The truth is the game is rigged: Some team always wins the Super Bowl, movies about Black Sunday not withstanding. Someone will get the glory, whether they know it or not yet. So, do you feel luck, punk? Well do you?
Prepare yourself. It's your quest and your saga. The fun begins now.
Yes, after last night's exciting episode, many would rather jump into their time machines and return to 1985, just go watch some movie and see some younger and better-looking Mel Gibson and Tina Turner at time when no one knew what the heck Al Qaeda was. Michael J. Fox wasn't shaking from Parkinson's back then. If only we had Doc Brown's keys to the Delorean. Maybe we wouldn't be shaking now either. But we can't find them, and many are rattled. Let's forget 1985. Tommy Kramer and Greg Coleman finished 7-9. Whom would you rather have Buster Rhymes or Percy Harvin? There's no turning back.
Will Brett Favre prevail? Will AD learn sometimes it is really better not to take on three guys and just pick up the first down? (Remember, God created time so everything would not happen all at once.) In the future, will the footballs all be frozen? Will the restaurants all be Taco Bells? Yes folks, for the want of an extra point, we could all be living in some alternate reality where life is happy all the time with extra virgins on hand for everyone. But no, here come the playoffs, ready or not.
We now enter the part of our drama where it comes down to this: two men enter, one man leaves. The apocalyptic world is a dangerous place. (Most of us still don't know what Al Qaeda is or even where Osama is hanging out.) It all comes down to whatever this playoff thing will be. Que sera sera.
This is what football is all about. It is life-like. Eventually, everyone's winning streak of waking up in the morning comes to the end. This is not a drill. We reach overtime and it's come down to sudden death. The campaign promises of immortality and perfection are just hype. We reach the playoffs, where two teams enter, one team leaves. That's something that can grab your attention, because that is the kind of situations we find all over the real world, like them or not.
So here they are, your Minnesota Vikings. Are they going to die without so much as a new stadium to use as their mausoleum? Will they triumph after the next commercial break? They've got Brett, who has shown that at 40 he still can stage a come back, even when it's freezing. They've got AD, who may not be the Incredible Hulk, but is certainly scary enough to keep people bunched up at the line of scimmage and out of pass coverage. Will the walking wounded recover in time? Will two former Buffalo Bills, Phat Phat and Toine (who lost to the Titans in the Music City Miracle disaster film a decade ago) ever see another Super Bowl? Stay tuned.
Yes, it's like a horror flick. Why do we go in that room, knowing the guy with the saw or the hockey mask is waiting in there?
It's the only game in town.
It's not like the Saints have ascended to heaven. The Giants look a tad puny for a group with such a big moniker. The Colts know it is not about perfection; it's about a war of attrition. What you did yesterday means nothing. You are only as good as your next post-game interview. Remember all the 19-0 ready-made Patriots shirts all being donated to charity two years ago?
Put on your jerseys, your hats, and strap on your Viking horn ringtones. The players are going to have to say something in that locker room when it is all over, and it might as well be something good. Bring your A game. No sense in having those other idiots hog the microphone while swilling champaign, lying through their teeth that they knew it would happen for them all along.
So what will everyone say in the final post-game show? Will anything be learned from it?
Just this: two teams enter, one team leaves. Are you ready for some football? We who are about to die salute you.