Fact is, I think that you've got something; that in all your yelling and stomping you understand football more completely than the analysts. Ooh! ( Joe Morris is creamed on a tackle.) A couple of days ago John Elway told reporters that the Super Bowl was a culmination of all his Saturdays. But it also seems that Elway could live quite happily without the culmination, that the game itself was plenty. After hours of press conferences, "It was nice," said Elway, "to get out on the field and run around a little bit." You run alongside him, don't you, my man. You know what he's about.
All the Saturdays wind up here. The high school kids grow up to be Elway and Lawrence Taylor, and the parents on the sidelines grow up to be you, rising out of your seat like a geyser. Now everyone's a pro. Still, it's the origins that claim your devotion: the players, the ball, the field. Take away the millions of dollars and people, and for you it would still be the same. Isn't that right? I say: Isn't that right?
With 4:21 remaining in the game my man ought to be able to relax, but he doesn't. The Giants, ahead 33-13, are on the 24; third and six. He is glued to the huddle again. He feels the tension on the line, where at this stage there ought to be no tension; the Giants can crawl out the clock. But suddenly Simms sweeps left on a keeper and makes it to the two. Yes! The Giants, champs at last, after all those icebound years. It's what you wanted, isn't it, old boy? What you prayed for in that strange privacy of your dogged loyalty. And still you refuse to celebrate, abjure congratulations, staring only at the game you came to watch to the end, wishing it would go on a bit longer, just a bit longer, deeper, higher into the California night, blue as your hat