Groundhog Day Meets Rocky Balboa

We have seen this movie before.

The one where the Patriots win twelve plus games, score a couple playoff wins in Foxboro and end up in the Super Bowl amid all the chatter about how they cheat to win and how they get all the calls. There are few things more certain than death, taxes . . and the Patriots being in the Super Bowl. This is Groundhog Day in cleats.

And once the Patriots get to the Super Bowl, well . . . you know. They vanquished the ‘Greatest Show on Turf’ back in 2002 when they came from behind to beat the Kurt Warner led St. Louis Rams with a field goal as time expired. They were the ‘darlings’ of the league that year, the charming underdogs with spunk and a pretty boy quarterback who defied all the odds and took down the Goliath. Man, how things have changed.

Since then, the Patriots have been more consistent than Apple stock. Their laundry list of Super Bowl victims includes the Panthers, Seahawks, Eagles and Falcons. On that last count, the Patriots actually had us believing their remarkable run was finally over by spotting Atlanta a twenty five point lead before storming back to win, again.

This time around, they get a rematch thirteen years in the making. They beat Andy Reid’s Eagles in 2004 to cap off their second consecutive title and third in four years. And if they win it again this time around, it will be their second consecutive title and . . you guessed it . . their third in four years. Attention Patriots fans, please pick up the white courtesy phone, Bill Murray is calling.

There has never been anything like this Patriots run in sports. Not over this length of time and not with this degree of consistency there hasn’t. Tom Brady went a decade between world championships before beating Seattle a few years back. Which is the kind of story line that would be dismissed out of hand if you tried peddling it in Hollywood. Seventeen years later, the Patriots are still doing this. Tom Brady is still bringing his team from behind in January’s biggest moments. Bill Belichick is still making halftime adjustments that prove he might be the best there has ever been. New England is still the sports center of the universe.

The Philadelphia Eagles aren’t just going up against an MVP candidate quarterback and a battle tested coach who knows what to do with two weeks prep time. They are not just going up against a team that defies age and injuries and all this nonsense talk about mutinies inside the Patriots clubhouse. The Eagles are going up against seventeen years, five Super Bowl titles and a history unlike any the league has ever witnessed. They are going up against Jordan and Jeter, Gretzky and a young Mike Tyson. They are going up the Roman Empire, whose days are dwindling but still mighty. They are going up against a team that took the Jaguars best shot before reminding them that the game isn’t over after three quarters.

Here’s the thing. The Eagles don’t care a wit about that history. They’re too young to remember Gretzky and Jordan or the best of Derek Jeter. And the only thing they know about Mike Tyson is that his championship reign came to an end when someone finally punched him in the mouth.

Really, the only history the Eagles are going to focus on as far as New England is concerned are the two Super Bowl titles the Patriots didn’t collect. And isn’t it ironic that the Eagles are going to be borrowing a page from their long time rivals- the New York Giants- who have proven to be New England’s kryptonite not once but twice? And the game plan is really quite simple. Punch them in the mouth.

This is the tenth anniversary of that first Giants/Patriots clash, when Eli Manning and Tom Coughlin and a ridiculous helmet catch by David Tyree all conspired to ruin the Patriots perfect season. I wrote back then that the Patriots owned the worst 18-1 record in the history of the league. And as if that wasn’t enough, the Giants came back four years later, and with the Patriots hell bent on revenge, they beat them again.

The Eagles go into Minnesota with every intention of following that blueprint. They’ll be carrying a chip on their shoulder and the talent to give us a different ending. They’ve navigated injuries of their own. They lost their MVP candidate Carson Wentz during their division clinching game. They lost their all world left tackle Jason Peter and middle linebacker Jordan Hicks in the same game! And somehow, someway, they still made it to Minnesota.

They came to the Super Bowl not to praise New England, but to bury them. And yeah, we’ve heard this kind of thing before and we’ve seen how things usually turn out. And I expect that the Patriots are probably going to find a way to win, again. Because as a Dolphins fan, I’ve been conditioned to do so.

But this is a heavyweight title rematch, and so there’s that punchers chance thing to consider. We have the brash and cocky reigning champion going up against a brawler from Philadelphia. I’m pretty sure the Eagles would be just fine with the Rocky Balboa comparisons.

