...better not be blowing in the wind. What the hell's with Drew Breeze. There's good and then there's an unnerving good. The kind of good quarterback, team, coach that is so goddamn unassuming, egoless, modest that it rattles one's nerves inexplicably -because it is inexplicable - The New Orleans Saints. The New Orleans Saints. I ask you.
At the beginning of the 2009/10 NFL season, I hoped it was going to be a Giants vs Colts Superbowl - Manning vs Manning. Then I entertained, and still hope for, a Vikings vs Colts Superbowl, but after watching New Orleans trounce New England, I have to wonder. A Saints vs Colts Superbowl? Hmm? The unpredictability of a new NFL season - one never knows. The cream of the crop curdles, an underdog reigns supreme, coaches come and go, the young take over, the vets never cease to amaze, and cease to amaze, rookies rise and fall, stars are born and others diffused - all in a day's work. Laughter, tears, crumpled brows, bones and egos, and the glue of comaraderie - ah, the beauty of meritocracy.
Oh, and in answer to some dude's question that for some reason won't post on my comments:
Unicorns can't be bought - they're earned!
Showing posts with label New England Patriots. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New England Patriots. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
The Wizard and the General
There are many great moments in the NFL that stick in my mind. Mind blowing plays, unfathomable feats performed by the wonders of the sport like Favre, Brady, Manning, Breeze, the other Manning, Moss, Hester, Polamalu, Harris, Sproles, Wayne, Ward, Clark, and on and on and on. Last Sunday's Patriots/Colts game was a beauty unto itself - ah, thanks for the memories.
I was nervous days in advance. The Colts were undefeated and the Patriots are the Patriots. They live for games like this - the two Super Powers of the NFL - but one of them has to lose. What a match up - there was something very Roman about it all. The two best quarterbacks in the league head to head - I was dying.
To me, Brady is like an army general leading his troops to war - an all out soldier, competitive, driven, merciless. He marches into the face of the enemy - unflinching and his troops respond to his lead. In that zone, he can and will annihilate the opponent. The tougher the competition the better Tom Brady is. And he proved it up until the last few plays of that brilliant Sunday night game against the Colts. But I never, for one second, doubted that the Colts were going to win that game. All the braun in the world cannot match a wizard's magic.
Peyton Manning is a wizard, a sorcerer, a magician - other worldly - a sage. It may sound over-the-top - so be it, call a spade a spade and all the other cliches. But there is noone else who can watch his team unravel before him, even allow it, want it to happen to expose the weakness, to learn the weakness, then fix it there and then, completely sew the team back up again, make it stronger and better while playing one of the best and toughest teams in the NFL. Then predetermine the exact time he is going take the game back and win it. With 13 seconds left on the play clock, Manning throws an unbelievable pass through the solid coverage into the waiting hands of Reggie Wayne.
Victory.
Magic.
How Reggie Wayne made that catch was mind blowing but that's Reggie Wayne and that's Peyton Manning - After the game, with the Wizard proudly towering over him, Wayne matter-of-factly said,"when Peyton called my number, I knew I had to make that catch." I don't know if I would ever want to be in that position, if I would ever want Peyton Manning calling my number on the last play of a supremely important game with a mere 13 seconds left on the clock.
On the sidelines, The General's face said it all. And the experts and the fans can blame the Patriot's loss on a great and risky call by Belichick, but no matter what the Patriots did in those last few moments of that monumental game - the Colts weren't going to lose. They were never going to lose. They knew it. Peyton knew it and I think Belichick new it too. How can a mortal, even great ones at that, ever beat a Wizard?
I was nervous days in advance. The Colts were undefeated and the Patriots are the Patriots. They live for games like this - the two Super Powers of the NFL - but one of them has to lose. What a match up - there was something very Roman about it all. The two best quarterbacks in the league head to head - I was dying.
To me, Brady is like an army general leading his troops to war - an all out soldier, competitive, driven, merciless. He marches into the face of the enemy - unflinching and his troops respond to his lead. In that zone, he can and will annihilate the opponent. The tougher the competition the better Tom Brady is. And he proved it up until the last few plays of that brilliant Sunday night game against the Colts. But I never, for one second, doubted that the Colts were going to win that game. All the braun in the world cannot match a wizard's magic.
Peyton Manning is a wizard, a sorcerer, a magician - other worldly - a sage. It may sound over-the-top - so be it, call a spade a spade and all the other cliches. But there is noone else who can watch his team unravel before him, even allow it, want it to happen to expose the weakness, to learn the weakness, then fix it there and then, completely sew the team back up again, make it stronger and better while playing one of the best and toughest teams in the NFL. Then predetermine the exact time he is going take the game back and win it. With 13 seconds left on the play clock, Manning throws an unbelievable pass through the solid coverage into the waiting hands of Reggie Wayne.
Victory.
Magic.
How Reggie Wayne made that catch was mind blowing but that's Reggie Wayne and that's Peyton Manning - After the game, with the Wizard proudly towering over him, Wayne matter-of-factly said,"when Peyton called my number, I knew I had to make that catch." I don't know if I would ever want to be in that position, if I would ever want Peyton Manning calling my number on the last play of a supremely important game with a mere 13 seconds left on the clock.
On the sidelines, The General's face said it all. And the experts and the fans can blame the Patriot's loss on a great and risky call by Belichick, but no matter what the Patriots did in those last few moments of that monumental game - the Colts weren't going to lose. They were never going to lose. They knew it. Peyton knew it and I think Belichick new it too. How can a mortal, even great ones at that, ever beat a Wizard?
