Not Much of a Dog Fight

I like playing the Falcons a lot more with out Michael Vick.

Sure, some will tell you about his low completion percentage, and how their offense never was exactly prolific while he was running the helm, and explain how he wasn’t a good quarterback. But watching how putrid Atlanta has become without him, and how little anyone on the team scares you, it’s hard not to appreciate the terror Michael Vick used to instill.

In fact, for me there has never been anything worse than watching a running quarterback. Ever since I first laid eyes on Randall Cunningham the scrambling qb has tortured my soul. Cunningham was ruthless against the jints during his career and his ability to escape the rush was beyond frustrating. I never got over the scars. The running quarterback still scares the hell out of me.

Regardless of how one might criticize Michael Vick the player, you can’t admit he forced you to watch every play until the whistle blew. So often you'd watch as your defense did everything right thinking, "Yes, yes," followed by, "No, no, no. Get him. Somebody get him!" You always know you're playing a running quarterback when sometime during the game you find yourself yelling "Get him!" I’ve always contended that the 3rd and 12 converted by a quarterback run should be outlawed.

So I much prefer meeting up with this Falcons team. In fact, let me give a thanks to Mike Vick’s dog-fighting induced vacation. Instead, of hoping like hell that we can somehow chase him down, I was able to comfortably watch my beloved Giants easily handle these Harrington led Falcons.

It’s amazing how much losing that one player can bring a team down. The past few years, even while most of us questioned Vick, there was no doubt they were a competitive team. Still only a few years removed from an NFC Championship game, they’ve been an 8-8 team hovering on the verge of taking a major step ahead or perhaps a step back. Without Vick, they took more than a step back, they stink.

Yet more than even my enthusiasm that Vick’s absence contributed to an easy win, I actually like living in a world where an opponent might be missing a key player due to an arrest for dog-fighting. It just makes the world a little more interesting. Sure it might upset some, I’m not specifically endorsing his love of dog-fighting, but rather I’m just saying it makes life a little more interesting that there are those out there betting on pit bulls trying to kill each other.

But enough about them, it’s time to talk about us.

All in all, I thought it was a nice solid win. Watching at home I appreciated never really thinking we might lose. It’s always nice to go through a game where at no point were you really worried that the game was going the other way.

At the same time, it’s hard to get too excited about the Giants no matter what they do. Am I pleased to win four in a row? Of course, but last year’s demise weighs far too heavily on the mind to get overly excited about it.

These next few games against these inferior teams are kind of like checklists. Just keep checking them off and we’ll see where we are when the Cowboys get to town. Last year at 6-2, I practically went to work dressed in full pads and singing, “Proud to be…A NEW YORK GIANT!” only to have it blow up in my face.

So for now, I’ll smile a reserved grin and hope for the best.

J - E - T - S, yeah, yeah, yeah

It was a somber halftime.

My roommate and loyal Giants compatriot could barely muster the enthusiasm to enjoy his Mrs. Fields cookie. And though that chocolatey goodness usually gave him such pleasure, today it barely had a taste. Seated in section 223, we slumped in our chairs next to two Jets fan friends of ours who held peculiar faces.

They didn't want to show their hands just yet. No, now was not the time to gloat. They knew there was plenty of game left to be played. But beneath their careful expressions lay two barely visible smirks. They were allowing themselves to begin to fantasize about walking down the ecalators after a Jets victory. They could taste it. Sense the bus ride home. Feel their impending joy.

It's why I've never liked Jets/Giants. I just don't need it. I don't need the pressure. It's quite enough worrying about Dallas, or Philly or Washington. I really don't need the extra pain of having to ensure we beat this unusual team in green. The Jets are the only team in New York that doesn't wear blue. I feel that needs to be pointed out. My friends, no doubt, felt the same, but sensing a possible victory they were perhaps even beginning to think that maybe this rivalry was a good idea after all. Rivalries are always more fun when you win. They may have even begun to think of their post game jig in the parking lot.

We were beginning to think about it as well, and I might have even dwelled on it had I not been mulling something far worse. You see, while many Giants fans and followers have been questioning Eli Manning since his first pass, I have not. The day he was drafted I essentially fell in love. Ahh, a Manning. Our Manning. I instantly became one of Archie's boys, a son, a brother. We were Mannings.

