Opinion by William
Wilczewski
I like side stories just as
much—okay, probably even more so—than the next guy.
There are two, though, that
have been driving me further off my tee than a John Daly 1-wood.
Seattle defensive back
Richard Sherman and Mother Nature—and not necessarily in that order.
Now I know us journalists
sometimes have a tendency to take the smallest molehill and turn it into Mount
Everest, but the best thing about Super Bowl XLVIII being over come Sunday
night at about 7:30 will be the breaks being slammed on discussions on whether
Sherman is a thug or not for his tirade during a post-NFC Championship game
interview.
It all happened after his
stupendous deflection resulted in a Malcolm Smith interception of Colin
Kaepernick to receiver Michael Crabtree in the final seconds of Seattle’s 23-17
victory over San Francisco.
Immediately following the game, Sherman was
interviewed on Fox Sports and was asked to describe the play.
"I'm the best corner in the game,'' Sherman
said, yelling. "When you try me with a sorry receiver like Crabtree,
that's the result you're gonna get. Don't you ever talk about me."
Sherman then was asked who was talking about him.
"Crabtree," he said. "Don't you open
your mouth about the best, or I'm gonna shut it for you real quick."
Sure, Sherman was nearly foaming at the mouth and
looked more like he belonged on a World Wrestling Entertainment set than a
gridiron, but what’s really the big deal?
Is it actually a shock to anyone that behemoth-sized,
steroid-filled gladiators might get more excited after a big win than Mayberry
town drunk Otis Campbell slipping into a vat of the devil’s potion?
After all, it was the play of the game, the play of
his life and the play that made sure he and his teammates would be playing
Denver on Sunday on the world’s biggest stage instead of watching it on the
couch like the rest of us shlubs.
To top it off, I’ll bet my—and your—next paycheck
that Crabtree was no altar boy that day or any other, and was likely talking
more smack than a box of Rice Krispies.
Add the fact that being a defensive back is the most
difficult and likely least-appreciated position on the field by many household
observers—minus perhaps the kicker—and it’s no wonder Sherman got more excited
than Ralphie from “A Christmas Story” finally getting his Red Ryder BB gun.
Enough already, though. Leave the guy alone; he’s no
thug, just an excited 25-year-old kid that just helped his franchise get to The
Big Dance for only the second time in its history.
And—even if you still can’t give the guy a
break—don’t worry, because now he has to back up his words and antics on
Sunday—putting more pressure on him than Fat Albert’s couch cushion.
Maybe even more pressure than New Jersey
weathermen—or should I say weather-guessers?—will have on them the morning of
the big game.
Then again, what did anyone expect more than a year
ago when it was announced that an open-air stadium in the northeast was going
to host the NFL season’s biggest sporting event in the month of February?
If your answer is 70-degrees
and sunshine, go stand in the corner for the remainder of the class.
Besides, whether you want to
believe it or not, these guys probably have enough of those aforementioned steroids
pumping through their adrenaline-filled veins to keep warm in Siberia this time
of year.
Plus, with the combined
billions of dollars made by the NFL and its players, do they really deserve
Waikiki-type conditions anyway?
At least let these softies earn
a paycheck for once like they did in the good ol’ days of 1967 when the Ice
Bowl was played in Green Bay to decide the NFL Championship. You know, back
when men were men—and when you could actually hit the quarterback, unlike
today’s game.
Okay, I know, let me get back on track here … Oh,
yeah, weather and Mother Nature; that’s right …
Anyway, if you don’t feel
for all the prima donna players out there, you may be concerned about the fans.
Not me!
Lucky dogs is all they are.
I’ve spent every one of my 43
years wishing to attend a Super Bowl, but I’ve never had the money, time off or
just plain good fortune to ever get to one.
And all these
Foam-No.-1-Hand-Carriers have to do is put up with a few hours of nippy weather
for their dream come true.
Yeah, three hours of
crazy-sub-below-zero, snot-freezing, bone-aching cold is nothing to a guy like
me that has lived in Alaska and grew up in Buffalo, N.Y., where I’d seen snow
drifts taller than a three-story house and cold that would make Beelzebub
himself second-guess his own faith.
Then, to top it all off, The
Fortunate Ones that are fortunate enough to get a ticket this year will also
have a nice little “Wimp’s Care Package” under their seat. That WCP will
include:
1.) A seat cushion (as if they’ll be able to feel their duff anyway).
2.)
Earmuffs, hand warmers and a winter knit hat (as if there is such a thing as a
summer knit hat).
3.)
Tissues (but like I said, their snot will likely be frozen anyway, along with
any potential tears they may cry due to the inevitable pre-frost-bite stages
they’ll surely experience).
4.) A
cup holder (to hold all the hot chocolate that will turn into a fudge bar
before they can get what used to be liquid to their frozen pie hole).
5.)
Lip balm (well, of course, even the U.S. Marine Corps says your lips need to be
soft and supple in any clime and place) … and … …
6.)
They are even going to receive gloves that are specially designed for
ease-of-texting (because one never wants to misspell S.O.S. or HELP when in a
dire situation).
Anyway,
according to Accuweather.com on Jan. 26, the forecast for Sunday, Feb. 2 at New
Jersey’s MetLife Stadium is a high of 36 degrees with a chance of snow or rain.
Compared
to the 1967 Ice Bowl, this would be a walk in a Hawaii park.
Let’s
put it this way, in Green Bay that fateful day—Dec. 31, to be exact—the
game-time temperature at Lambeau Field was about -15 with an average wind chill
around -48, both Fahrenheit.
Now that’s cold, so stop complaining all you 2014
wimps! Vince Lombardi—the Green Bay coach and namesake of the Super Bowl Trophy
that this entire hullabaloo is based around—is turning in his grave just
thinking about all your oh-so-thin- and soon-to-be-frozen skins.
P.S. – If you still feel compelled to complain
about the cold weather, I have one easy solution … GIVE ME YOUR TICKET! (I’ll
be more than happy to take it off your hands—along with your hand-warmers.)
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