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
The Brady Trail
As my mother and I drove past Buffalo yesterday, I felt an incredible force. Inexplicable, almost like I imagine standing upon an empty battlefield feels. Long after the fighting is over, the impact of the battle remains. Then it hit me and I said to my mum, "The Patriots were here on Sunday." Like she knew exactly what I meant she said, "Oh my, how did that go." "Not good," I said. "Not good." She shook her head, "Poor Buffalo," she said. We went quiet, the sky darkened and it began to rain.
Now as a huge Indy fan, I don't like to harp on too much about how frighteningly good the New England Patriots are this season. How when Brady steps onto the field he is Robocop meets the Six Million Dollar Man, his arm flinging the ball like that arm was made of steel and his receivers, or whoever catches the ball, are magnetic. The ball soars directly into their guts, all they have to do is wrap their hands around it. Frightening. And it makes me sick when I hear certain analysts, mainly Canadians, say the Patriots should have stopped scoring, let up on poor ol' Buffalo. Jesus, what professional football player or coach in their right mind would say, okay guys, I think we've scored enough points, lets drop a few balls, throw a few interceptions, put the Gatorade boy in as QB. If Buffalo were up 56-10, would they quit doing well, just so New England could feel a little better?
In a Brooklyn hair salon last week, I flipped through gossip magazines while my sister had her hair flat-ironed. I filled her and the hairdresser in on all the latest gossip. Heath Ledger left Michelle Williams for ex-supermodel Helena Christianson. No! they said. Oh yes, I said. And other sundry shite. Then I said, Oh no! Tom Brady was spotted arguing with his supermodel girlfriend Gisele Bundchen in a Boston Starbucks. In unison, Lily and the hairdresser said, Whose Tom Brady?! I was shocked! The quarterback for the New England Patriots, I said. Oh, they said and asked if Brad Pitt's really leaving Angela Jolie. I shook my head and continued to read about how poor Brady's struggling to keep his high-maintenance supermodel girlfriend happy while longing to be with his son who lives in L.A. with his ex, actress Bridget Moynahan. Most men would be wrecked by such a tumultuous personal life; the kid, the ex, the supermodel girlfriend who dumped her Victoria's Secret contract to spend more time with her best-quarter-back-ever-in-the-history-of-the- NFL boyfriend (so say the experts), but not Tom Brady. He wraps up every minute detail of his troubled personal life and he packs it into that silver and blue uniform each week and he goes out there and he whips it and whips it and whips it into the end zone, time after time after time and he doesn't stop until the game's over and he trudges off the field like the warrior he is, goes back to his personal life and fuels up for the next game. I closed the magazine and nodded my head - so that's how the bastard does it, get all messed up with a couple of dames, get all amped-up over it then let that frustration out on the football field and rock the NFL's world - very clever.
My mother's tender voice shook me from my reverie. "How's Peyton doing?" she asked. "Okay," I said. "They've lost a couple of key players." When I looked back into the rear view mirror, I slowly felt the Brady Trail disappearing like the Buffalo skyline as it was swallowed by clouds.
Now as a huge Indy fan, I don't like to harp on too much about how frighteningly good the New England Patriots are this season. How when Brady steps onto the field he is Robocop meets the Six Million Dollar Man, his arm flinging the ball like that arm was made of steel and his receivers, or whoever catches the ball, are magnetic. The ball soars directly into their guts, all they have to do is wrap their hands around it. Frightening. And it makes me sick when I hear certain analysts, mainly Canadians, say the Patriots should have stopped scoring, let up on poor ol' Buffalo. Jesus, what professional football player or coach in their right mind would say, okay guys, I think we've scored enough points, lets drop a few balls, throw a few interceptions, put the Gatorade boy in as QB. If Buffalo were up 56-10, would they quit doing well, just so New England could feel a little better?
In a Brooklyn hair salon last week, I flipped through gossip magazines while my sister had her hair flat-ironed. I filled her and the hairdresser in on all the latest gossip. Heath Ledger left Michelle Williams for ex-supermodel Helena Christianson. No! they said. Oh yes, I said. And other sundry shite. Then I said, Oh no! Tom Brady was spotted arguing with his supermodel girlfriend Gisele Bundchen in a Boston Starbucks. In unison, Lily and the hairdresser said, Whose Tom Brady?! I was shocked! The quarterback for the New England Patriots, I said. Oh, they said and asked if Brad Pitt's really leaving Angela Jolie. I shook my head and continued to read about how poor Brady's struggling to keep his high-maintenance supermodel girlfriend happy while longing to be with his son who lives in L.A. with his ex, actress Bridget Moynahan. Most men would be wrecked by such a tumultuous personal life; the kid, the ex, the supermodel girlfriend who dumped her Victoria's Secret contract to spend more time with her best-quarter-back-ever-in-the-history-of-the- NFL boyfriend (so say the experts), but not Tom Brady. He wraps up every minute detail of his troubled personal life and he packs it into that silver and blue uniform each week and he goes out there and he whips it and whips it and whips it into the end zone, time after time after time and he doesn't stop until the game's over and he trudges off the field like the warrior he is, goes back to his personal life and fuels up for the next game. I closed the magazine and nodded my head - so that's how the bastard does it, get all messed up with a couple of dames, get all amped-up over it then let that frustration out on the football field and rock the NFL's world - very clever.
My mother's tender voice shook me from my reverie. "How's Peyton doing?" she asked. "Okay," I said. "They've lost a couple of key players." When I looked back into the rear view mirror, I slowly felt the Brady Trail disappearing like the Buffalo skyline as it was swallowed by clouds.
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