Rodney Harrison is N0T going crazy about the gotdamn Superbowl, okay?!

Just in case you were wondering, Patriots BAMF Rodney Harrison is not haunted by that miraculous Manning-To-Tyree play (name still pending) of Superbowl XVII. Although Harrison was covering Tyree during his improbable catch, boston.com reports that the Patriots veteran has finally accepted "the catch" as "inexplicable."

"Not in a million years does he make that catch again," said Harrison. "I don't have any regrets on it. I saw the ball, went up for it, and did my best to grab it out. It goes on his head, so what can you say?"


This photo does not exist in Rodney Harrison's imagination.

It's almost four months past the Superbowl, and now Harrison finally accepts Tyree's catch as crazy? I know just about every New Yorker accepted the catch as crazy once they took another shot of Jack Daniels after thinking Eli was sacked. Trust me, I know...*sighs* gotdamnit Kenny.

But as well as I remember that play (which I don't), "the catch" was definitely inexplicable, something sent from the football gods to finally destroy the Patriots, including their ever-cocky safety. Unfortunately, some don't take losing so well and resort to profound existentialism:

"I think you have to understand that certain things happen that you just can't explain."

Sounds like somebody's got a case of the SUPERBOWL PWNG3! If only we could all just cheer him up with a BrianBillickesque kiss.

- K.H. (Took four months to get over that hangover)

To An Eli Dying Young

I don't really mean everything from this post. Of course, I want to see Eli under center next for the Big Blue. But anytime I can relate sports to quality literature, I'm on it. Enjoy:

A.E. Housman's poem "To an Athlete Dying Young" beautifully recounts the story of a heralded athlete who died while in his prime, after setting a championed record. Instead of mourning the young man's death, the poet congratulates him:

"Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After Earth has stopped the ears"

So yeah, the poem pretty much solidified my opinion on Vinny Testaverde (because we all have opinions on him, right?). I mean, I really am tired of all these old geezers - and in today's sport, being able to legally consume alcohol is now considered "old" - clawing to hold on to something they lost long before they were being considered future Hall of Famers.

Because how often do we see gifted, celebrated athletes slowly get sacked into obscurity? They fall deeper and deeper into the abyss known as "aging," trying to reach for the heyday they once enjoyed, without ever taking a look in the mirror. For some, the pinnacle of their careers may lie in Superbowl rings, and for others, in high school yearbooks. A sick knuckle ball or bulls-eye right arm earned the chance to be a man amongst children, to literally be hoisted on the shoulders of zealous disciples. Above politics and arts, sports is the best medium of immortalizing any man of any origin or age. Seriously, when your hair is gray and retirement is going great, you'll remember Joe American, the star quarterback, more than Tom Goody, the class president.

But like all things in this world, nothing lasts forever. Peaks ultimately peak and muscles eventually grow tired. And the man with the flashy slam dunks is now riding the pine of any team that can give him a chance, desperate to "go out with a bang." But unfortunately, time is never on an athlete's side. Disciples quickly convert and talented rookies immediately fill the void. Now, with two busted knees, a jersey with the wrong colors, and a paycheck worth as much as Lebron's new shoes, memories of the glory days are exactly that: memories. And instead of the bang, the lasting image frozen on ESPN is a wrinkled, old man shagging balls for the Mr. Now. I think it's what the kids today call a "has-been." But look on the bright side, he's a "great locker room presence!"


While it's good, Elisha, while it's good.

So, what does Eli Manning have to do with all of this?

Eli has the opportunity that only few before him have held. A Superbowl MVP, a historic upset, a play for the ages, and a jealous big brother. This is Jordan's buzzer beater against the Jazz, Bettis's unlikely championship in his hometown, and even Zidane's headbutt on the world's stage. Eli is on the plateau that has rarely been reached, just short of Jessica Alba's husband.

So, really, there is only down for Eli. He will never conduct an upset as significant and will never throw a pass as ridiculous. But he does have the chance to buy lasting real estate on this near-godly heaven. Here, he can forever enjoy the status above the endless other athletes who could no longer pay the mortgage. He can forever enjoy the company of buddy Tiki Barber and Barry Sanders, while looking down from the cliff and rightfully laughing at the Shaqs, the Testaverdes, the Karl Malones, the Craig Biggios, and yes, the Brett Favres (Yeah, I said it).

Housman also writes in his poem,

"So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup."

A Lombardi trophy and a key to immortality in hand, Eli has the choice to forever keep his smiling baby face glorified in the long-term memories of the world "before its echoes fade." Or he can be diagnosed too late and "die" too old. David Tyree can come too.

-K.H.

Thank You Elisha

Lawrence Tynes is clutch if you give him enough chances.

Living in the franchise-less LA my entire life, I've long had troubles finding "my team." I fell in love with football long after the Rams and Raiders left, so I had no ties with either club unlike many of my friends. In elementary school, I insisted on saying the Lions were my favorite team because I loved playing with Barry Sanders on my Sega Genesis. In early middle school, it was the Vikings because of Randy Moss on Sega Dreamcast. After I grew out of the video games I sucked at and started actually watching the game, I stumbled across the NFL's latest sensation who was to be my hero for a few years: Ricky Williams. I swear I would live and die for the Dolphins, then...y'know, that happened. So, my cousin moved to Seattle and I arbitrarily chose Marcus Trufant as my favorite player. I became a devoted fan of the Seahawks and backed them until they lost to the Steelers in Superbowl XL, when I decided they had become too mainstream for me.
See, I have this weird affinity for losing, blue collar teams that are perpetually supposed to be "next year's team" but always find a way to disappoint (See: Celtics of recent history). So, for the past few years, the title of "my favorite team" has continuously flirted with different franchises like Paris Hilton trying to find "the one." The Browns, Bills, Lions, and yes, even the Patriots (because they've been so terrible lately) have all been the team.

I came to New York last year thinking I would become a Jets fan. But I guess "Well Dressed" Amani Toomer had different plans.


"Bitch, I better be your favorite player too."

Tune in next year when I choose my next "my team."

(Note: As for the title of this post, turns out Eli isn't his birth name.)