Tragic Hero XLII

Before I begin this post, I am required to suggest that you read this amazing piece of journalism (by our favorite Bill) by law. If you do read it, hopefully you won't care that the following blog sounds a little familiar:

The irony is incredible.

The undefeated Patriots, heading into Superbowl XLII as the de facto champions, fall to the 10-6 Giants, led by the quiet kid next door. As the coaches and players of both teams insist in post-game interviews, "it's a story that can't be scripted."

But, in truth, Superbowl XLII was scripted. Actually, we all read this story long before Eli Manning's Miracle Play To Be Named Later. The historic game from Arizona was in our school books, our copies of Julius Caesar, The Great Gatsby, and Macbeth. As the final ticks wound down and Brady heaved his last prayer to a double-covered Moss, us football fans mystically experienced vivid flashbacks like the newest character in Lost.

Spygate, Randy's catch against Miami, The Boot, The Record Setter in week 17, Gisele, Belichick wearing a Santa hat, a pregnant Bridget Moynahan, Brady laughing at Plaxico's prediction, a Spanish reporeter in wedding dress, Asante Samuel holding out, the '72 Dolphins not uncorking the champagne, Bart Scott hurling the yellow flag, No. 12 headbutting his O-linemen, Junior Seau and his paperboy hat, and above all, Tom's All-American smile.

Actually, it was always more of a smirk, that perfect 5 o'clock shadow surrounding those pearly whites.

Two minutes after Randy seemingly sealed the game by supermanning dat ho (followed by Seau and Tedy Bruschi hugging like the Bash Brothers from Mighty Ducks), Eli and David Tyree* did the impossible and Plaxico followed his easy touchdown by humbly kneeling in prayer. Tom walked into the tunnel with blue and red confetti falling on his stained (!!!) jersey, knowing it was the other team's colors.

But then that final, lasting image emerges as we gazed at the plasma screen: the euphoric Eli hoisting up that trophy, his babyface still squeezed in between his pads. Tom Coughlin and his prune fingers stand in awe at his side. We asked ourselves hesitantly, "did that just happen?"



Down goes the hero.

Yes, we were confused, but for some reason, not that surprised. We all expected a close game, assuming New England had the higher score, of course. Football fans and haters alike knew the Patriots like the school jock you talked to once in Math class, yet secretly revered. Though, we never counted the Giants out not because they had a talented pass rush or solid running game, but because we knew it couldn't be that easy for the tragic hero. His downfall was bound to happen sometime; it just turns out that it was a lot worse than we expected.

Throughout the entire season, the hero's hamartia grew until it was impossible to ignore, but still we were too afraid to admit that tragic end. Hubris was leaking when Tom was socializing with Donald Trump and Co. on the sidelines (still masked in his Stetson cologne), when Randy clarified that he was a good boy all year, when Belichick began to...smile? Through a one minute TMZ video of absolutely nothing, just about every American flipped after noticing that Tom enjoyed limping around in a boot in the Village.

And despite the Patriots' infatuation with winning (confidence?), we rarely faulted them. They ran up scores and passed 200% of the time, but we reasoned "they're just that good" and "they're trying to prove something."

That "something" referring to their only embarrassment of the season, which provided a convenient motive in the first week. Spygate, in essence, was the ultimate sin in sports: cheating. Still, we allowed the Patriots continue to chase perfection, suspiciously edging a few games in the process, just because "they were that damn good." And in sports, "that damn good" automatically translates into more commercials, more magazine covers, and more 4 AM Manhattan nightclubs. Soon enough, their celebrity breached outside the field in the same way Obama was campaigning in front of Kanye's beats. (See: previous post).

And if you didn't love the Patriots, you loved to hate them. But no matter what, we all felt something.

They trampled over the Jaguars and Chargers as we expected, sort of, and just moved on to the Superbowl. I began writing my "Tom Brady, retire now while you're great" post in my head and Bill Simmons planned out his intro paragraph to his reflection on the perfect season. Tom practiced his "I'm going to Disneyworld!" speech and Bostonians started to chant "19-0!"

