THE SUPER-EST OF SUNDAYS

I woke up Monday morning at 5 AM wondering if it had all been a dream. The Giants won the Super Bowl? The Giants? C’mon, let’s be real.

It was around age seven that I first began gathering around the TV set with my father and brothers in suburban New Jersey to observe the Sunday afternoon ritual of NFL football, which means I’ve been a Giants fan for roughly 45 years. Make that long-suffering fan because other than two championship seasons (which were religious experiences), watching the Giants has pretty much been a prolonged roller coaster ride of agony and ecstasy, with a whole lot more of the former than the latter. Few teams have matched the Giants’ ability to tease and torture their fans.

Going into this Super Bowl, I was just hoping for a close game so I wouldn’t have to bail out before halftime like in 2001, when the Giants resembled Team Custer, getting obliterated 34-7 by the Baltimore Ravens. The Boys in Blue had already overachieved this year with 3 straight road wins in the playoffs, including two incredible victories over Dallas and Green Bay, the kind of down-to-the-wire games they usually manage to lose. Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory has been a Giants’ specialty. So I was just happy to be here, free of expectations and pressure and while I was hoping they'd win, I didn’t really think they would. Given the Patriots 18-0 run through the league, I was praying that God took the Giants and bet the under.

I split watching the game at two different houses. The first half was with a friend who originally hails from New England, but is not one of those obnoxious “how do you like them (fill in a winning Boston team)” types. She invited a fairly mellow crowd, the kind who were as interested in the commercials as the game itself. I, on the other hand, had my game face on and could have cared less about meaningless distractions like the Budweiser Clydesdales, who are basically fat horses with hairy legs that haul beer.

For the second half, I headed over to join my friend, Frank, who grew up just a few towns over from me. We have bonded and commiserated over many a Giants and Yankees game and in fact, he was at my house back in 1990, when the Giants beat the Bills in Super Bowl XXV, one of the all-time great games. Frank had bought a new big screen HDTV on Saturday and was breaking it in for the big game. He and I could both appreciate the magnitude of the Giants possibly upsetting the Patriots, while also being aware of the potential for devastating disappointment.

Rather than analyze the entire contest, which has been done in exacting detail in newspapers, on radio and TV shows and over the web, here are a few moments that stand out in my mind.

The Giants own the ball for the first ten minutes of the game and then, settle for a field goal. Talk about modus operandi, this is just another chapter in the continuing saga of can’t get it up in the Red Zone. Three points is better than none, but ten minutes of foreplay and all we get is a field goal? Put some Viagra in the damn Gatorade!

Once the Patriots get the ball, there’s immediate good news. The Giants are putting the hurt on Tom Brady almost every time he goes back to pass. Mr. MVP looks like a guy who after getting punched in the mouth, suddenly realizes he’s in a fight. And then he gets popped again and he’s thinking, “who are these guys?”

When Eli Manning throws an interception in (where else?) the Red Zone, all the images of his past failures come back. This was a guy who until a month ago, had been a classic underachiever, someone whose numerous mistakes and misplays over the years, have taught my children to chant, “Manning’s a bum!” Was the old Eli coming back at just the wrong time?

The Giants get called for having 12 men on the field? What is this, Pop Warner football? And the TV cameras show the guilty guy standing on the sidelines looking as surprised as everyone else. Figures Bill Belichick spotted it, probably has one of his secret cameras hidden in the ref’s hat. More on The Grinch Who Stole Signals later.

Back to Eli, as he scrambles out of the pocket and overthrows a wide-open Burress, I have this sickening feeling that this will be the moment we all look back on with a “woulda, coulda, shoulda!” We do not take this as a good omen.

Ignoring the Randy Moss TD, where the Giant’s defender trips over his own feet (cue expletives hurled at the screen), let’s move to the final drive. At first, Manning looks tentative on his passes, throwing off his back foot and almost getting intercepted twice. Then, after picking up a clutch first down on fourth and one, Eli goes back to pass, looks like he’s in the grasp and about to get sacked and suddenly, he’s free and looking downfield! Whoa, am I really seeing this?

He heaves a pass across the middle and David Tyree, the reserve receiver who had only four receptions all season, goes up and makes the greatest catch in Super Bowl history. One handed, traps it on his helmet, fights off Rodney Harrison who’s trying to maim him and somehow, bending backwards, holds onto the ball behind his head while a couple of other Patriots try to tear him in half. At this moment, the game moves into a new realm of consciousness, where the Giants might actually be the team that pries victory from the jaws of defeat. Not seeing any penalty flags on the play and that Belichick hadn’t found a way to conjure up a phony replay, I can only describe the moment as surreal. The Giants actually have a chance to beat these guys!

The touchdown to Burress is beautiful in its simplicity, the right call at the right time. Nice to see the guy who’d had the balls to predict a victory get the winning TD. I nearly hit the ceiling the moment he cradles it in his arms and bear hug Frank, his two young daughters and even the dog and say good-bye to all those games that had gotten away. We are only 35 seconds away from winning the Super Bowl!

Of course, Tom Brady is not the guy you want to give a shot at mounting a last-minute comeback, so the thrill may be short-lived. But when Jay Alford comes storming up the middle and pile drives Brady into the turf, there is an explosion of energy like a tired fighter connecting with a “take that!” haymaker. Of course, my heart is in my stomach when Brady heaves a sixty-yard pass to a streaking Randy Moss, but this time, there is no dagger to the heart. Fourth down and one last Hail Mary, but no, not today, not this team, not now. UN-BE-LIEV-ABLE! WE WON!

Cut from an ecstatic Tom Coughlin, who’d somehow had a successful personality transplant during the off-season, to a despondent Belicheck, the most joyless figure in professional sports. Someone ought to send him to the same doctor who did Coughlin’s operation, except it’s going to take some radical surgery to add any zest to that sourpuss. Losing the Super Bowl and a chance at history couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. On a more positive note, seeing Manning hold the MVP trophy struck a blow for every athlete who has ever sought redemption. He was an unexpected hero, but a worthy one. Just ask his older brother.

This kind of unlikely victory, an upset for the ages, is exactly why we watch sports, why we go to games and spend countless hours in front of the TV absorbing all the highs and lows and in-betweens. We do this because no matter what the odds, you never ever know what can happen and on any given day, even our wildest fantasies can come true. The Giants won the Super Bowl! What a ride!

If I'm still dreaming, please don't wake me. Now, bring on the Red Sox.