Super Bowl Sunday

Fuck HULU.

Settling in for some nachos and coke zero late last night I fired up HULU to catch Thursday’s 30 Rock. This was the worst decision I have made in my young life. “SUPERBOWL XLIII HIGHLIGHTS” the front page screamed. Fuck me. I’ll never know why but I clicked the link, watched the shitty Toyota advertisement, and let the sad times roll. I hadn’t allowed myself to watch a replay since that fateful day in February, unless you count Madden’s egregious welcome screen this year. That restraint finds painful justification now in hindsight. Aside from some outstanding narration by Jeff Goldblum, inside shots of Coach Whiz speaking to the boys, and a rather strong right cross of nostalgia from Antonio Smith the experience was utter decimation.

A 23-minute replay had effectively brought me back in time one year. The sickness, lying dormant somewhere near my pancreas for the last 12 months, returned with violent effect (full disclose: could’ve been the nachos). It wasn’t just Santonio Holmes reaping the rewards of his deal with the devil, or even Aaron Francisco thinking he was a sumo wrestler for a play. IT WAS MOTHERFUCKING ANTREL ROLLE STANDING ILLEGAALY ON THE SIDELINE BLOCKING FITZ FROM TACKLING FUCKKNG JAMES HARRISON!!!!!!! (sorry Gould). Actually Sorry Trel, I love you, you know that, I didn’t mean it.

Today brings the next Superbowl, and maybe, hopefully, some closure. Though, it is now, as mock drafts spring up across the country, and my roommate busies himself in the kitchen preparing his mother’s famous shrimp dip that I find myself not so much relieved, but thoroughly confused. We are repeat division champs; apparently that means two in a row. Never before have I been in a situation like this, it’s entirely overwhelming. Can I ever be happy again with just making the playoffs? Has the proverbial bar really been raised beyond my capacity for enjoyment? I don’t know the answers to these questions. Sometimes, late at night, alone, I secretly dream that we were all back in Sun Devil Stadium scalding our hamstrings on volcanic metal bleachers and trying to perfect throwing beer cups onto cowboys fans below. It was all so simple back then.

Like the great bird that lends its name to our capital city we must rise out of the ashes of a depleted defensive backfield, a still sub-par offensive line, and an essentially rookie quarterback. Fuck me again. It’s not that I don’t believe in Matt, I do, I always have, it’s just that I don’t know if he’s ready to achieve what we demand of him. And fuck me for making a hackneyed allusion to a Phoenix rising out of the ashes.

Cody Brown, Will Davis step the fuck up.

34 – 24 Colts

- Jason Wright this Marcell Shipp