One of four NFL teams not named the Dallas Cowboys will celebrate a Super Bowl championship on the field at Cowboys Stadium February 6.
Party at our place and we're not invited.
We, as Cowboy fans, are confronted with a dilemma, which Webster's defines as a choice between or among unpleasant alternatives. There is no possible happy outcome. We seek only to minimize our pain and suffering. "Root" for one of these teams? Root canal seems more enticing. So the question is reduced to, "Which possible outcome would be the least agonizing?"
I suggest process of elimination, or a form of deductive reasoning.
We begin with the obvious: SOMDB--Steelers Over My Dead Body. The very thought of Pittsburgh claiming a seventh Lombardi Trophy, let alone in our crib, produces instant and severe gastric disturbance. Super Bowl X hurt me, deeply and forever. But SB XIII crushed me to an extent equaled in my life only by youthful breakups with chicks whose names ended in either "y" or "ie." That's bad, fellas, right?
To this day, I will not--I cannot--watch any NFL Films treatment of SB XIII. Just can't do it. I already can't get the indelibly rancid images out of my mind. The Jackie Smith drop (Bless his heart!). Fred Swearingen's phantom PI call. The umpire's perfect screen block on Charlie Waters. Randy White's kickoff return fumble. And finally, Bradshaw's laser shot to Swann in the back of the end zone. 35-31. Satan's Scoreboard.
Our SB XXX win didn't really numb any of the sting. We played like crap.
So allow me to extend my reputation as the Master of the Obvious. Pittsburgh's gotta go. Can't happen.
Packers? Uh, no. Ice Bowl. And the 34-27 1966 season NFL Championship Game loss to the Pack at the Cotton Bowl, with the dashing young 'Boys on center stage for the first time. Paul can hold a grudge. For a very long time.
Which brings us to the Jets. Okay, I've already posted here that I'm fine with--supportive of, even--the hiring of Rob Ryan as our new DC. Rob has now at least married into the family, meaning I have to be civil to him on Tuesday bowling nights and at summertime backyard barbecues. That doesn't mean I don't still despise his old man, and by extension, Rob's twin brother. There is such a thing as inherited familial guilt. I have elected, for my own serenity, to absolve Rob. Which means Rex The Footie gets stuck with all of my residual bile. No to Gang Green!
Process of elimination. Deductive reasoning. "Go, Bears"? I don't "Lovie" them. But they seem to be the path of least heartbreak.