I haven’t blogged about football much this year, probably because my beloved Patriots haven’t moved me to the emotional highs that they have in years past. Or the emotional lows; I wasn’t phased when the Patriots lost games this season, because losing was entirely within my realm of expectations, whereas in previous seasons, I was so convinced of their supremacy that any demonstration of the contrary simply crushed my whole system of faith. The acceptance that Tom Brady is not so God-like without a good defense and that Bill Belichick is not an evil genius had been gradual, buffered somewhat by the 2008 season in which Matt Cassel took over as quarterback for an injured Brady.
But despite the Patriot’s dismal playoff performance, I have still enjoyed the post season thus far. The two NFL teams that I despise the most played each other, prompting intense soul-searching during which I realized that I hate the Jets a little bit more than I hate the Colts. Because New England’s rivalry with Indianapolis has always been gentlemanly: fierce opponents, but with respect for each other’s abilities and unspoken gratitude for the excellent match-up. But the Jets are a fundamentally inferior team of whining tattle tales with a crass fair-weathered fan base who would rather party in the concessions area than watch their team play football. Even if the Jets had a perfect record, they would still be LOSERS.
So I found myself cheering for Peyton Manning and the Colts for three uncomfortable hours. And I can’t say I love the Saints, who roundly trounced the Patriots with gloating pridefulness earlier this season. But when I found myself contemplating a Colts-Saints Superbowl match-up, there was only a tiny bit of hesitancy before throwing my insignificant mental support behind the Saints. Strangely, there is no real underdog this year, although the Saints probably qualify as such by virtue of their playoff inexperience.
Honestly, I don’t care who wins as long it’s not the Jets. God, I hate the Jets.
