The playoffs are months away. You think that means the results are in doubt? C’mon. We’re professionals.
You’re probably still amazed and a little freaked out by the feats of psychic awesomeness on the preceding two pages. The outcome of the 2013 NFL season—revealed as though by dark sorcery. The only remaining mystery is the precise date on which Rex Ryan’s smile grows so forced that his face muscles explode through his skin and strangle Mark Sanchez. (Mystery solved: It’s tomorrow.)
Divining the season was a team effort here at Sportsnet. Did our unholy attempts to master the miracle of extrasensory perception cost the lives of many D-cell batteries and interns? You bet. Did we ruin the football season for you? Sure did. You know it all now. Seattle wins. New England loses. And Baltimore makes it back to the playoffs despite a receiving corps consisting of Torrey Smith, Air Bud and that hologram of Tupac.
But in our defence, we’ve only told you what happens. We haven’t told you how it happens.
Here’s how it happens.
The divisional round of the playoffs holds a few surprises. For instance, beating Cincinnati turns out to be a tall order for the Patriots. Three crucial elements need to fall into place: New England has to take the field at the correct stadium (1), on the correct day (2), and at the scheduled time (3). Somehow they pull it off.
Meanwhile, Houston gets to host a playoff game as a second seed. I was skeptical, too—but, as it happens, all the Texans need to take the next step is some consistent effort and a subatomic glitch that dislodges the entirety of our known reality, thrusting us into a backwards universe in which Matt Schaub always comes through in the clutch and we always get to eat waffles for dinner.
Other parts of the scenario require less explanation. The 49ers finish first in the NFC because they are deep and skilled. The Broncos are carried to the post-season by Peyton Manning. And Dallas makes the playoffs through what we can only assume is a clerical error. Still, it’s hard not to be happy for Jason Garrett, who for years has valiantly fought climate change with his inspirational example of no-impact coaching. Congratulations, hero.
How does Tony Romo blow it this time? One can only imagine—or know well in advance by reading the next three sentences. Wild-card game, late fourth quarter, down by six to Seattle. Romo drives the Cowboys into the red zone, he drops back to pass, scrambles, scampers, looks to the end zone. Then he falls down a well.
The conference championships are a letdown. The Seahawks crush the Packers, possibly because Green Bay couldn’t stop a pass rush with two tranquilizer rifles and a moat. And Bill Belichick and the Patriots triumph over the Broncos, because Roger Goodell didn’t hurl all those virgins into that volcano so the football gods would favour John Fox.
Super Bowl XCMIWHATEVER unfolds on a bitterly cold February evening at MetLife Stadium. On one sideline: the enigmatic Belichick, a great coach, yes, but also a father and friend who has been described by those closest to him as “a great coach.” On the other: the super-enthusiastic Pete Carroll, who has the vigour of a man half his age and the attaboy butt-slapping tendencies of a man with no awareness of appropriate physical contact in the workplace.
It’s an epic game that comes down to the final play. The Seahawks, trailing by three, drive to the New England one. Half the crowd wants Seattle to kick the field goal and send it to overtime. Half wants Seattle to go for the win. Watching at home on TV, Norv Turner urges the Seahawks to bunt for a base hit.
Suddenly a blizzard moves in. Visibility falls to zero. Emerging from a squall, Russell Wilson claims to have run it in for a touchdown—and nobody wants to dispute it because Carroll is already crying like a little girl and serenading Wilson with that song from Beaches. His attaboy butt-slapping hand will be tender for days, but Pete Carroll doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.