Beer and football IX — playoffs, week five
Super Bowl LIII
Part 1 of 1: Get out there, old man
The game: Patriots vs. Rams
The beer: Epic Big Bad Baptist Imperial Stout
The result: Win, 13–3
The commentary: Is this Super Bowl LIII recap, seven months after the fact, to be of the XLIX variety and feature a handful of Peter King-esque you-say-there-was-a-game observations? Or will it get the (essentially) minute-by-minute reconstruction of LI, rewatched and paused and rewound to absurdity? Your New England Patriots deserve no less than either, especially considering that the former would surely be broken into two parts, one of which would explore the author's self-important appreciation of, I don't know, Thee Oh Sees' "Henchlock." Or not?
XLIX and LI benefitted from multiple viewings and I can't say the same for LIII—complacency is one thing but low-scoring defensive battles are another. Since it aired I watched it once—last weekend, mainly out of obligation, largely jumping between plays and excluding all commercials ("NFL 100" aside) and halftime nonsense (controversy is in because it is newly unacceptable for men but not women to walk around shirtless). I got less out of it the second time since, like the re-remake of Murder on the Orient Express, it doesn't hold up well without the suspense. Maybe I'm missing something? Let's check in with our basement-dwelling friends at Pats Pulpit before I abandon for good their rose-colored analysis. In February they "re-rerank[ed] the rings" based on "impact, importance and significance," because we're talking life and death here:
1. XXXVI, Rams (I), 2002
2. LI, Falcons, 2017
3. XLIX, Seahawks, 2015
4. LIII, Rams (II), 2019
5. XXXIX, Eagles, 2005
6. XXXVIII, Panthers, 2004
And my response:
1. XXXVI, Rams (I), 2002
2. XLIX, Seahawks, 2015
3. LI, Falcons, 2017
4. XXXVIII, Panthers, 2004
5. XXXIX, Eagles, 2005
6. LIII, Rams (II), 2019
We agree that nothing tops your first love (win) and who knows what happens later on without her (it). XXXVI made possible everything to come since. Young people—goddamn millennials—will forever take this for granted and declare LI to be the best and they can fuck right off. It was great—well, half great—and the most epic single-game comeback in sports history, forever to remind viewers of future games in which a team is down twenty-five points (just like the most epic series comeback in sports history will stir the Red Sox over the Yankees in 2004). For that reason—and the hours of labor I put into the diary—I'll knock it down only one and replace it with the fantastic entire XLIX against the Seahawks, capped off with Malcolm Butler's heroics and Pete Carroll's snafu. Ending a ten-year drought wasn't too shabby either as the win reestablished the team's dominance, removed the consecutive-loss burden and (though we didn't know it) kicked off another dynasty. Partisans—miserable Jets fans, miserable Steelers fans—and nonpartisans—blasé Chargers fans, as in all of them—must agree this was an ace football game.
LI barely beats out XXXVIII, a number that single-handedly broke the Roman numeral system. That game kind of had it all: great defense, periods of exceptional offense, special-teams gaffes and another game-winning kick. Plus a female nipple this time! Hell is getting hot. Amy and I moved into our Cambridge apartment that afternoon and secured cable, pizza and hard cider (!) in advance of the win so it's a nice overall memory that might nudge this one higher than it deserves, but I don't think so. It was an exciting achievement and demonstrated legitimacy as a champion that did more than out-scheme a potent offense one time in fluky fashion. If I were weak then XXXVIII and LI would be tied. Instead I am a man.
XXXIX and LIII are kind of interchangeable, which is such a spoiled attitude that I can barely stand myself. The Eagles game kind of sucked and was never really in doubt, and even though it featured the best overall Brady/Belichick team and the win cemented them as a dynasty/team of the decade, more people probably remember it for Donovan McNabb throwing up. They should. That's a bad look for anyone.
And LIII? What can I say? Last year's Patriots, relatively, were not very good. They got hot at the right time and suddenly played top-notch defense for the first time in fourteen years. (Hmm, sounds like… the Giants. Twice. As if XLII shouldn't top all lists.) But one would need a specific, convincing reason to keep this from the bottom. What say you, Pats Pulpit-man? "I just can't do it." Marvelous insight. Have your mom call a mold specialist.
