|Tue, Mar 20, 2018 10:26 PM
|Wednesday, March 8, 2017 issue
|The Point After|
The conspiracy theory
I am sorely tempted to boycott this year’s Super Bowl.
Despite the fact that it is the cat daddy of all sporting events (sorry, World Cuppers across the globe, but American football rules), I am greatly disgruntled this year and am considering foregoing The Game and all its accompanying pomp and circumstance.
Because there must be a conspiracy afoot, that’s why.
There is a conspiracy to keep the Philadelphia Eagles down. Nobody wants the Eagles in The Game.
There must be some sort of grand scheme to prevent them from reaching the Promised Land because, for the third straight season, they have been denied admission, restricted from the chance to right The Great Wrong that capped the 1980 season, when a discarded veteran quarterback and lucky-as-it-gets linebacker suddenly found their football skills and caused Dick Vermeil to weep for real in New Orleans.
Instead of having the chance to erase the ghosts of Rod Martin and Jim “Dink and Dunk It” Plunkett, the Eagles have to sit at home like the rest of us.
I dunno exactly, other than maybe the fact that they have receivers who couldn’t catch the avian virus if they were chickens in downtown Saigon. Or perhaps it is that somebody in Philly can’t conceive of using a lil’ old formation called the shotgun when the D linemen are teeing off on the QB like John Daly on a bottle of Beam.
Nobody short of Jim Garrison and Oliver Stone could unravel this mystery, but there is no doubt in my tormented mind that there is some greater, underworld force keeping the Eagles from soaring above the rest of the league.
I mean, for Pete Rozelle’s sake, the stinking Ravens with TRENT DILFER at the helm got there and won one.
But thanks to the debacle of two weeks ago at Lincoln Financial Field, we get to see the oh-so-exciting Patriots against Jake Delhomme and the Panthers.
That’s right, hold onto your NFL-licensed socks, the team that can’t decide if its Boston or Cape Cod against the team from the town that spawned Jim Bakker and (perhaps in tribute to Tammy Faye’s eyeshadow) teal in sports uniforms.
I am looking forward to this about as much as Rick Pitino would enjoy a swift kick in the urological department.
So, here I sit contemplating a sit-out, a pass, a “was that played today?” take on the game of the season.
If I do force myself to watch, I will take a rabbit’s foot, a four-leaf clover and hope that the game ends thusly: scoreless at the end of regulation, the game goes to overtime and after the team that takes the ball goes three downs without budging the ball, the long snapper sails one over the punter’s head and out the back of the end zone. Game over, 2-0.
Take that, you bean-eatin’ bluebloods and so-lucky-you- make-me-puke Tarheels.