On Sunday night, I drove back home from the old folks’ place. Nick Foles had just dropped a perfect throw. It carried over Trae Waynes, to the left of Harrison Smith, and plopped all over Torrey Smith’s outside shoulder. Spectacular. The game was 31-7. I left with my back scrunched up and my tail between my legs.
I was bummed. What I wanted to happen didn’t happen. I wanted KEEEEENUUUUUUM. I wanted a home Super Bowl. I wanted Jacksonville’s defense. I wanted someone, anyone, please someone, to represent the AFC instead of New England. Instead, we got the Eagles v. Patriots in Super Bowl LII.
I’m in alright shape. I haven’t had a carb in three weeks. I rarely get sick, and when I do, I recover quickly. My heart is already scabbed over. I’ve talked myself into it. I am ready.
I am ripped and roaring for next Sunday’s game. I’m 100% here for Brandon Brooks winning a Super Bowl, dog masks, the entire Eagles’ offensive line against a malleable front seven, the spectacular Philly defensive line trying to reenact what Michael Strahan, Osi Umenyiora, and Mathias Kiwanuka did to Tom Brady years before, Brady and his rub routes and zone floods gutting the Eagles’ secondary, Fletcher Cox bullrushing Shaq Mason, Alshon Jeffery taking Stephon Gilmore deep, Jay Ajayi shape-shifting around tackles, Malcolm Jenkins blitzes, Ricky Jean-Francois being good in the Super Bowl, Rob Gronkowski tumbling around, and the Patriots attempting to add to their legacy.
I’m a sheep. I’m an awful person. I don’t have a spine. I’m ready for this grotesque game that I never actually wanted.
My question is simple. What about you, loyal reader? Have you talked yourself into the BIG GAME yet? Or have you already checked out, preferring to roll around in Senior Bowl practice clips, free agent targets, and Deshaun Watson push notifications?