While we're ranking shit, let's tackle—har! har!—the top six lines from that glorious "NFL 100" commercial, which I hope will be in heavy rotation all season long. Shame on us if it's forgotten.
1. Joe Montana: "No can do, Cowboy."
2. Emmitt Smith: "Y'all know I have more yards than he do."
3. Dick Butkus: "Not the cake!"
4. Roger Goodell: "It's about the players, the fans…" [responsorial booing inferred]
5. Peyton Manning: "Yeah, that hurt."
6. Tom Brady: "Hold these."
I'm impartial like the ocean. Let's zip through some actual gametime observations, noting first that the Rams' uniforms are twelve to thirteen times better than the Pats':
On to football: Stop forcing it to Hogan. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
Patterson was frustrating to watch, always one step forward and two back. I won't miss him and, from the no talk whatsoever about how the team will replace his "production," I doubt anyone else will. Best of luck when the overrated Bears win seven games and cut him next offseason. [Note: I wrote this last sentence on Tuesday.]
How was Goff's end-zone throwaway not a safety? Didn't Brady do the same thing against the (shudder) Giants the (shudder) second time? Jim Nance: "From the end zone, in trouble… heaves! It did not get back anywhere close to anyone, not even to the line of scrimmage." Gurley was a good six or seven yards away from where the ball landed. Shenanigans!
Gronk making Gronk plays from ten minutes left in the fourth quarter. Rams fans: "Shenanigans!" Patriots fans, who made it a home game: "Brady! Brady!" Romo and Nance: "What's that chant, 'Brady'?" "Sounds like it to me." Indeed. Gronk's huge catch in borderline-triple coverage leads to the first red-zone play of the game for either team, which explains six total points through fifty-seven minutes.
Michel runs it in from the two. That looked awfully easy for the game's only touchdown. The PAT makes it 10–3 with seven to go.
The Rams snap out of it on the ensuing drive and threaten to score before Gilmore and Harmon call bullshit on that. Gilmore was a little feely and got away with the first breakup against my man Brandin Cooks, who should have caught it anyway despite Harmon also being in the mix. They go back to Cooks on the next play and it's Harmon (pressure) and Gilmore (interception) again. Kraft, suffering from orgasm blindness, whiffs badly when high-fiving his sons in the booth.
Big runs by Michel and Burkhead—with yours truly shouting "Hold onto it!"—essentially seal the game before penalty drama brings everything to a halt. Romo is convinced that the Rams should decline both calls but isn't making sense. Amateur lip-readers agree with Belichick's "What the fuck's going on??" as the refs don't seem to know either. Nance keeps trying to get Romo to clarify his position, even after play resumes, but that was messy all over. Regardless, the Rams agree with him and second down brings us to the two-minute warning. I guess I should have done the time-stamp thing after all.
Third down, and Michel fails to pick up the first. Fourth and inches. The Rams are out of timeouts and the Pats run the play clock down before calling their own. Brady moseys to the sideline like someone walking to the corner store for milk even though he already has some in the fridge. Just in case, you know? To Belichick and McDaniels: "We're gonna kick it, right?" Belichick: "Ummmm…" Pats fans everywhere: "Ummmm…" Brady rolls his eyes but he has to admit that it's been a tough handful of playoff performances for Gostkowski, who missed one earlier.
The kick is up! [Holds breath.] And… [Panics.] It's good! [Exhales.] By about six inches! [Grimaces.] Kraft had to pull up his pants before standing to applaud.
A minute and change for the wide-awake Rams. Big gains to Woods, Cooks and Cooks again make things
Super Bowl kneel-downs are nice and 13–3 is the final. Apologies, everyone else, but I'd kill for a goddamn blowout win one of these times.
