History Lesson

Football historians, analysts, and statisticians have had a lot to say about what it takes to win the Super Bowl. If there's anything that they agree on, it's that there isn't any one quality that will get you to the top of the heap. Witness, for example, the 2006 Colts, who not only finished the season on a down-note and with a historically bad defense, but also took the unusual home-away-home path through the AFC playoffs and then won the Super Bowl in the torrential downpour of Hurricane Grossman. None of it made a ton of sense, but it all worked out.

Oddly enough, this unpredictability does create one semi-reliable measure for postseason success: The Team of Destiny Theory. In most seasons, there is a team who combines serious late-season/post-season grit and momentum with a number of major gifts from the Football Gods to roll through its conference to the Super Bowl. Last year, the Colts got Bob Sanders back and found a run defense, and the Football Gods caused Marlon McCree to fumble a game-ending Tom Brady-interception back to the Pats, thus bringing the AFC championship to the dome. (This is not to say the Colts wouldn't have won at SD, but being at home sure helped, and it also brought about the official Single Greatest Sporting Contest That I Have Ever Witnessed.) Often the Team of Destiny is one that despite looking downright mediocre for much of the first half of the season, gets hot in about late October and manages, somehow, to roll through the conference playoffs to the Super Bowl.

Once you get to the Super Bowl, however, the Team of Destiny label requires some serious re-assessment, as there are two ways that this can go:

1. If you're a real for sure Team of Destiny and your opponent is the cream of a somewhat mediocre conference, then you have a great chance at riding that momentum off into the sunset with a win that can range from solid to just-barely, but that is not a blowout. Again, the '06 Colts are a prime example, as the Bears were simply not up to the task last year and Hurricane Grossman prevented the Colts offense from making it a blowout. Other classic Team of Destiny examples of this variety are the '05 Steelers, the '01 Pats (well, any of the Pats three titles, for that matter), the '97 Broncos, or the '88 49ers. These Teams of Destiny are exciting, often unexpected, and provide the avid spectator with an entertaining Super Bowl.

2. Other years, however, the Team of Destiny represents a sub-par conference. They've done some truly amazing work to get to the Super Bowl, but they end up discovering that after all that amazing work, they're mainly just a Happy To Be Here Team of Destiny. The HTBH teams provide us with amazing playoff runs and mind-numbingly bad Super Bowls. The '98 Falcons are the quintessential example here. After going 7-9 the year before, the upstart Falcons streaked to 14-2 in the regular season, beat San Francisco by two in the divisional round, and eked out three-point Conference Championship win vs. the Vikings (who set the NFL record that year for points in a season). They were so thrilled to get to the Super Bowl that their starting CB famously got arrested for soliciting a prostitute. They proceeded to get smoked by the mini-dynasty Broncos, who clearly were a lot more than Happy to Be There. The Falcons sunk to 5-11 the following year, replacing definition #3, "an accidentally successful stroke, as in billiards" under the dictionary entry "fluke." Other classic HTBH Teams of Destiny include the '01 Giants, the '94 Chargers, the '89 Broncos, and, most memorably, the '87 Pats. These teams had a nice run, but arrived at a championship game against an opponent for whom they were completely unprepared. Destiny can hide critical flaws for only so long, and momentum can carry you only so far. There will be a reckoning, and the results will not be pretty.

I am making this analysis by extremely roundabout way of explaining why I have no plans to watch this year's Super Bowl. When Giants kicker Larry Tynes hit a 47-yard field goal in overtime to finally beat the Packers (he had missed the two previous, shorter kicks which would have likely won the game), the metal security gate came slamming down on my interest in this year's NFL season. That interest had already been critically injured by the Colts no-show against the Chargers, but the possibility of a Packers-Pats Super Bowl left a scant chance that the game would be worth watching. The Giants, however, threaten to set the standard for Happy To Be Here Super Bowl teams. To wit:

At the end of last season, there was a great likelihood that coach Tom Coughlin would be fired, as his hardass methods seemed to have become ineffective. Pro-bowl running back Tiki Barber had retired and lobbed all manner of insults at his former team while looking absurdly shiny-headed behind an analyst's desk on NBC. Coughlin was retained, but only on a "last chance" basis. Quarterback Eli Manning looked shaky as ever in the early going, and freakishly large running back Brandon Jacobs kept breaking himself. The defense was mediocre. Then, as the season progressed, the Giants gained momentum. They almost beat the Pats in a final-week stand against Evil, an effort for which they deserve highest karmic marks. They have since proceeded to do the unthinkable, winning on the road three times in the playoffs, defeating teams which had a combined 20-5 home record this season.

