New England Patriots Crawl Across Finish Line Next to Last.
I think we can all understand how the Patriots must feel going home, licking their wounds from the drubbing Seattle gave them. They should have known it would be humiliating, when the Porcupine of Prophesy warned them in vain to forfeit:
But with that stubborn New England resolve that saw them through Valley Forge and the career of the Red Sox, these hard-headed sons of the barren, rocky northeastern soil that gave us such luminaries as the Boston Strangler and Benedict Arnold pressed on, determined to dash themselves against the Mount Rainier of valor, integrity, sportsmanship and, gosh darn it, American pluck and sanctity that are our Hawks.
An aside: some people ask me if I, like the superstitious Toby Zeigler of The West Wing, wrote two pieces, one if the Hawks won and another if they lost:
But, of course, I did not, for I knew that failure–true failure–was impossible for the Legion of Boom, and they did not disappoint. Oh sure, seen with the eyes of worldly man, they “lost” in the sense of not racking up points on some so-called “scoreboard” somewhere. But when you see with the eyes of True Insight you realize the real game of the Spirit they were playing and grasp how overwhelming our victory was. I get misty just thinking about it.
The Hawks, as is their gracious and gentlemanly custom, let the opposing team score the first points. Then, lest the Patriots become too big with pride, they scored an equal amount, did the whole thing again, and brought things to a tie by half time.
Some felt that they were holding back. And when, renewed by the awesome spectacle of American Womanhood that was Katy Perry, they returned to the field in the second half, it became clear that this was all too true. Suddenly, the Hawks brought their A Game. They quickly dominated the Patriots and retained that domination to the bitter end. It was as though, by some ancient art, they were drawing strength from the very bones and muscles of the earth herself, as though God had given Russell Wilson some preternatural power infused in him by sheer sacramental gift to tread down his foes like grass, to hear the lamentation of their women. Sorely was that holy man tempted to simply give in to naked, pagan pride, to recreate the nightmarish world of our barbaric long fathers in which the strong do as they will and the weak suffer what they must.But no. When the Hawks had brought the ball to within one yard–ONE YARD–of overwhelming victory and made clear to the entire world that it was entirely *our choice* whether to tread the dignity of a proud team of mere mortals into the mire, Russell Wilson, a Christian gentleman of the highest calibre, chose to lay down the perishable crown of earthly glory for a golden one of celestial greatness. Seized with mystical insight and ineffable charity for the least of these, Wilson’s eye, wet with the tears of pure compassion and love for his enemies, realized that we had had the trophy for an entire year, we had driven the Patriots to within inches of despair, we had already proven we could win this game!
Knowing that, and secure in his profound manhood, Wilson therefore made the bold choice, the unexpected choice, the divine choice: he threw the ball to Malcolm Butler (already told in a vision that the Superbowl crown, both the glory and the burden, would pass to him). Having thus humbly laid down his own pride, Wilson was assured a place in the pantheon of true winners in the kingdom of heaven, where he may be shortly going when grateful Seattle fans greet him on his return.
The Seahawks, for their part, graciously accepted this gesture of humility and engaged in a little manly wrassling with the Patriots in the closing moment of the game as their way of saying “Good effort, guys! Happy to let you win!”, leading to some good-natured whistle-blowing from refs and so forth. Seattle fans went home filled with sheer amazement at Seattle’s last play.
New England Patriots: You did your level best and nobody can ask any more than that. I’m sorry that you were not able to win without our doing everything in our power to give you the victory and I realize how humbling that must be to you. But we in Seattle, with our customary towering humility, want you to know that we still respect you after that embarrassing game and wish you well as you strive to become just half the man that St. Russell Wilson is. Hope to see you next year at Super Bowl 50!