Super Bowl XLIII: A Work of Fiction

I have this problem: I’m a writer, a fiction writer at that. As a writer—and, subsequently, as a reader—you learn that there is no such thing as a “wasted” word, sentence or phrase. Everything means something; everything is advancing the plot, directly or indirectly, foreshadowing things to come, even the blue and white tennis shoes a female character wears to work out in. 

Because of this, however, I read into things...check that...I read into everything. It is both a blessing and a curse. I can tell instantly whether the girl at the bar is legitimately into me or if she is a secretly insecure cutie seeking validation in the form of male attention. 

Earlier this week, I spoke with a gentleman from Minnesota wearing a green Boston Celtics hat, and instantly knew he was one of two things: A Kevin Garnett fan that followed his hero to Boston or an Irishman. During our conversation, he revealed to me how proud he was to be Irish. 

This also works against me at times. How was I to know that a female co-worker furiously attacking a Tootsie pop, mere seconds after saying, “You know, I really like that Lil’ Wayne ‘Lollipop’ song,” was not some form of awesome sexual innuendo.

How about the time she wore two-inch heels to the bar one night knowing that I hate when my female companions tower over me and my 5'10" frame.

Damn it! This is a sign that she’s about to break up with me!       

If Super Bowl XLIII were a work of fiction, the story would begin at Paul Brown Stadium in January of 2006 with the Pittsburgh Steelers needing a big play to put away the Cincinnati Bengals. Then-Steelers coach, Bill Cowher, turns to his offensive coordinator, a brilliant young assistant named Ken Whisenhunt, for the game-changing play.

Whizzy, as the cool kids call him, draws up a flea-flicker, which of course is executed to perfection, clinching the game and setting in motion a dramatic run to a Super Bowl championship for the Men of Steel.

The story picks up the next offseason with Cowher resigning and the Steelers picking Mike Tomlin, a younger, badass defensive genius from Tampa Bay as the new coach over the Steelers’ own Whisenhunt.  Clearly, Whizzy’s flashy offensive schemes are too gimmicky for the hard-nosed Steelers.

Faced with no other options (as the story makes it seem) Whisenhunt takes over the hapless Arizona Cardinals, the league’s worst franchise.

Meanwhile, Kurt Warner, the gritty, gutty, grizzly veteran quarterback looking to find a new home, finds one with Whizzy’s Cardinals...as a backup to a young upstart named Matt Leinart. Whisenhunt is skeptical of Leinart and his partying ways from the get-go, but with so much of the Cardinals’ money invested in the All-American boy, Whizzy has no choice but to start Leinart over Warner. 

The thing is Warner knows he can still play; Whizzy knows it too, but can do nothing as Leinart struggles while his old team, the Tomlin-led Steelers, regain their status as one of the NFL’s elite franchises.

“Screw it,” Whisenhunt says at the beginning of the next season.  “Kurt’s my guy.  I don’t give a damn what people think.”

Well, “people” are skeptical, apprehensive, whatever you want to call it, as Warner begins the season as the Cardinals’ #1 guy. 

“Warner’s washed up,” radio callers shout on Phoenix area sports-talk radio stations.  “This ain’t St. Louis and this ain’t 1999.”

Warner, Whizzy and the rest of the Cardinals refuse to listen to those “people” and, out of nowhere, a funny thing happens:  They start winning.

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