It’s two years ago, nearly to the day.
I’m sitting in a bar, talking to a friend of mine originally from the Boston area — working out the details of a somewhat ludicrous wager involving the upcoming Rams/Patriots Super Bowl.
“It’s gonna be the Rams,” I tell him, brimming with the sort of confidence that you can only get from watching your team pick off Brett Favre a half dozen times. “There’s just no way the Pats can pull it off this time. Marshall, Kurt, Bruce, Aeneas, Tory: who does New England have to compete with that kind of talent? Bledsoe’s the only guy in the same league, and he’s going to be riding the bench.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he says, trying to sound as rational as he can, considering his team is hopelessly outmanned. “The Pats also shouldn’t have won last week, though. And they shouldn’t have won the two weeks before that either. They probably shouldn’t have even made the playoffs this year. They keep finding ways to beat those odds.”
It’s a good point, and one that I thus choose to ignore.
“There’s a difference,” I stubbornly insist. “The teams the Patriots have beaten so far have been good. But the Rams are great. Great teams just don’t lose games like this.”
After another couple hours of pointless bickering, I eventually agree to set the odds for our bet in his favor to a slightly ridiculous degree — just to flaunt my confidence.
I was right, after all. There was no way a ragtag squad helmed by a quarterback straight out of the sixth round could expect to keep up with the “Greatest Show on Turf.” It was impossible.
And sure enough, half a week later, the impossible happened.
Whether it was the Pats who won Super Bowl XXXVI or Mike Martz who lost it is now a question for the ages, but by the time the clock in New Orleans struck midnight, Adam Vinatieri was slobbering down champagne, retelling the story of his Super Bowl-winning field goal to a group of cheerleaders, and I was coming up with a payment plan for my hefty new debt.
As a proud native of “the Lou” and a Rams fan, it stings to remember the debacle that was the 2002 Super Bowl. It shouldn’t have happened the way it did. 99 times out of 100 the Rams would win that game.
But in spite of the lingering pain, I am prepared right now to make a confession that I promise you I don’t take lightly.
The second that Vinatieri’s kick sailed through the uprights — not for any longer than that second, but for that single second — I was a bit proud of the Patriots, and a bit proud of sports.
Stories just don’t often unfold the way that one did. No one believed in the Patriots. They had an unproven running back, an injured quarterback and a drugged-out top receiver; but they took the field anyway, played their hearts out to spite the odds and proved that everyone who knew anything about football knew nothing about the Pats.
There was a split second that my whole body fuzzed up. That kind of accomplishment really gets to me, whether it’s at my own team’s expense or not. I guess I’m a just sucker for a good Cinderella story.
Knowing this about me, you might imagine that when the Carolina Panthers came out of nowhere this year, I’d warm to them immediately. Every analyst and his brother have already declared the Panthers the “story of the year” in the NFL, so I should be starting to feel goose bumps on my arms now, right?
Well, I haven’t felt any yet, and I get the impression that they’re not going to spring up any time soon. Because in contrast to what everyone else seems to think, I don’t see anything impressive, surprising, interesting or heartwarming about the Panthers’ road to the Super Bowl. I wish I did; I wish I could believe that having Carolina fight for the NFL championship just two seasons after they were fighting to win a single game is a good story. But I don’t, and I can’t.
I think it’s a terrible story, and I’m blaming the NFL. More pointedly, I’m blaming the atrocity that is “competitive balance” in the NFL. Over the past decade, the NFL has made a mission out of eliminating great teams and dynasties, tightening the reins on such parity-establishing devices as the salary cap.
“Competitive balance” is a nice idea and might be comforting to Arizona Cardinals fans. But, in the same stroke as it created its precious parity, the NFL has also has stolen from the fans one of the most poignant moments that sports can offer: the moment that David brings down Goliath — the moment that a mediocre team brings down a giant.
What makes a team a Cinderella isn’t that it is by all measurable standards a mediocre team. If that were the only criterion, the Panthers would certainly qualify. What makes a team a Cinderella is that it is by all measurable standards a mediocre team and yet still somehow manages to beat a number of great teams.
If the Panthers pull off this Super Bowl, they will have beaten exactly zero.
Who has stood in their way so far? The Cowgirls, who managed a scoring margin of less than a safety this year? The Rams, who seem to have lost the real Marshall Faulk somewhere under one of Mike Martz’s chins and are anchoring their defense with Jason Sehorn? Or maybe the Eagles, who lose NFC championship games as often as I lose my cell phone?
The only real test the Panthers will face is the Patriots, who are at best an effective team. The Pats are undoubtedly an efficient squad littered with efficient players, but they’ve been somewhat overblown by sensationalist reporters. New England’s 14-game winning streak has come against an equalized and seriously depleted league and its two decent showings in the playoffs have come predicated by a severe home-field advantage. The Patriots are no better this year than they were two years ago when they were the underdogs.
Carolina is an average team that will meet an above-average team in a championship game that no longer determines which professional football team has the most talent and willpower so much as it determines which organization has the shrewdest and most creative business department.
But go ahead and listen to the analysts at the Super Bowl spouting off steam about what a great story this matchup is and reflecting on whether a Panther claw can fit into a glass slipper. Then walk out to your front porch, grab a handful of salt off the ground, sprinkle it on as seasoning and remember that you’re not watching the ’02 Rams against the Patriots or any of the other great matches or mismatches of our time.
And take the opportunity presented by what promises to be an entirely uninteresting game to ask yourself, “Is parity worth this? Is ‘competitive balance’ worth the end of the era of great teams and overconfidence and miracle victories and foolish bets?” Because there can be no David until Goliath finds his way back into the NFL.