I was immediately convinced of his greatness and have watched patiently and happily ever since. I am of a small minority, or maybe it's larger than I realize, who have been pretty confident Eli is going to turn out just fine. He may not be Peyton. That's ok. No one else has ever been Petyon either. But as we took the field with under a minute to go in the first half deep in our own territory, he did something that finally shook me. An errant pass, a costly interception and while some were questioning the coach I was far more worried than that. I was worried I was wrong about our quarterback.

I thought Eli was beyond plays like that. I thought that was an interception he wouldn't make anymore, nor the type of first half it was possible for him to play. A text from a friend said it all, "That was the worst INT I've seen since the Dave Brown era." It's hard for any Giants fan to ever utter the phrase the Dave Brown era, not only because you have to admit we once had Dave Brown, but that we had him for an era.

"This is a big half for Eli Manning," I thought.

Did he completely deliver? Well, he wasn't incredibly brilliant. It wasn't exactly as I fantasized. But at the moment I was certainly going to take it. He was efficient. He made plays, and better yet, he clearly shook off the feelings from the first half and didn't dwell on it. These were all good signs. The day was saved.

But ultimately, as much as I had dreamt of it being, the day wasn't about Eli Manning. For Jets fans it may have been about poor Chad Pennington, who still scares me, but clearly is struggling. I feel for the Jets fans. It's hard not like Chad. He works so hard and he's been very good for them. But the sight of his ass wiggling as he runs before he throws yet another delicate pass must be tough to take. You want a strong-armed quarterback. Having a quarterback with a weak arm is probably something like a meathead dad finding out his son is gay. Sure he loves him, but he can't say it doesn't bother him. Kellen Clemens does have red hair. This may be relevant.

Alas, for me, this game wasn't about Chad Pennington either. (I really don't care about Chad Pennington, but I felt he had to be mentioned. One interesting note, I did hear a fan in front of me refer to him as Chad Cuntington which I can't believe I'd never heard before and I rather pathetically chuckled).

No, this game was about one of our guys. My Jets fan friend early into the third quarter leaned over to me and said, "I know he hasn't done much, but I wish we had Plaxico Burress on my team. I think he's my favorite non-Jet in all of football." Little did he know, he was about to see an awful lot of him.

Plaxico's rise this year has coincided nicely with Randy Moss's. Both physical freaks. Both crazy tall and athletic, and both with reputations of ill repute. But Plaxico has become easily the best Giants free agent signing ever. For a bargain price they've gotten a receiver the likes of which we'd never seen. As good as he's been and as much as I've loved him, it's kind of hard to believe Amani Toomer is the best receiver we've ever had. That likely has to change now.

Plaxico has allowed us to forget Tiki -- even booing his highlights at the game. (Has there ever been any player that handled his retirment worse? What happens when they retire his jersey? Will he be booed?" The only thing next for him to do was show up at the Yankees game in an Indians cap ala Lebron). So while Tiki is having lunch with his idol Matt Lauer, Plaxico has taken charge of the offensive playmaking.

While his efforts surely guaranteed the win -- along with Aaron Ross who appears to be the rarest of Giants corners, the type who intercepts passes -- Plaxico did far more than that.

He gave me the ability to stand up and clap as the Giants walked off the field, look down at my worthless Jets fan friends with their hands in their laps and smile. "Gentlemen...we ready to go. I belive I've seen what I came to see."

The Giants are king of New York. We wear blue in this town.

Thank God.

Getting Ahead of Yourself

It was a bad omen.

Tom Glavine being booed mercilessly as he sauntered off the field, 7 runs eventually on the board and the Mets season all but over. What hope was there for tonight? A day like this is usually that, a day like this, but fortunately for me I'm one of the rare fans who combines his Mets with the Giants, unlike the horribly unfortunate -- and far more common -- pairing of the Mets and Jets.

As I watched Chad Pennington float, and I mean float, a fourth quarter killer interception in a loss to Buffalo, I truly couldn't imagine the feeling for so many of those oh so common Jets/Mets fans. I just didn't happen to be so unfortunate.

But I felt their pain, especially when watching the Mets game as it went into the increasingly desperate later innings, the cameras often flashed to once-hopeful Mets fans, several with their faces proudly paited blue and orange.

I've always felt for the losing face painters and awed by their commitment to the team. Don't get me wrong I'm as big a fan as anyone -- if I were a bigger fan of any one team my head might explode -- but it's almost because of that that I've never resorted to painting my face. For one, I have no insecurities about my level of commitment. I don't need this public display to demonstrate to anyone that I really care about the outcome. I know I care. You may care as much as me, but I promise you that you don't care more. I also know how much a big loss stings. I remember literally bawling when a Patrick Ewing finger roll somehow found a way to bounce out of the bucket. I was sixteen years old, far past the age when I should have been doing such things. It hurts, it hurts bad.

