"I came in like a lamb. But I intend to leave like a lion..." - Sade, Bullet Proof Soul

And how fucking sweet it is. After 17 long years of wandering in the wilderness of championship draught, New York is back at the top of the pigskin heap. Baseball remains my first love, but I can't front like I wasn't yelling from the top of my lungs and running around my living room as if the spirit of Jeff Hostetler was hovering over U. of Phoenix Stadium. On a personal note (the team used to be one of my corporate accounts), I was so proud to see the classy tributes to both Wellington Mara & Robert Tisch. The first time in a long time that the tagline "don't believe the hype" need not apply. I'm still trying to decide which will rank highest on my highlight reel for Super Bowl XLII. Among them will be:

• The bat mitzvah of Eli Manning to a global audience.
• All-American whiner Tom Brady eating Astroturf. Five times.
• Junior Seau coming out of retirement only to remain ringless.
• David Tyree's catch on 3rd and 5 from the 44. Holy. fucking. shit.
• Plaxico Burress proving that unlike Randy Moss, he can unequivocally put his money where his mouth is.
• Gratuitous shots of Osi Umenyiora. (Operation: Selita Ebanks Must Disappear is in full swing.)
• Defecating on the prospect of 19-0 in the most heartbreaking of ways.

Stomaching 2 Red Sox World Series wins, a sickening stranglehold the Patriots had on the league and the resurgence of the Celtics was the equivalent of Chinese water torture. There's no hatred like New England hatred and their deal with the devil for prolonged multisport dominance was driving me batshit crazy.

But thankfully the balance of power has shifted (if only for a fleeting moment) back in its rightful order. Celebration in the Big Apple, desperation in Beantown. Knowing that whenever Massholes reminisce on what could've been in the days, weeks and months ahead, they'll always know that perfection was derailed at the hands of the evil underdogs from Gotham. Little tidbits like that just perk my nipples up at full salute. Payback's a bitch I'd like to have a drink with.

P.S. Feel free to go fuck yourself, Tiki Barber.

Labels: football, New York Giants, playoffs, Super Bowl

Being a Big Apple sports fan has been tough this past year. The Yankees suffered another disappointing exit in the postseason, the Mets crashed and burned before even making it there and the Knicks aren't worth bringing into the discussion. But just in time to swing a wrecking ball square in the hopes of fantasy football fans, the New York Giants are headed to the Super Bowl. It's hard to decide what's sweeter: putting an end to the never ending blowjob given season long to Brett Favre courtesy of the media or having the chance to derail perfection in New England. Talking heads kept picking against them, but if they only heeded the advice of Zamunda's royalty — the end result wouldn't have been a surprise to the odds makers. Onward to Phoenix!

Labels: football, New York Giants, playoffs, Super Bowl

And so begins a long winter of discontent. While not as gut wrenching as last year's implosion in slow motion, it's every bit as disappointing. In a season where so many unsung journeymen became household names because of their surprising and gritty efforts, to go out this way in California just feels so empty. The winds of uncertainty is sure to blow more than a few familiar faces out of the Bronx. Did Bernie Williams really play his last game in front of the Yankee faithful? Joe Torre isn't quite the steady bet anymore in his tenure. Has his grace period met its end? Mel Stottlemyre could be eying a scenery change over in Seattle. Brian Cashman's contract expires (almost appropriately enough) on Oct. 31. Who's going? Who's staying? The reshuffling of power players eerily mirror question marks of the next roster unveiling on Opening Day '06.

As enemies of all things pinstripes rejoice, I have no choice but to find solace in multiple bottles of Absolut to numb the sting after leaving a dent in my flat screen from hurling my fuzzy slippers in frustration. At the end of the day, yes it's still just a game. But for the casual fan, it's hard to fully understand what it's like to ride and die with one team. Hurts like a motherfucker. The countdown to hope budding eternal at Legends Field begins now.

Labels: baseball, New York Yankees, playoffs