Reflections on Success

I've been excited for Super Bowl Sunday for a while... a long while. In fact, I think I've been excited for tomorrow since one year and two weeks ago, when the Pats were forced to bow out of the playoffs after the Colts managed to muster the strength and do what they hadn't done before - beat the Pats in a must win game. But we all know that story. And while you can say that the Pats team that was on the field in 2007 was fatally flawed - they didn't have a wide receiver worth the paper his contract was printed on - they were a play away from their 4th Super Bowl appearance in six years.
This year's version of the Pats - NE SB 4.0 - doesn't carry the same flaws - that much and more is quite obvious - and after enjoying all of the success that they have had - they and the Sox and Celts (we'll leave the middling B's for another conversation) - I've found myself thinking more and more about how we all got to this place, how as a 26 year old I'm able to forget about growing up following losing teams and now enjoy some of the greatest professional athletic success that any city has had in such a short time.
When the Pats were finally downed by the Colts last year, I had more than a few conversations with friends and co-workers over whether the run of success in Boston was coming to an end - the Pats were two years removed from their incredible 3-titles-in-4-years, and the Sox were heading into a new season with a lot of hype - can you say Dice-K? (side note: who knew we'd be saying Okee-Do-kee as much as Dice-K by the end of the season?) - but after living through off-seasons of hype, and watching the payrolls expand year after year, it was apparent that the Sox weren't following their blueprint to success that had made the '04 team a champion. And though there was the possibility of a number one pick for the Celtics, the winter sports franchises were the saddest group of over-paid athletes East of Rt. 128. Things, once again, were looking down - but it always comes down to the possibilities once you play the game on the field.

October, 1999. Freshman year at Saint A's - I'm fortunate to be living in Hilary Hall, a dorm generally reserved for Sophmores and upperclassmen that don't live in town-house type livng quarters. Each "room" is generally set up for 4 guys, and includes two bedrooms and a living area - not exactly high-class living, but a far more comfortable, and usually more quiet, abode than the sausage-fest that was Dominic Hall. On this one particular Saturday night however, I'm fairly certain that the roof is going to come off from all of the noise. It was as if the entire building was swaying - with each pitch that Pedro threw - and he was throwing a gem, there was a moment of silience, and then cheering for each strike, each out.
The Sox had just made the most improbable comback (little did we know about what was in store for us come 2004), beating the Cleveland Indians 3 games to 2 in the Divisional Series after losing the first two games. Pedro was everything that we wanted Roger to be - he was our savior, coming into the game in relief (and again throwing a gem) in the Cleveland series, and now, versus the (insert deragotory term here) Yankees, he was turning the series around all by himself.
My most lasting memory from that night is of the door across the hall from my room - the guys living there had printed out "K" cards and were taping them to the door after each strikeout. The door was filled as we worked into the later innings.
The rest of the Sox weren't as good as Pedro though - and shortly after a phantom tag at second base by Chuck Knoblauch (the same Chuck Knoblauch that hit ESPN/MSNBC's Keith Olbermann's mom as she was sitting in the stands and he missed a throw to first base wiiiiiiiiide right), the Sox were eliminated once again. For the first time, I started coming to grips with the notion that it wasn't going to happen - I wasn't going to see the Sox win a World Series during my lifetime, mainly because they weren't going to win a world series ever again.

As Meghan constantly reminds me, its really quite silly to spend quite so much time mulling over the doings of the local 9 (or 11, or 6, or what have you); whatever the true reason may be, I like to tell myself that I do it because it is a great escape from the reality that surrounds me.
I suppose that none of our lives are as difficult as we think they are from where we see them at ground level. (Ian may be a possible exception, a) he isn't at ground level, and b) well, you know, he's in Iraq.) For the rest of us, its just a policy, piece of equipment, or electronic funny money (and it belongs to someone else, at that). But on the battlefront that is the day to day grind, the diversion that Sunday afternoon provides is more than welcomed. So if I spend a little too much time thinking about what next season will bring, instead of how well the company reports its next quarter earnings, please forgive me.

November, 2001. Five guys packed into a four person apartment has already made for some interesting situations (not to mention phrase-ology - can you say "andrew lany alone time"?). Though the living situation was less than ideal, it made Sunday afternoon a LOT of fun. The '01 season saw the advent of the Tom Brady regime in New England, and though I'd always been a football fan, living with Matt and dying with each Drew Bledsoe scamper out of the pocket had peaked my interest in the game.
At week ten, with little evidence to support my position other than a hastily drafted Pats schedule on a Post-it note, I outlined to Matt how the 5-4 Pats could lose to the greatest-show-on-turf Saint Louis Rams that weekend, and then roll off four wins in the final six games, and make the playoffs, with an outside shot at the Super Bowl. To my surprise, Matt agreed. I was immediately excited that someone who understood the game a lot better than I did thought my madness might be rooted in some logic.
I was wrong however; the Pats put up a good fight versus the Rams, and rolled off SIX wins in their final six games, to go into the playoffs as the #2 seed in the AFC.