Then 48 hours before kickoff, some dude named Matt Walsh accused the Patriots of filming the Rams before Superbowl XXXVI (a.k.a. cheating) and all signs pointed to yes (sorry Tony). Suddenly, that lovely upset victory back in 2002, which basically ignited the dynasty, transformed into the nasty prequel to Spygate, on steroids. With the accusation looming and Roger Goodell destroying tapes, the Patriots soon realized they were no longer the inspiring band of brothers that once embodied class and humility. As a devoted Bostonian, Simmons wrote,

"This time around, we were the Rams. We were rooting for the unlikable double-digit favorites with an unstoppable offense. We were the arrogant fans who dismissed the chances of the other team. We had the Super Bowl postgame party looming that had been a hot ticket all week. Then the game started, and everything went right to hell."

Ah, the poetic justice started to kick in. It was the classic reversal of fortune, when Macbeth realized that even the kingship did not guarantee trust. This was getting scary.

Paula Abdul frightened, Jordin Sparks sang, and Joe Buck screwed up again. The game started. The Giants held on to the ball...for a very long time, keeping a bored Tom sleeping on the bench. But Laurence Maroney pranced into the end zone and the onslaught was about to be begin.

Except it never came.

And this is about when the confusion began to sink in. Yes, the Patriots were winning but they didn't have it, y'know, that "it." The "it" that defined the entire season when Brady and Moss played catch and Belichick grinned underneath the hoodie. Fans were confused when the score lulled at a dismal 7-3 for...the...entire...damn...game. I mean, this was the team that average 542.39 points a game, right? The team that played the deep ball on 1st and 10 like you do on 4th and 30 in Madden? And they were running the ball? What is this?! A West Coast offense?!

Nope. This, my friends, was the tragic hero falling...hard. Or as Tom Petty so fittingly sung at half-time, this was the hero "free falling."

It was sort of sad, actually. Seeing Tom wrangled by the massive Justin Tuck, Randy constantly being overthrown, and Bruschi not looking so macho was all so disgusting in that unfamiliar way. Our guts turned the same way it did when we learned that Jay Gatsby never got Daisy and when Othello wrongfully murdered Desdemona. My ecstasy after Eli and Tyree executed Miracle Play To Be Named Later almost felt sadistic, as I shouted profanities when New England virtually perished on the national stage. Immediately after the game ended, I ran into a neighbor's room in celebration, only to find a friend from Boston legitimately crying. We were witnessing the Patriots fall from a peak as high as any team in modern American sports to a valley lower than Pacman Jones, Roger Clemens, and the Knicks combined. This was a victory speech turned into an assassination.

I ran onto the streets chanting "ELI! ELI! ELI!" I joined other drunken Giants fans and we all chanted "Let's go Giants!" (much to the dismay of the NYPD). This routine of chants continued through most of the night until I began hearing a newer chant ringing through Bleecker St at around midnight:

"18-1! 18-1! 18-1!"

In a way, this new slogan symbolized the future legacy of this momentous Superbowl. The Giants came into the Superbowl with nothing really to lose and everything to win. The Patriots, on the other hand, had built a much different scenario. I'm sure Bleecker and MacDougal still would've been rocking had New England won, but that wasn't the case. So, as the night ended and I heard this new chant, I stared at the television above the bar and saw that image of a dejected Tom sitting down on the field after another sack. He was down. The Patriots were down. But I joined in on the chant, "18-1!" knowing that, sadly, this Superbowl was not and never will be a Giants victory.

One defining image is still ingrained in my head: As Tyree came down with the "supernatural" catch while being awfully manhandled, the 230-pound Rodney Harrison looked down at the Giants receiver in complete disbelief. There was no requisite flail-arms-and-yell-like-Spartan moment, but instead a dazed Harrison, looking down, completely clueless. Anagnorisis - the discovery or recognition of the tragic flaw. And they said this couldn't be scripted.

Alas, the final and most poignant quality of the tragic hero, as defined by Aristotle: "The audience must feel dramatic irony for the character."

So, Superbowl XLII will be undoubtedly one for the ages, not because New York won, but because the New England fell at perfection's feet. With the historic loss, the Patriots ensured that that tragedy does indeed make history. Ironic enough?

-K.H.

*Good and irrelevant story: A friend of mine was actually in the same public fantasy league as Tyree's mother, who actually passed away during the season. Apparently, she wouldn't stop bragging about her son and insisted on drafting him in the early rounds. Guess she would be proud now, huh?