I get it now. I understand. I just walked out of Plato's cave and saw the sun. Einstein just explained relativity. Moses just delivered the Commandments. Morpheus just handed me the red pill, I swallowed and now, I see the world how it truly is.
Why do sports fans do it? Why do we spend the money on tickets, skip our cousins' weddings because the big game is on, paint our faces, name our children after men we don't know and emotionally invest ourselves in competitions completely out of our control?
On Sunday night, as I ran down Second Avenue, shirtless, with some random kid in a Giants jersey on my shoulders, slapping five with drivers in moving cars, throwing toilet paper over police cars blasting "We are the Champions" and bear-hugging men I didn't know, I realized the answer to these "whys."
We do it for the little, itty-bitty possibility of experiencing "that" moment. The one I was in right then. The total euphoria, disbelief and ecstasy that only winning an improbable championship can bring. It's an out-of-body experience. It's intoxicating and addicting. It's incredible.
It wasn't just that we won. It was how we won. It was Eli Manning, the smelly kid whose shoelaces are always untied, ending Mr. Perfect's shot at perfection. It was the 12-point spread that seemed like a big "F--k you" to Giants Nation. It was the we-dare-you-to-write-us-off-again mentality that the Giants took on. It was their eight Pro Bowlers to our one. It was New Yorkers knocking Bostonians off their high horse and then kicking them in the ribs for good measure. It was the pure magic of underdogdom manifesting itself before our very eyes.
And the best part is that it was not just the one game. No, it was the three-game run of beating some of the most storied franchises in football, one after another. We made T.O. cry in Dallas. We said, "Bite me, destiny" in below zero temperatures in Green Bay. And finally, we made Superman Brady look like Clark Kent in therapy in Arizona. None of them blowouts, none of them flashy, all of them incredible displays of heart and fortitude.
Each one of those victories would have been enough to sustain the fans through the offseason. Each one is monumental in its own right, but when put together in a string they become so much more than three great games. They become most definitely the greatest playoff run in NFL history, a master class in determination - a lesson in everything that is magical about the game of football.
But there's more: Eli Manning. In the last month he has grown like a 14-year-old boy at summer camp. Gone are the days when Eli looked like a lost child who liked his brother's Christmas present more than his own. He's a different quarterback today. Something happened in the final game of the regular season. Something clicked. When Randy Moss caught the go-ahead touchdown with 2:45 remaining in the fourth quarter, Manning still seemed confident. He looked like he had a secret that we weren't in on. Maybe he did.
But the craziest part about the Super Bowl is that we, the fans, believed the whole time. We knew the Patriots were one of the greatest teams ever, but we didn't care. We were supposed to win this game. We wanted it more. We were hungrier. We knew the truly perfect story was, ironically enough, stopping perfection.
Gideon Jacobs is a freshman who has not yet declared a major. He can be reached at Gideon.Jacobs@tufts.edu.