Considering what happened in the rematch.


Keep your realities close, but your fantasies closer . . .

I never imagined I would be “that guy,”.  I was never going to be the dude who plays Fantasy League Football as if it’s a side job that he really needs because his wife is pregnant again and he’s got a mortgage payment that’s trashing the shit out of his sleep.

The guy who treats Fantasy League Football as if it’s, yanno . . important.

And yet here I am, immersing myself in the data idolatry of a cursed art whose fake news applique renders me a rag doll to Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s pulverizing thrusts. Listen, I don’t dig the imagery of the Rock having his way with me, but I’m just ‘splaining the how it be of this latest football fascination of mine.

I have become downright obsequious to this shit, and it truly pisses me off. How truly? Bitch, I just used obsequious . . in context . . without the benefit of a well made hallucinogen! I happen to think that’s evidence enough of just how truly pissed off I am.

Lemme give you an example as to the sickness I’ve been getting down with since signing up.

I give a shit about Leonard Fournette. Don’t get me wrong, the rookie running back for the Jacksonville Jaguars seems like a fine gentleman by all accounts. But it never occurred to me to give him a second thought, much less have a thought like this run through my mind . . .

I wonder what Leonard’s doing right now? 

Would I have wondered such a thing before this season? Hells. No. But seeing as how he’s the featured back on my fantasy squad, I wanted to know. Heading into last weekend’s games, Fournette was a question mark due to a gimpy ankle. And let’s just say I wasn’t exactly stocked at the position. My second best RB would have had a hard time beating the UPS guy in a 40 yard dash. So I picked up Latavius Murray and sat Fournette. Aside from having a cool name, all I know about Latavius . . is that he has a cool name. But a little fantasy shopping, and I had my guy. Long story short? My man came through with twenty one points. Which is fantasy speak for cha-ching!

A postscript to that whole episode is that Fournette actually played, but he only fetched eleven points. All the same, I love him every bit as much as Latavius. Just so long as they produce next week, I do.

Conversely, I also happen to think bad things of people I do not even know. People like Julio Jones, a wide receiver for the Atlanta Falcons. JJ was my primo get for this fantasy season, and I actually celebrated with a few beverages of choice when I realized I had scored his services. If you would have given me the choice of bedding Giselle in Vegas whilst Tom was busy doing his job or having Julio dropped into my lap in the Fantasy League draft? I would’ve been torn. Okay, maybe not torn. I’d definitely go with bedding Giselle. But I would’ve been pretty pissed that I missed out on drafting Julio.

So far this season, Julio has been disappointing to say the least. He’s the twenty seventh ranked wide receiver, which is fantasy speak for shit. I’ve debated trading Jones but I can’t bring myself to do so. This must be what it feels like to own a Jaguar; the car, not the football team.

Then there’s Ben Roethlisberger, a recent pick up of mine who delivered for me this past weekend. I sat Dak Prescott in favor of Big Ben, which ended up being an inspired choice. Personally, I don’t like Big Ben in the least . . but he’s producing so I’m not gonna kill someone. This must be what it feels like to be Negan.

I’m debating as to whether I should play Fantasy League next season. My consternation is the result of having shouted “Yes!” after another pathetic loss by my Dolphins . . . simply because I have Kenny Stills on my team and he scored me twenty four points. This was a defining moment, and it allowed me to see what I have become: A shallow, narcissistic stats compiler who doesn’t give a fuck about allegiances.  The kind of materialistic douche who cares more about stats than soul. This must be what it feels like to be one of those analytics people.

This fantasy league relationship is weighing on me, and I’m only a couple months into it. I’m thinking I should take next season off. Hey . . . maybe I’ll feast every twenty three years, like that giant demon cicada in Jeepers Creepers. Or maybe I’ll play CFL fantasy league . . . because nothing says football like Canada.

In all seriousness, it might not be the worst idea to familiarize myself with our neighbors to the north, in the event the shit hits the fan here and I need to figure an escape route to safety. I can become a survivalist on training wheels. I’ll need a camper, spam and whiskey stores. And a shitload of fat warming threads from Columbia. Maybe I can make friends with Michael Moore on social media and we can go halfsies on a badass fortress (preferably by a lake) in some outpost town populated by grizzlies.

I feel better already.