last-minute field goal wide right on a kick that nearly landed in the entrance tunnel in the corner of the end zone. Nice silver earring, Mikey. I felt as though I was watching the self-implosion of the Backstreet Boys; only this time I was less emotionally involved.
Tempers remained high throughout the pedantic post-game hooplah. Manning, exhibiting the leadership and class that has garnered him numerous ESPY award nominations (and those ironic MasterCard spots), discussed his offensive line's "protection problems" during the game. Most experts interpreted his remarks as an attack on the performance of his offensive line, rather than a serious discussion of the embarrassing leakage he faced after soiling his Depends on the field. That, folks, is the beauty of artificial turf -- no mud stains.
During his typical "I feel oppressed by the world" rant, Pittsburgh's Joey Porter added to the post-game tension as he insinuated a conspiracy on the part of the league to ensure the Colts' future in the playoffs by overturning Troy Polamalu's interception of Manning in the first quarter. This theory has gained some traction in the blogosphere, with some positing that Morelli received some communication from the league ordering him to overturn the call. I find that hard to believe. It's much more likely that someone passed him a photograph of a crazed Archie Manning holding Morelli's family at gunpoint and a note demanding preferential treatment for his son -- or an immediate trade to the New York Giants.
In Denver, the sun finally set on the Patriots' dynasty. Tom Brady -- likely shaken by the Broncos' refusal to fall to their knees and worship his god-like aspect -- played an uncharacteristically poor game, throwing two interceptions, one of which included a 100-yard return by Denver's Champ Bailey. The miraculous play left Bailey gasping and flailing on the sidelines like the finely tuned athletic machine that he is. (I kid. I can't even climb to the fourth floor of Berry without needing to sit down and put my head between my knees.)
Even Bill Belichick's, "other coaches may have time to dress themselves, but dammit, I'm trying to win football games here!" routine was not enough to save the Pats.
In the final analysis, there is one thing we can say for certain: disgustingly poor facial grooming is the new "12th Man." In Indy, Ben Roethlisberger's luxuriant facial growth easily triumphed over baby-faced Manning, who actually looked as if he was entering puberty during the fourth quarter. In Denver, Tom Brady's carefully manicured, three-days-of-stubble look was no match for Jake Plummer's fantastic Ted Kaczynski-meets-ZZ Top beard.
In the NFC, my beard-based game analysis hits a bit of a snag, though I firmly believe that Chicago's upset loss to Carolina was due less to Steve Smith's beard (it's a scraggly little chin thing, but we can't all be follicly blessed like Plummer) than to cosmic retribution for the benching of Kyle Orton's aforementioned neckbeard.
Ben Roethlisberger, Jake Plummer, Kyle Orton, Jesus. What's their one -- and probably only -- similarity? Beards. Coincidence? I think not. Note to athletes: quit thanking God after every victory! Just grow a beard and all your prayers will be answered.
It has been a pretty common practice this week for sports commentators to write obituaries to the "Golden Age of New England Sports," (ignoring of course the Celtics' run of 11 championships in 13 years back in the '50s and '60s, or Larry Bird and Bobby Orr) and since I'm just as much of a no-talent hack as they are, I guess I'll wrap up like that too.
The Golden Age of New England Sports, a.k.a. the Era of Insufferable New England Sports Smugness:
Born Jan. 19, 2002 in the "Tuck Rule Game," encompassing three Patriots championships, one stunning and curse-breaking Red Sox World Series championship and culminating with this fall's Diet Pepsi Machine and Visa "five layers of protection" media oversaturation, it died of massive karmic overdose on Jan. 15, 2006. It is survived by its older brother, Total New England Sports Despondency and will be missed by many members of the media and lazy corporate marketers everywhere.