All of these unexpected story lines and karmic blessings are about to run smack into the brick wall that is the [expletive deleted] 2007 New England Patriots. The Giants are lucky to be here, the Pats (hitting myself in the knee with a ball-peen hammer) belong here. I'm too ill about this to go into detail. Let's just peek into the future at some excerpts from the box score:

Pats 42, Giants 17

Eli Manning: 23/40, 235 yds, 1 TD, 3 INTs

Plaxico Burress: 5 catches, 105 yds, 1 TD, 1 fumble lost

Brandon Jacobs: 12 carries, 83 yds, 1 TD, left in 3rd quarter with exploded knee/ankle

Wily Wes Welker: 7 catches, 115 yds, 2 TDs

Randy Moss: 2 catches, 85 yds, 2 TDs

Tom Brady: Did not play (fractured body), due to being run over before the game by a Toyota Celica with plates from an undetermined Midwestern state.

Bill Belichick: Cheater.

Ugh.

P.S. GOOD NEWS! A press conference informs us hopeful Indy fans that Coach Dungy will be back with the Colts for another year! The wounds are salved slightly. Slightly.

Well, #@*$#

Stupid Colts.

I guess if you can't beat Billy Volek and Michael Turner at home, you probably weren't going to beat Tom Brady and the Pats at Foxboro. This does not make me feel any better.

Also not making me feel any better: The Chargers are going to get killed by the Pats. And then the Pats are going to kill the NFC representative in the Super Bowl. And they will be the best team ever in the history of the NFL. Evil will have triumphed. At this rate, I fully expect to hear that Marvin and Dungy are retiring. Just a few steps down this road: Hillary Clinton's victory speech in November. Sweet jeepers.

I am now going to return in my mind to a world in which Marvin Harrison had not suffered a debilitating injury, our franchise left tackle had not retired a week before preseason, our interior run stuffer had not blown his Achilles, our pro-bowl DE had not been lost for the season, and a shiny Lombardi trophy was being paraded around the RCA Dome. That makes me feel a little better. A little.

Sellers + Edwards = Genius

Featured at this very moment on Turner Classic Movies is one of the staples of my childhood, The Pink Panther Strikes Again (1976), quite possibly one of the silliest movies ever made. Mom introduced us to the Pink Panther series when I was maybe twelve, and really, what more could you want from a comedy as a twelve-year-old? The wicked and infectious theme by Henry Mancini. A naked-but-for-a-fur-coat Russian spy (played by the downright sexy Lesley-Anne Down) attempting to seduce the hapless Inspector Clouseau, a crew of absurd international assassins including a dwarf with a crossbow, and an insane former police inspector threatening world destruction if Clouseau is not dispatched. Oh, and every possible slapstick moment imaginable, including exploding apartment buildings, suction-cup-arrows in the forehead, laughing gas, and the accidental destruction of an antique piano with a mace from a suit of armor, resulting in the following exchange during a kidnapping investigation that Clouseau thinks is a murder investigation:

Mrs. Leverlilly: You've ruined that piano!
Clouseau: What is the price of one piano compared to the terrible crime that's been committed here?
Mrs. Leverlilly: But that's a priceless Steinway!
Clouseau: Not anymore.

Another classic piece of wit:

Clouseau: (to ancient hotel owner) Does your dog bite?
Owner: No.
Clouseau: Nice doggy. (Pets the dog, which bites him) I thought you said that your dog did not bite!
Owner: That is not my dog.

The dead-on portrayals of Gerald Ford (stumbling, Michigan-football obsessed) and Henry Kissinger (the perfect nasal German accent) probably went over my young head, as did the extended scene in the gay drag club, but they're fun to look back on today.

So to director Blake Edwards, the ridiculously- accented Peter Sellers, and twitchy-eyed Herbert Lom (as the insane Inspector Dreyfus), I say thank you. Oh, and mom, thanks to you too.

Follow-up note: Strikes Again and Return of the Pink Panther are really the only two good entries in the series. A Shot in the Dark is okay, but Revenge of the Pink Panther (now playing on TCM) is not good at all.

Moving on Down.

(I was going to just jump right into this continuation as though there had been no lapse in entries, but it seemed foolish, so instead: I hope that your holidays were filled with all the things that holidays should be filled with, and few of the things that they shouldn't. For my part, life was relaxing and warm-hearted, if a bit lacking in the productivity department. 2007 was, for me and quite a few of the people I know, one hell of a roller-coaster year. May 2008 be less roller-coaster and more hot-air balloon. And now, some more of the story...)

Within the first thirty minutes of our descent into the canyon, Dad and I learned a few things:

1. Walking downhill is rougher than you might think. The trail is well kept but fairly rutted, and it wears a bit on your knees and ankles as you clatter downwards. Also, gravity plus adrenaline means you move faster than you otherwise would, so we got more of a workout than expected.

2. Yes, the mid-thirties temperature were chilly, but the effort of the hike warmed us up in a hurry. I shortly removed my gloves and outer long sleeve shirt, and dad soon lost a layer as well. But hey, I'm glad I over-prepared, because having that extra warmth for twenty minutes was well worth lugging those clothes around the rest of the day. Oh, wait, no it wasn't. I am a cold weather pansy. So be it.

3. Despite gravity's best efforts, it is difficult to make time on the way down because you can't stop taking pictures. The view changes substantially every ten or twenty minutes as you follow switchbacks around point after point, ever downwards.



