I now know there
are things worse in life than being a fan of the Chicago White Sox. At least I don’t root for the Atlanta Falcons,
who coughed up a 25-point second half lead in the Super Bowl before losing to
New England Patriots in overtime.
Then again, I could
be a Patriots’ fan, which is pretty much like saying you’re for Genghis Khan or
Napoleon—c’mon, we’ll spot you half a continent if you play us. I give you Bill Belichick, the Little
Corporal, give or take a few inches. At
least with the Yankees of old, there was Casey Stengel doing his shtick to take
the sting out of the beatings. Between
Belichick and quarterback Tom Brady, it’s all about the business of achieving utter,
total, merciless domination. Mother
Teresa, you’re not welcome here.
Speaking of
saints, the presentation of the Lombardi Trophy after the game reminded me of
times in church when I was growing up.
From time to time, relics passed our way. The students of St. Gall along with their
parents were encouraged to behold this (literal) piece of a saint or a scrap of
their clothing, either enclosed in glass so as to be kissed. When we venerated a relic, it was supposed to
bring us closer to God. When the
victorious Patriots kissed the trophy, what did that bring them closer to? I wonder.
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