So why would anyone invite the opportunity to not only endure a brutal loss, but to have to ride home with the shame all over your face? "Mets fan? Ooooh...ouch," the onlookers will say. Who would want to be riding on the subway with other strangers who didn't go to the game, some might even be Yankees fans, knowing that they know exactly the misery you're feeling? Is there any sight more pathetic than a face-painted fan with their heads lowered in shame riding home on the subway. "Tough game, eh?" you can hear people thinking, "Yup, that's a real tough one."

But's symptomatic of another problem we sports fans have and it's one I am just as guilty of doing as the face painters. It's getting ahead of ourselves. You see, he paints his face to support the team, but also because he's already imagining the post-game celebration. It's not even occurring to them how miserable that's going to be if the game doesn't turn your way. You have to think of things like this. You always have to remember there's a long way to go from the start of a game to the finish; even more so, from the start of the season to the end.

I bring this up, because after watching the Giants defense look shockingly dominant albeit against a depleted Eagles team, I'm trying hard to control the urge in myself. I nearly wore my Eli Manning jersey to work, so eager was I to begin puffing out my chest about the resurgent men in blue.

We all know how bad things can go when you make the mistake of getting ahead of yourself. We only need look at one season ago. At 6-2, with a big game upcoming against the Bears I was telling anyone who'd listen that we were going to send a message on Sunday night football. We did. It was the you should never kick to Devin Hester under any circumstances and that the big fat Bears fan sitting behind me was big and fat and I didn't like him. This is what we learned.

The season collapsed from there with things like Kiwanuka not wrapping up Vince Young, right after the a Pacman Jones kick return that my mother told me she found very exciting but my father and I appreciated less, and pretty soon things like this were a regular occurrence until the final kick to the groin that was Jeff Garcia and the Eagles. On a side note: I could deal with losing to a stud like McNabb, but somehow getting beat by a balding, 5'10 qb with the last name Garcia and a World League pedigree was harder to take. And I realize Garcia is a very nice player but anyone who thinks he's better than McNabb should be forced to give up watching sports.

Back to my point. Watching Osi Umenyiora sack the quarterback as though there were no opposition was hard to not get excited about. It appeared Eagles left tackle Winston Justice had some trouble handling him one on one -- that's the kind of analysis you can only get here. Or as Mark Schlereth, or anyone really, might say, "When you're talking about an Osi Umenyiora, you're talking about a guy who can get pressure on the quarterback." At some point they will say something about how he does a good job "coming of the edge." These are highly technical terms known only to astute football analysts. Yet he wasn't alone. The Giants defense looked like, well, a Giants defense. Which was nice to see, because there's just nothing worse than having no defense. It's like having no starting pitching in baseball, going back to earlier in the day. Thus, the Giants recent performance had be getting a little giddy. I realized perhaps a little too giddy.

I'm trying to show some cautious optimism for the rest of the season, especially with the Jets coming into town. The last thing I want to do is get to high and excited and have to watch as old noodle arm carves us up like a turkey. That would be a lot to take. Because while it's impossible to not admire Chad Pennington to a degree, it's also very difficult to watch as he so delicately finds the open man.

So raised expectations can be dangerous. They raise the stakes. I went in to this season cautiously optimistic and that's where I'm trying to stay, so I won't even mention that if the Giants beat the Jets, they'll follow it with Atlanta, San Francisco and Miami, before a bye week. I won't mention that. I won't mention that could put them at 6-2 heading to a visit from the Cowboys. That's getting ahead of myself. I won't even say it.

What I'm saying is, we're basically 6-2. Happy Jets week.

Is it Sunday Yet?

I've been going to games pretty much my whole life. I was blessed with a grandfather who was fortunate enough to go to college with Wellington Mara and wise enough to make sure that they became friends. When he went through some tough times due to a failing business, Well bailed him out with an offer to come work for the Giants. When you're in your fifties and suddenly in need of work, bail out doesn't exactly do it justice, act of God would probably be more appropriate.

Even better, he would basically spend the majority of his time for the rest of his days playing in charity golf and tennis tournaments with the likes of Lawrence Taylor and Phil Simms, thanks to the cushy gig his old friend had set him up with. It's enough to make you look at your own friends and hope at least one of them is getting to work.

