We can’t say exactly why Derek Jeter made it seem so easy. We only know that he did. Perhaps it’s because he played every game with the grace of a legend but the grit of a Little Leaguer.
I’m so sick of watching major media figures rushing to the front of the line, trying to sound more enlightened than the last person, belching the bromides of tolerance and understanding.
Forever high on hubris, the sport is pondering extra games, playoff teams, and new franchises, perhaps in London or Los Angeles. And it feels like all are in the name of profit, not principle.
Ralph Kiner was the Mets’ iteration of Phil Rizzuto, the former player and Hall-of-Famer who converted us more with his wisdom and charm and anecdotes than his chalkboard banter.
After just a few seasons we find reasons to jam the eject button on an athlete. Manning went from G.O.A.T. to goat in just 60 minutes. And from winner to loser.
It’s unfair to say that Denver lost it. Seattle snatched it and swallowed it. This team was bigger, faster and bionic in the way that it smashed the Broncos.
What will matter most? The fact that Seattle has no players with Super Bowl experience, or their youth and speed and top-ranked defense? Or will the game be won by Denver’s suddenly stout rush defense and Peyton Manning’s blessed right arm?
This is what we love about sports, and what we adore about football. We have the zero-sum certainty of the final score, and the game we’ve watched since birth has ballooned into the singular American event.
It’s easy to frame the Marshawn Lynch affair as the quiet athlete pummeled by the press, the self-righteous media wronged by an entitled player who should be honored to be there and to be coveted by the masses. But it’s hardly the case.
Everything is larger in New York, and Super Bowl Boulevard is no exception. It has the obscene, fun-house distortion you expect when a party is thrown in Times Square.
This game hasn’t grabbed America’s five-second attention span as it normally does. For lack of a more creative characterization, the Super Bowl, up to now, has been boring.
It’s not as toxic a topic as the New York/New Jersey border war, or as socially inflamed as the Richard Sherman saga. But, in a strictly sporting sense, it really is the topic du jour. If he wins Sunday’s Super Bowl, is Peyton Manning the greatest quarterback in NFL history?
If it took 48 years to get the Super Bowl in a cold-weather state, there’s a reason. It’s a bad reason. This game is meant to be played in warmer weather, for a thousand reasons.
In the days since his rant, Sherman has moonwalked from his outburst. Well, kinda. He didn’t apologize for humiliating Michael Crabtree, but insisted he was sorry for deflecting from his team.
It seems the Yankees were steadfast in their budgetary discipline. Until they weren’t. And thank goodness for that. Not only are we spoiled Yankees fans better off, but so is baseball.