You fall in love with Perfection.  She has it all - the million dollar face, the greek goddess body, intelligence, personality, a great sense of humor, and above all, grace.  And as the Sunday afternoons run away one into another, week after week, month unto month from the  baseball Summer heat through the football Fall and finally into the chilling bleak of the basketball/ice hockey Winter, Miss Sweet Perfection has fallen in love with you.

In this world, you are Tom Brady.  In another time you might have been Christy Mathewson   or Jack Armstrong,  maybe even Sir Lancelot or Superman himself.  You are tall and broad shouldered in the stately tall broad shouldered way, handsome in the chiseled handsome features way, and you are as quick and smart on the battlefield as they have ever come.  And you are polite, decisive, and also humble.  You are everything your obsessive, anti-social, unscrupulous coach is not.  You are the All-American Super Hero and a Patriot to boot.  You are in love with Perfection and the Perfect Lady awaits you.  

You will ask her for her hand in matrimony and then you will have it all, more than Mathewson, Armstrong, even Superman.  You will be hailed the greatest that there ever was and your seconds and attendants will be hailed the greatest too.  Euphoria and Accolades are that way.

She accepts your proposal for no one better has ever deserved her hand.

 A period of anticipation.

Finally the evening of the great orchestration, the great consummation, the great celebration arrives.  There has never been such an extravaganza before.  Not in The Vatican, not in Westminster Abbey, not even in the Lambeau outdoor cathedral up in the Three Dog Night north where the silver chalice named after the founder of pure and absolute sacrifice and dedication to Honest Winning once demonstrated his professional prowess to the world. 

What a spectacle.  The removable altar, 120 yards in glorious grass green length slid out from its storage and into full view for the 80,000 strong and 100 million electronically connected worldwide.  The colossal coliseum's retractable domed roof closed and shutting out the late afternoon desert heat.  Only the best, only perfect conditions for the future Mr. & Mrs. Perfection, the Tom Terrific's.

It is time.  The bugles sound.  The trumpets blare.  The snare drums roll and the world's largest television screen is ready to provide the closeups of the tall broad shouldered man with the classic chiseled features in his grand entrance to take the Perfect Lady's hand.  Enter The Patriot in Shining Armor.  His supporting cast and attendants dutifully follow.

The ceremony commences.  The first half unfolds much as expected although there is a bit of  stirring on the bride's side of the aisle.

Then the unexpected, the symbolic and the supernatural - the lights go out, the cathedral darkens, candles 50,000 deep illuminate the mysterious arrival of the Giant Neon Arrow which steadily advances toward the Immense Neon Heart of Sir Tom and his Patriotic Pals.  A wailing cry from the heavens: "Eli's a' comin..."   Much confusion.  And then again, but more:  "Eli's a' comin'...hide your heart girl...Eli's a' comin'...hide your heart girl...Girl, Eli's a comin'...

Even though you are Sir Tom Terrific, even though you believe you have a destiny with Miss Sweet Perfection, it is not enough.  The force is not with you.  But you proceed and act "as if." 

You stand before the altar waiting for the lady's hand.  Your attendants crowd around you but anxiously look over their shoulders because they have also heard the wailing cry, "Eli's a' comin'."  Your overly-demanding Bellicose mentor fidgets nervously in the first pew.  From the bride's side there is more stirring, now stronger, louder, more physical .  It is rumored that Eli has arrived.

The authoritative, stern though melodious voice from above asks if anyone opposes this marriage of the mortal Patriot to the Sweet Lady of Eternal Perfection, and if so, voice that opposition now or forever hold your peace.  The question resonates and echoes throughout the cavernous cathedral.  It seems to be a mere formality.  Who would ever deprive this perfect couple of their day in the golden indoor sun.

From the back, from the bride's side emanates a Cough.  And then clearing his throat, another.  Finally, nervously, then with more confidence the Coughing Man blurts out:  "Yes there is, yes there is..."  80,000 heads turn toward him, 100 million more electronically connected await.  He finishes: "Because Elis' a comin' ..."

Sweet Lady of Perfection is all ears and all eyes and all finished with Mr. Terrific.  No one is more surprised and shocked than Tom.  No one is more angrier than the unscrupulous mentor, Bill Bellicose.