Also, there are about eight jillion different rock formations that demand consideration, such as this enormous cave where something interesting surely lives, possibly a bear with wicked rappelling skills. Possibly not.


We also saw Boba Fett's crashed spaceship, which I had no idea was in the Grand Canyon:


I still cannot conceive how these rocks got on this ledge. For the sake of perspective, the rocks range in size from human head to refrigerator, and the ledge is at least five hundred feet below the rim of the canyon. And yet, there they sat:


Eventually, we put away our cameras and just took in the view while making some good time. We were upon the first rest station, 1.5 miles in, in about forty-five minutes, and the next station, another 1.5 miles beyond that, came just as quickly. We stopped there for a bit to snack, partially for energy, but mostly so that we could justify bringing thirty-seven pounds of food. I will say that Dad's last-minute addition of four apples was a brilliant move on his part. Clif bars are quite good for what they are, but what they are is fundamentally dry and chewy, and a crisp, juicy apple was a welcome respite from smashed-together bars of oats, nuts, and mysterious energy goo.

I also took the opportunity to use the composting toilet, a miracle of science that will take your bodily contributions and in just three short years turn them into mulch! I'm not sure how it's done, but I suspect "science" is involved. Whatever the process may be, I would still be reluctant to have hiker-generated mulch spread upon my petunias.

It was also at the second rest stop that the first train of mules passed us. I tried my hardest not to sneer at the wimps who couldn't sack it down the trail on their own human feet, but the kind vibes of the canyon led me to a position of grace and mercy. After all, the hairy, pee-spewing equines did make this trip possible for the infirm (well, semi-firm, no wheelchair seating on a mule) and out of shape, and I suppose that is a somewhat justifiable cause. Additionally, sitting five feet off the ground on the back of a beast that can only see half of its peg-like feet must be taxing when said beast is a very short stumble from a very long fall, so there was at least some effort being put forth by the riders, if only in the continual suppression of terror. As dad surveyed the aforementioned geometry, he mused, "What if your mule has a heart attack?"

Another 1.5 miles brought us to Indian Garden Campground. Here we found some campsites for backpackers interested in multi-day hikes, something that I must do some day. We had consumed hardly a quarter of our water, but topped off nonetheless at the only potable water source on the hike. This fountain was disquietingly located immediately downhill from a composting toilet. Most surprisingly, the end of the campground was crossed by a little babbling brook. For the entire trip we hadn't seen a drop of running water (mule contributions excepted) and then apparently out of nowhere, there appeared a full-fledged stream.


Just as unexpected was the verdant foliage that this minimal water source was able to support. As you can imagine, the region around the rim of the canyon is quite arid - not pure desert in its appearance, but generally rugged, populated largely by cacti, scrubby bushes, and tough but undersized pine trees. On the hike into the canyon, the pine trees had disappeared almost immediately, and we had seen no vegetation higher than two or three feet. Here, however, for about thirty yards on either side of the stream grew tall grass and thick green undergrowth.

Even more surprising to me, the area was also bursting with full-sized leafy trees.


Yes, I know, these look like what grow in the average temperate-zone American backyard, but let me emphasize that we had seen no trees like this in terms of height or leafy-green quality since just north of Phoenix. They were wonderfully out of place, a biological anomaly down in this sheltered area of the canyon where a unique intersection of temperature, altitude, soil and water gave us a bit of early-fall foliage in late November.

We wondered at the trees for a while, then pressed on. Plateau Point was another 1.5 miles (kudos to whomever divided up this hike, OCD though they may be), most of it relatively flat. As we departed the Indian Garden area, we reached the point in the hike where the sun became a factor. Very roughly speaking, the Grand Canyon runs longways east-west. It is an average of fifteen miles from the south rim to the north rim, but both rims jut variably into and away from middle of the canyon. The Bright Angel Trail runs north-south in a fault between two of these protrusions, so for the majority of the hike we had been surrounded on two sides by high walls which provided some shade. Just after Indian Garden, the walls fell away and the trail moved out onto the unprotected Tonto Plain. This created a moment in the hike when we could see, ten feet ahead, the exact spot where the shaded ended, and better yet, walk into and back out of the sun if we wanted. I am always fascinated by these moments when the unfathomable mechanics of the universe (size and distance of the sun, rotation of the earth, age and scope of the Grand Canyon, etc.) are illustrated in tiny human degrees that my brain can relish, Homer Simpson-style (Now I'm in the sun! Now I'm in the shade! Now I'm in the sun! Now I'm in the shade!). In addition to inspiring me to walk back and forth like an idiot, the sun also encouraged the shedding of the remaining warm clothes. Low thirties at dawn, high seventies by eleven. That's some dramatic weather.

We moved along the dusty trail that wound its way through the cactus and sagebrush landscape, and the light continued to shift by the minute, bringing new color and shade to our surroundings. As the trail leveled out, the stream and accompanying trees fell away to our right, continuing the descent to the river. This mix of motion, light, and landscape turned great views into spectacular ones:



Plateau Point was within reach. Just a short walk through the sun and we'd be relaxing above the Colorado River, munching an apple and contemplating the upward climb.