At some point this week, perhaps after determining Gilbert Brown’s favorite food group–the guess here is meat–and Mike Holmgren’s IQ–genius level, of course–there is bound to be considerable discussion about the underdog status of the Denver Broncos.
The Packers are–what?–42-point favorites in Super Bowl XXXII.
The Broncos are the longest shot since the ’69 New York Jets. Or last year’s New England Patriots. It’s hard to keep track, what with the AFC lugging that–what?–35-year losing streak around like so much overstuffed luggage.
The Broncos, if they are smart, will play this for all it’s worth, though the early returns actually reveal a touch of resentment.
“Ask me if I care,” snarled Denver defensive end Neil Smith, when told of the point spread, which is actually 12 points.
Big mistake.
“I couldn’t have imagined a John Elway team being two-touchdown underdogs,” said Broncos fullback Howard Griffith, formerly of Illinois, who obviously has had the benefit of a fine college education. “But this has worked fine for us the last two weeks, so we might as well continue.”
Of course, they might as well.
So intoxicating is our obsession with the underdog that we find ourselves rooting like crazy for Elway, actually feeling a little sorry for the same guy who recently sold his auto dealerships in Colorado for upward of $80 million, proving that underdogs come wrapped in various and sundry packages.
It hardly matters, for lovable losers seem to bring out the best in us. Could be our own immigrant roots. Our ancestors’ struggles. Our insatiable hunger for seeing the little guy succeed.
Or our consuming jealousy.
It’s one of those, anyway.
Funny how that happens, but it always does. Look it up. We loved Mary Lou Retton once, way back when. Then, Retton jokes all around. We built up Muhammad Ali, only to smash him down. Same with Michael Jackson, although those child-molestation allegations may have had something to do with that.
Olympic ice skater Tara Lipinski? Little Miss Perfect last year. And now, at the grand old age of 15, her lutzes, whatever they are, are now being called “flutzes.” Honest.
Of course, if you fall far enough, you get the martyr treatment and grand comeback. Ali is beloved now. It’s just not possible to be wildly successful and beloved for any length of time.
And now it’s that time for the Packers, a group of players and coaches that, by all accounts, is quite pleasant; their fans, simple but relatively harmless people.
Doesn’t matter. They need to suffer.
Of course, given the places they’re attaching those plastic cheese molds these days, it’s tough not to wish them failure merely on principle.. And we do need a team to root against as well as one to get behind.
That’s the American attitude as well. Especially in the Super Bowl. If not for the pure interests of high-stakes gambling, there need be no other reason to watch than to get a healthy dose of venom going.
Chicagoans, of course, are aberrations to this extensive, scientific study, since hating the Packers comes so naturally. Plus, we have the Bulls, who no doubt have come to incur the resentment of most sports fans around the country, but still captivate and charm us.
No, we don’t count. But we do join in a vast number of sports fans around the country who will be watching Brett Favre perform in the apex of a brilliant career and rooting for Alfred Williams to wipe that tobacco-stained smirk off his face.
For Green Bay’s small-town mentality to get a taste of real Denver ruggedness.
For that holier-than-thou, we-invented-the-game-and-the-ugliest-sou venirs-known-to-man attitude to get kicked all the way back to Wisconsin.
Or maybe, in our bitterness over our own pathetic teams, we really don’t care.
That is, after all, the American way too.
