Thanks for Four Years of Awesome
So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish
Blogged Around Philly: Farewell Edition
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I have very few vivid memories from my early childhood in small town Western Pennsylvania. I remember sitting in my grandparents' house, on the orange circa-1965 bean bag, watching the 1987 Fiesta Bowl where Penn State narrowly edged #1 Miami 14-10 to claim their second national championship. More importantly, I remember watching a muted television on Sundays while listening to an overly enthusiastic, hyperbolic man chart the Pittsburgh Steelers' battles to victory on the radio. Yes, like every other black and gold blooded Steeler fan, Myron Cope reared me in the ways of Blitzburgh.
For the past two years, however, I have been here, amidst the followers of a certain rare bird of prey. Unrelenting in their passion for all things Eagles, the fans of Philadelphia remind me of the fans of Pittsburgh, save for, of course, the jewelry adorning our five fingers. It's this same relentlessness that has holed me up in places like Fox and Hound or my humble abode for fear of verbal abuse at showing my true colors. Throughout the playoffs I have not had that same fear. I have been waving my Terrible Towel, proudly sporting my Super Bowl XL championship t-shirt, and humming the"Here We Go, Steelers" anthem that has been a part of Steeler lore since the era of Terry Bradshaw, Jack Ham, Franco Harris, Lynn Swan, Jack Lambert, Mean Joe Greene, and the rest of the vaunted Steel Curtain defense.
The passion in my family for the Steelers is due to our roots in DuBois, Pennsylvania, a tiny blip on the map of Steeler Nation. It spans generations (well, maybe only 3, but still) and doesn't discriminate man, woman or child. There are those that strongly believe that a rooting interest is developed due to geography; I am not in that camp. Were my family to have moved to an alternate locale, I would still be a Steeler fan.
Over Thanksgiving, my girlfriend had the pleasure of experiencing her first Sunday with my family, a ritual that includes eating pizza, drinking pop (we don't drink soda in Western PA), my entire family borne of my maternal grandparents (which totals 15 people between the ages of nine and 75) and a lot of hollering at an event that yelling cannot and will not ever change. It's funny, but it's us; thank god she accepted that.
This Sunday, which team is hoisting the Lombardi trophy at the end of 60 grueling minutes is going to come down to two things: the Steelers' offensive play against a rejuvenated Cardinals defense and how the Cardinals deal with the pseudo-home field advantage for the Steelers that seems to be a given. If the Steelers are to win, only two players can realistically be the MVP: Ben Roethlisberger or Willie Parker. Number seven cannot play like he did in his last go round. Antwaan Randle-El bailed him out with the touchdown pass to Hines Ward. If Fast Willie has a monster game, it will allow Roethlisberger to pick and prod an Arizona defense when it shifts its focus to the run.
As I prepare for this Sunday's matchup, my excitement has been palpable. I can't really remember being this excited during the Super Bowl run of 2006. My life has become more stable since then, allowing me to focus more on Big Ben, Fast Willie, Santonio Holmes and Hines Ward (who is in dire need of a nickname befitting his smash mouth and often maligned style of play). Just as the championship teams of the seventies were my elder family members' teams, this team of the early two-thousands is mine. We have our own defensive identity and all! As Dave Dameshek says, it doesn't matter if you're black or white, as long as you're black and gold. The Terrible Towel is poised to strike this Sunday in Tampa. May the spirit of Myron be with us.
There are some things in life that you cannot choose; those are the things that choose you
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