As a result, my family has been one of the lucky ones who hasn't waited desperately on the elaborate Giants waiting list and we've had season tickets for my entire life. As such, I've gone to many games. My father has turned his Sunday tailgate into something of an art form, in fact, art form doesn't begin to adequately describe the majesty that is his epic Sunday feasts.

So why am I telling you this? Because I'm spoiled that's why. Spoiled with Giants that is. I've seen too many big games over the years, taken it for granted. You see, my old man is out of town for the next two weeks and so there will be no tailgate, I wouldn't dare try to even offer some hopeless representation of my own, and with the upcoming game taking place at Sunday night I'm considering not even going.

And this is the dilemma. Because to me, this decision has far more to do with the outcome of this Sunday's game than Plaxico Burress's ankle -- which hopefully will be ok -- or Brandon Jacobs knee -- which thanks to Derrick Ward has been less of an issue. Yes, in my demented head, somehow the decision of whether I go to the game could very well decide the outcome.

I still blame myself for the 2000 Super Bowl. My parents were out of town and rather than organize a small gathering of die hard Big Blue fans, I threw a massive party that quickly got out of hand. By the time the game started to turn ugly, I was even uglier, on my way to being completely blacked out before eventually engaging in a rather unfortunate hook up in my parents bedroom. I still recall my friend asking the next morning, "Who was that oompa loompa bitch you hooked up with last night?" I think that says it all.

Here's the thing about going to the games, especially when they start at 8:15. It's hard to get out there and it's hard to get back. If they win, of course, it all feels worth it, but if they lose you're standing in a ridiculously large line awaiting the bus you have to take so that you can get to the subway you have to take so you can walk home. Your Monday morning feels like it's a death sentence. If my pops were going it would be a no-brainer. The fresh mozzarella and the sausage and peppers would eliminate all doubts. And even following a 30-10 drubbing his burgers still taste as good. But alas he won't be there, so can an Aramark hot dog possibly compensate. I'm just not sure.

On the other hand, it's the Eagles. The Eagles on national television. The crowd will be into it. The game is important. I have tickets. How do you just not go? There's people who would kill for those seats.

Well, I'm not going, but here's where I hope I've made concessions to Karma that we won't be punished. I gave the tix to a big Giants fan who's been to a few games in his life free of charge. The look of astonishment on his face was worth the price of admission. Plus, knowing that you're giving another fellow fan the chance to see our boys up close and personal is good enough for me. Hopefully, that will be enough to redeem for choosing to watch the game in the comfort of my own home in breathtaking HDTV.

Besides, this Giants team has been torture the last few years. Two years ago when they went 11-5 they won every game at home. Every week you wondered why you couldn't do this every day. It was a Sunday party every week. Last year, they lost nearly every time they showed up in Giants Stadium and you woke up every Monday wondering what kind of an idiot chooses to go to the stupid games rather than watch them on tv.

And if this Giants team is one thing, it's unpredictable. I truly have no idea how they'll play when they take the field. They could go out there and look great and win the game, or they could get absolutely annihilated. The defense could appear stout, the line get pressure, the secondary do the job, or they could be run roughshod over and passed on with ease. It's a crapshoot. And though, it may torture us, it may nearly give us a heart attack, it's also kind of fun. The Giants are an interesting team. At times, Eli throwing to Plaxico and Shockey can look like the surest thing in the world, at other times it can look the opposite. At times all those pass rushers on defense can look like world beaters, other times they can't get within miles of the well protected passers. As we know, Brandon Jacobs may play and he may even play well. Or he may be completely ineffective. He may not even play at all. It's all possible.

I suppose we'll just have to live with it.

So please don't judge me for bailing out on my team. I promise I'll be there for the rest of the season and will meet them at the gates. Here's hoping I gave out just enough karma to take down the Eagles on Sunday.

Happy watching.

Why We Do It

My eyes shoot open. “It can’t be time already,” I think as my alarm blares at me to get up, quite rudely I might add. Weary from excessive tailgate salami and oh, maybe, one too many drinks, I drag my loafing body to the shower to get ready for another long week of work. “Was that worth it?” I wonder.

Was it worth getting up at nine on my Sunday morning to get out to a parking lot by 11? Was it worth sitting behind two screaming Green Bay Packers fans, each wearing those ridiculous hats of cheese upon their swollen, fat faces? Was it worth a two and a half hour trip home between bus and subway until finally collapsing on the couch exhausted and distraught? Is it worth it being a fan of the New York Giants? Is it worth being a fan of anything?