Postgame: This media scrum around Brady is intense. "Jesus, are you OK??" Live television rules but sometimes it needs to chill the fuck out. Leave the coverage to Skycam next time and then Tracy Wolfson will have plenty of room to begin interviews with rambling remarks that aren't actually questions. She must have been hanging out with Steve Burton earlier.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome two-time Super Bowl champion with the New England Patriots, Vince Wilfork!" Looking good in a VERSACE… T-shirt. He launches 2019's "Kiss this motherfucker!" trophy march before handing off to a white-gloved Emmitt Smith, who then gives it to a bewildered Joe Namath. Joe is very uncomfortable with all of these live-TV kissing requests and tries to ascend the stairs before allowing Hightower his turn. The man had two sacks!
Boos rain down on Goodell as he presents a sixth trophy—in nine chances over eighteen years—to Kraft. "Spirituality, faith and handjobs are the cornerstones of our country."
Brady's daughter steals the show with joy and wonder. Girls rule.
Julian Edelman: Platitude-Maker will be the never-released sequel to this year's unseen (by me, ever) 100%. Nance wisely keeps the interview short. Edelman may be a douchebag… no, I'm not going to say "but he's our douchebag." I generally don't like him as a person. But as a player on the field (though not necessarily a second or two after every whistle) he is one tough motherfucker who seems to get an extra yard or two every time (when a sensational bobbling catch isn't making people forget his dropsies—never mind). Offensive bias may have earned him the MVP over Gilmore but ten catches (eight converting first downs) for a hundred forty-one yards is hard to argue with. He trails only Jerry Rice in postseason receptions and yards—how does this happen when his last catch of the night came with the score tied at three and eight-plus minutes remaining? Brady/Belichick… expanded playoffs… weak AFC East… grit… I don't know, I'll take Welker. A sense of humor goes a long way.
Hightower (two sacks), Van Noy (one sack) and Gilmore (one interception) had people talking about the defense winning a collective MVP(s) award. Chung also played well until he broke his (non-coke?) arm. These guys were all on the team last year so who knows what the fuck happened in LII.
Other big-picture positives? Pash rush (four sacks, twelve hits, pressure all over), O-line performance (one sack, four hits), limited penalties, overall physicality (XXXVI-levels of bullying, typified by Jonathan Jones's fourth-quarter sideline hit on Goff) and punting. Punting! Exit Ryan Allen, another MVP candidate.
Later: Time to go home! Leaving early was a good idea and I'm looking forward to an uneventful train ride after– what's this on my phone? An MBTA service alert? "Commuter Rail carried an historic number of riders this morning & will continue to do so this afternoon. Please consider travelling later in the day to spread ridership. Queue lines are in place at North Station & Back Bay. Extra trains will con't to run." "An historic," ampersands in place of "and," British spelling of "travelling," "queue lines," nonsensically abbreviated "con't"… no wonder the system is lousy with signal problems. The T may not have learned their lesson after October's Red Sox parade fallout but I certainly did, ignoring instructions to get in this line for this train only and instead looking out for number one. Still, had the hated Bruins won in June (June! hockey in June!) then I surely would have worked from home on parade day because Bruins fans are the worst, even if I was one of them for a week or so in rooting for continued regional supremacy. Sports are weird.
The forthcoming—and seriously so, with the new season a day old—"Beer and football X" will lack a "Training camp/the all-important third preseason game" installment because camp, unfortunately, never did work out this Summer. It's the first G. and I have missed since I started taking her in 2013, not even two years old. Drag. I blame the Pats for scheduling their joint sessions in Detroit and Memphis right in the heart of the calendar, leaving few fair-weather, non-walkthrough weekdays to choose from. Constant refreshes of Patriots.com did not result in a new batch of dates, but rather: "Thank you for your interest in Patriots Training Camp presented by Optum. There are no remaining 2019 Training Camp practices open to the public." We'll see you next year, Optum. Up yours. In the meantime, a non-game-day field trip to Foxborough is in the cards to atone—G. only cares about a Red Robin balloon but I'm sure we'll also browse for 2020-sized skirts and tank tops at the pro shop and check out the Hall at Patriot Place Presented by Raytheon. I hate to line the pockets of Robert Kraft, proud supporter of degenerate presidents and the war- and sex-mongering arts, but we'll bring counterfeit bills and plenty of hand sanitizer.
Up next: Don't worry, they expanded the championship banner area at Gillette Stadium. Cheers!
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