I can't imagine what it was like to work in an office before the rise of the internet. Though doing my job without the online tools that I have access to would be impossible, my sanity would be similarly compromised with out Bill Simmons and Peter King. Their online posts are notable for both their humor and insight as well as the aggrevation that they bring me when they aren't posted in a timely fashion. This of course adds to the sports psychosis that I seem to have (I understand though it seems to be a collective disease). About the only time that I don't get any real joy in taking time out of the work day to read these guys is when the success that our teams have had slips away, and that failure takes the spotlight.
When the Pats lost to the Colts lat year, I would say I was upset, even into the next day (unhealthy? you betcha). However the recent wins and championships have only served to fuel the "there's always next year" mentality. This years disappointment quickly wanes into next years prospects.

October, 2003 The most recent incantation of the Sox-Yanks war has been exhausting, right down to the very end. Out on "my own" for the first time, I'm living on Heavey St. in Manchvegas with a poor job (car sales), poor income, and far too much fun with Madden on the XBox and tv with the guys each day. As the days got colder though, and the baseball season was coming to an end, there was the distinct possibility that the monkey may finally come off the Sox back, and they'd beat the Yankees to go to the World Series.
Game 7, in the living room on Heavey St. was possibly the most stressful few hours of my relatively lax life. We were watching the game on tv but with the local broadcast from the radio.
As Pedro gave way to noone, and later to Tim Wakefield, and Aaron Boone came to bat, the monkey apparently had once again sunk its claws into the back of the Nation and was on board for another long winter of discontent.
As Boone's batted ball left the park to the right of the left field foul pole, none of us had words. I stood, turned off the radio, which doubled as my alarm clock which had to wake me for my early shift at the dealership the next day, and walked into bed. I feel asleep, slowly, and agrily. Never. It was NEVER going to happen. No matter how many other successes the other franchises had. I couldn't even consider being in the same exact spot, 12 months later, after the Sox had been down three games to none, with Champagne in the fridge, ready to celebrate the most improbable victory ever.

As great as experiencing the victories as a fan has been, I've started to realize that the losses can be just as meaningful, which I suppose is what I've been trying to lead up to all along. My nephew Arthur, at the tender age of 9, has not only become one of the formerly most pathetic creatures on earth, a Sox fan, but a sports fan in general, and a Boston sports fan more specifically. And he has been blessed to know little (or none) of the heartache that the rest of us, even the younger ones, have. He experienced a Sox world series win near his nineth birthday, and though he may not recall too clearly, another near his 6th, not to mention the bookending Pats superbowl wins.
For him, a Pats win would be good, but not as great as the feeling of their failure. He's been conditioned in the past year to expect victory at every turn; if the Pats lose, I'll be upset (maybe more than those close to me), and we'll all recover in time (for some, within moments, others, such as myself, in minutes, or hours, or so.) But without having a quantifiable scale to prove my point, I would say that a Pats loss would be better for Arthur to experience than it would be for most of the rest of us (Pats fans). Knowing the heartache that comes with loss is as true a reality as the joy of victory, and until this year, perfection quite literally the least real option available in sports. There's always next year, and if Arthur learns that the hard way, instead of the easy way, it may just make him a better fan. And I'm sure he'll still be able to get out of bed and go to school tomorrow.
Don't get me wrong. I want them to win. I'm just saying is all. It may be good for him if they lose, but for me, I really, really want them to win! We may not be on the field, get to hold the trophy, wear the t-shirts in the locker room or battle it out on the field, but we do get to experience it as fans (its why they're showing the game on TV), and it does create some great, lasting memories.

February, 2002. I was right about one thing when it came to my little sticky notes. The Pats made the superbowl, and once again, they were facing the Rams. The 5-man apartment had become a 15 person orgy of football viewing. Classes be damned, this was one of the best nights I'd ever had, and as the clock was ticking down, the game was everything you could have asked for, if not more.
I may have had a Nostradamus moment with the schedule a few months back, but nothing could have ever tipped my mind to the notion that, with a win slipping out of hand and the game tied, Bill Belechick would have his offense march down the field with moments left to go in the 4th quarter.
The second best memory of the night was watching the ball, rocketed from the foot of soon-to-be hero Adam Vinatari, sailing through the air and between the uprights to seal the Pat's first superbowl. I don't think I've ever, before or since, high-fived, celebrated, or made more sports related phonecalls for the duration that I did that night.
My favorite memory though isn't what was on the screen, but what happened during the celebration there after - as we were watching replays and the presentation of the Lombardi trophy, my brother Philip barged through the door - he had somehow left the party where he had been watching the game, driven to my apartment, and blown through two doors, one that was in all likelyhood locked to such intruders - and tackle-hugged me, and my future wife, in a moment of unbridled joy (and, incidentally a small amount of pain, as we became pinned in between the door, the couch, and Meghan).

To have your team win is great. To be able to celebrate it with friends and family, now thats priceless.

I hope you all enjoy the game, and get to enjoy it thusly. Go Pats!