We all know the pain doesn’t end there. You won’t just suffer from that withering hangover, you won’t just sit in your tedious office and perform your seemingly meaningless function, oh your fate will be much worse than just that. Alas, you’ll also have to pick up the local papers and realize you now have to read about how bad your beloved team just played, in painstaking detail.

Yes the New York press will certainly remind you just how inept the Giants defense looked. How undisciplined some members of their offense performed – I’m looking at you, Jeremy – and they no doubt will not fail to remind you that your old curmudgeon of a coach has only one year left on his deal. You’ll know full well that Michael Strahan held out and may be a selfish superstar, find out that even Antonio Pierce has been lowered to air horns, and enjoy consistent reminders that you root for an 0-2 team with a worthless, disgraceful, useless excuse of a defense. Oh and you might even hear something about how the Giants apparently made a large trade to acquire Eli Manning a few years ago and the results have so far been mixed (Gary Myers will likely mention something about the names Philip Rivers, Ben Rothlisberger, and Shawne Merriman).

They will not fail to mention your teams startling inability to get off the field on third down, nor there complete ineptitude in covering a tight end. In fact, they may rightly mention that it appears most of the Giants defense is actually unaware that the tight end is allowed to catch passes.

It all makes for an overly miserable week.

And here’s the really sad part: weeks like these are far more common than not. How often does your team win the championship? Almost never. The last time a major franchise I rooted for won any type of championship was the New York Rangers and the death of hockey since has erased most, if not all, of the joy of that moment. It just doesn’t happen. You know what happens in abundance, your team will lose, and they will lose painfully.

The Vikings will recover and onside kick and steal a playoff game. Your kicker will send a kickoff out of bounds with 10 seconds to go against the Dallas Cowboys and two plays later you’ve somehow lost. You’ll go an entire season where the center/holder exchange is a constant roller coaster, culminating in the horrid sight of your punter floating up a lame duck pass that bounces harmlessly to the ground while an offensive lineman flails his arms in a pitiful attempt to make the grab. You’ll endure false starts in key times, ill-timed personal fouls, fumbles, interceptions and defensive lapses. That’s what sports is. For the vast majority of us, we’ll endure far more heart-breaking failure than we ever will sweet, unblemished victory.

Worse, we realize that the athletes make millions and we do not. Often, it seems tragically unfair. When the game is over they go back to their mansions and their beautiful wives whereas we get up early Monday morning and push papers for the next five days, or install cable, or dig ditches or whatever crappy thing we do that isn’t nearly as cool as playing professional sports. How do we care so much and seemingly get so little?

Well, here’s what we get. We get something to care about, something to believe in. We get the opportunity to experience a level of joy and excitement our lives would otherwise completely lack. Do you ever visualize what you might look like at work; how lifeless, how pathetic. Most of my workday, I sit in front of my computer and stare blankly. I file, I fax, I make endless copies. I send email, make phone calls, write reports. It’s boring. It’s real boring.

Last week, when the New York Giants were trailing miserably 17-3 and it looked like the season was all but lost. My roommate and I, both ardent Giants followers, sat lifeless and silent in our apartment. It wasn’t just the loss that was killing us, it was the possibility that this season would be lost. We were mourning the fact that this early we would have nothing more to look forward to for the rest of the season. It was already over. I wondered why I do it. Why do I root?

And just like that came the answer. Twenty one unanswered points. A 33-yard incredible scamper by Plaxico Burress from Eli Manning. A dramatic goal line stand. My roommate and I jumped out of our chairs, screamed with excitement and pride, high fived like no one was watching and bumped chests hard enough that we almost fell over. To say it was the highlight of my week was an understatement and just as quickly as I wondered why I do it, I now wondered what I would ever do without sports. How would I live? If I woke up tomorrow morning and the Giants, or the Knicks, or the Mets didn’t exist, would it even be worth continuing.

I read an article in Time magazine recently that stated that a few years back researchers at the University of Indiana found that when the basketball team won, the guys on campus actually felt more confident that they could get dates. That’s right, your athletic heroes can actually get you laid. But it wasn’t surprising to read that. There’s nothing like a big win. I absolutely know that feeling.

This Monday, the alarm didn’t seem so loud or annoying. My morning Cheerios tasted particularly good, as though that adorable little bee had really given that honey nut a little something extra just for me. I strutted into work almost looking forward to it and opened up the Daily News excited to read that the Giants ‘D’ had come through.

I am a Giants fan. We won. Is it Sunday yet?