The Giant doors swing open.  Then straight down the aisle marches Eli Manning headed up to the altar.  There is a tussel.  Eli's shirt is grabbed and then again and again but incredibly he pulls away.  In the confusion, he offers up a 'Hail Mary' and is miraculously granted a Giant wish, a Giant dream completed and come true.  Moments later when the smoke has finally cleared, the stunned Tom looks on from the sidelines, Bellicose Bill has already headed for the street, and Eli Manning has rescued Lady Perfection and broken many Patriot hearts.

The silver chalice of honest effort is hoisted high overhead by Eli and his Giants, so deserving of the honor.

Denouement:  Tom is terrific in his explanations.  And Bellicose Bill is, well, let's just say he acts consistent with his reputation.  So much for 'grace.'  

Post script:  Finally, a Super Bowl contest better than its commercials.     

 

 

 

       

Super Bowl Sunday. In the Southwest, the Perfectionist Patriots vs. the Giant Undertaking. For the priviledged few and the fiscally frivolous many, thousand dollar seats and thousand dollar a night hotel rooms (not even suites) is the price to be paid. For better part of the rest of us, the armchair quarterback's position in his living room immersed in fattening food, party beverages, and instant replays will just have to do.

Super Bowl Sunday. In the Northeast, a respite of unseasonal warmth and sunshine (puts a smile across Al Gore's kisser), not Arizona and not too good for the ski slopes, but we'll take it. Two days ago, an ice storm leaving this Pennsylvania outdoor world coated in crystal which this morning began to melt. Now, the only thing dropping faster than the steady snare drum-like percussion of ice falling from trees to the frozen tundra below is the American Stock Market and U.S. Dollar, crashing like cymbals with the forewarning tumult of the tympani. That should be tonight's real half-time show: Clinton-Bush and the
401-K Heartbreakers.

Inside Home Depot yesterday (Saturday!) to purchase sand and salt to make the frozen river of my driveway accessible, the only thing fewer than their supply of the stuff were customers. Between food on the table and newer, shinier, brighter, faster, flashier, bigger, betterfurnishings for the house, filling the belly wins every time. Beyond basic sustenance, Americans love to eat, and many in excess. Sadly, it's one of the last true freedoms we still enjoy and also untaxed when procured from the market. But if the Marxist Law Firm of Hillary, Obama, Pelosi, and Reid come into complete power, next year's snack choices will be relegated to tidbits of tofu on wafers of watercress. And taxed!

Recently, in an effort to make everyone who eats at the U.S. House of Representatives' cafeteria healthy and 'perfect', the 'Control Freak & Grand High Exalted Mystic Dietician of the House,' Ms. Nancy, didn't devise espionage tactics like Tricky #### and/or Bill Belichick, but nevertheless, did rid the menu of red meat and ruffles (have ridges), replacing them with sushi and seaweed. Get the picture? She's the leader of the Pack...brrrrmmm, brrrrmmm, brrrrmmmm...

Iraq, Iran, and the destruction of Roger Clemens...$3.00 gas, Romney-McCain-Obama and/or Clinton each promising the moon to take the place of the horse's ####...global warming, nuclear warning, ballistic missiles, and Pelosi's worried about a little gristle, go figure...recession, depression, inflation, stagflation...terrorists, aliens, bombs, and bacteria...and, of course, MORE...

So what's a pure-blooded All-American fan to do?

Look to the facts my friends. Look to the impartial, globally-minded economists for the answers and not the impotent, self-serving government. Nothing from nothing is nothing. Look to logic and not to the Fed. Look in the face of reality and not far away in the distance at the multi-millionaires manipulating the public for their cherished throne. Look into the mirror (you ain't the perfect machine called Tom Brady) and then look a little closer into yourself. Dig down deeper than the Giant Undertaking will have to tonight. Make adjustments, quicker and more decisiive than the New York defense will need to tonight. Create an offense for self-preservation with the skill of Coach "Bill" but without the deceipt. Rely on no one but yourself and independence seeking like-minded souls. Only then will we become real Giants and true Patriots.

Until then, and despite Nancy Pelosi, tonight in your living rooms and your reserved seats, eat, drink, and be merry.