Start spreading the news. I’m leaving today. I want to wake up in the city that doesn’t sleep and catch a train to the Super Bowl in New Jersey.
Yes friends the infamous “New York” Super Bowl has finally arrived.
How fitting the forecast would be mid-30s and rain, considering the only thing worse than taking a train clogged with half-tanked businessmen, in $500 arctic parkas, before standing in a security line for two hours, only to assume your tiny perch outside in a February rainstorm, is the fact most have paid well over $3,000 for the chance to do so.
It’s been a long two weeks for part-time pretend sports columnists everywhere as storylines in New York, not unlike a meal for under $100, have proven difficult to find.
They’ve done everything short of resurrecting Tim Tebow, bouncing from the Richard Sherman interview to Peyton’s legacy to the sophistication of New York to openly questioning the strong nose and masculine jaw line of Lady Liberty.
So the Mad Clapper, Seahawks coach Pete Carroll, giggle-snorts his way to the Big Apple as his Pro-Bowl corner reaffirms his position that he is in fact the greatest cornerback in our solar system.
And as President Obama stood before a joint session of Congress to give his State of the Union address Tuesday night, surely even he must have realized that the Sherman interview, and ESPN’s subsequent fanning of the non-existent flames, did more in three days to galvanize the nation than he’s been able to do in the past five years.
Now we stand as an adopted nation of orange, shoulder to shoulder in our wooden barrels and Mork from Ork suspenders, our heads playing home, if only temporarily, to one of those ridiculous plastic horse-head hats that would make even Brad Pitt, dapper as he may be, look like a complete tool.
Brimming with optimism, we are bolstered by the hope the Broncos will help Manning grab a second Lombardi Trophy, united in a mutual dislike for Pete Carroll.
The best red zone offense against the best red zone defense, a quarterback in the midst of the greatest season in the history of the forward pass and a notoriously loud, game-changing 12th Man left to scream their heads off in living rooms 3,000 miles away.
Yes, it would appear the only true hope Seattle has would be Chris Christie pulling a few strings to keep Manning out of the end zone.
For their part, Colts fans are left to cast a jealous eye from afar, knowing that no matter how many Super Bowls he may win as a Bronco, Peyton Manning will always be a Colt.
Well at least he will be with the older generation whose attention span exceeds five minutes and realizes an appreciation for history is more than simply remembering how excellent those Pop Tarts were at breakfast.
So as ESPN beats the Manning angle to death and plays up the sophistication of New York City, its celebrities and everything it can boast that Indy could not, fear not fellow Hoosiers, let us rejoice in our forecast.
No rain and a guaranteed 70 degrees.
We can relax on the comfort of our own floral print couches, stuffing our faces with pork rinds, guzzling our 64 oz sodas while pausing our DVRs to slop the hogs and open a fresh pouch of Red Man, all the while resting safe in the knowledge there’s a loaded shotgun behind the bedroom door and we hosted football’s big game long before the Big Apple.
Good luck Peyton.