Super Bowl XLII v. Game 7, 2003 ALCS

If you are a Boston sports fan, one topic you have probably kicked around with your friends over these last few weeks is where does the Patriots' loss in the Super Bowl rate as compared to other difficult losses in Boston sports history.

If you are not a Boston sports fan, this is also probably the time you a) stop reading, b) yell at the computer, "who cares about Boston fans", or c) all of the above. 

Seeing that I am a Boston sports fan, I will let you know how I rate the Patriots' defeat.

The big ones that immediately come to mind essentially deal with the Red Sox.

Bucky Dent's home run in the single-game playoff game against the Yankees in 1978.

Game Six of the 1986 World Series. (I refuse to call this the Buckner game because that implies it was Buckner's fault. To anyone who actually watched the game, you know the game was lost before the ball went through his legs—by that point, it was just a matter of the how and when).

Game Seven of the 2003 ALCS against the Yankees when Grady Little inexplicably left Pedro Martinez in the game in the bottom of the 8th to surrender four straight hits and three runs, and the Yanks went on to win on the Aaron Boone home run (again, I won't call this the Aaron Boone game, because this game was lost in the 8th inning, and again, at that point, it was just a matter of when and how).

Two other defeats come to mind, this time dealing with the Celtics.

Game Four of the 1987 NBA Finals when Magic Johnson hits a skyhook to defeat the Celtics at the buzzer, and the Lakers would go on to win the title, stopping Boston's chance at title 17 (which they are still looking for); and then the next season, when the Celtics lost to the Pistons in the Eastern Conference Finals.

Quickly, I dismiss the two Celtics' losses.

Magic's hookshot was such a memorable moment—Bird hit the three, then after a missed free throw, the Lakers get the ball back, Magic hits his shot.  Then Bird has one more chance, gets a clean look, and to the disbelief of everyone watching the game, the ball goes in and out.  And the next season, losing to the Pistons in 1988 stands out to me because it ended a run of four-straight trips to the finals, and as a kid growing up just outside of Boston, I just took for granted that the Celtics would be in the finals every year.

Looking back, it also was the end of the Celtics dynasty—Bird would miss most of the '89 season, and back problems would limit him the rest of his career until his retirement in 1992.  And it wasn't until this season that the Celtics became relevant again.  But in the end, I have so many great memories of those Celtics teams, and of Bird specifically, that when I close my eyes and think back, it would take a long time before my memory got me thinking about either of those losses.

Back to the Red Sox.

We all know about the Red Sox's terrible losses over the years pre-2004.  Obviously I have seen many replays and many stories (especially when Fox broadcasts a Red Sox game) about these losses.  But to be honest here, I was too young to remember 1978, and even 1986—I remember watching the game and being upset, but definitely did not have a real understanding of what I had just watched. I was upset mostly because my older brother was upset, and as a child, I took most of my cues from him.

Which brings us to 2003—I will never forget anything about watching that game.

Living in another city, I watched the game alone because I was too nervous to watch it with anyone else.  I didn't want to watch the game with non-Red Sox fans who wouldn't have understood what I was going through as I watched the game.  I had been trained to be a Red Sox fan, and part of me expected the worst, and didn't want other people around to see me cry if the worst did occur.

I never allowed myself to think the Red Sox would win.  I had a bad feeling when Mike Mussina relieved Roger Clemens (wow, a big game where Clemens came up short—shocking that could have happened) with men on first and third and no outs.  The score was 4-0, but Mussina struck out Varitek and somehow got Damon to ground into an inning-ending double play.  When Giambi hit his second homer of the game to cut the lead to 4-2, I became even more nervous.

But then Pedro got out of the seventh, striking out Soriano, pointing to the sky and walking off the mound.  I exhaled.  Pedro was getting hugs from his teammates throughout the dugout.  A week earlier, in game five of the ALDS, in a similar situation, Pedro gave the Sox seven strong innings before Grady Little turned the game over to the bullpen to close out the Athletics.

David Wells came in for the Yankees to start the top of the eighth, and David Ortiz immediately homered for a 5-2 lead.  For the fitst time all game, I started to believe. 

Six outs away and the trio of Timlin, Embree and Williamson had been great all postseason.  Bottom of the 8th, and who is on the mound—Pedro. And the rest, as we say, is history.  When the ball left Boone's bat, I think I had the TV off before it even landed in the stands.  I may have kicked a few things, but then I remember just sitting on my couch in the dark for what must have been hours.

My girlfriend lived nearby at the time, and she waited a little bit after the game, then called to check up on me. First my apartment phone then my cell phone—no answer.  Her roommate's boyfriend (a Yankee fan nonetheless), told her she might want to go check up on me. She walked over to my apartment, knocked on the door, and I didn't answer.  It wasn't that I didn't want to answer the phone, or open the door even though I was on the couch right next to it—it was that I was in such a daze that I never heard the numerous phone calls from several friends.  I was so overwhelmed by complete disbelief of what had just transpired (no way a living, breathing manager would leave Pedro in a game to give up four straight hits and three runs in the 8th inning) that I never heard anything else going on around me.

I stumbled around like that for a few days before the fog began to lift a little.

Then the Yankees lost to Josh Beckett and the Florida Marlins (why can't we get players like that?) and I felt a little better—at least I got to watch the Yankees lose.

Then came 2004 and the greatest comeback in the history of sports, and suddenly, I couldn't have cared less about 2003.  The suffering from 2003, and all the previous years, almost made 2004 that much sweeter.  Now when Fox and ESPN fulfill their contractual duties by showing the clip of the Aaron Boone home run before every Sox-Yankees game they televise, I don't even care. It almost makes me laugh.

And this is why the Patriots losing the Super Bowl to the Giants is the worst defeat I have ever had to watch as a sports fan.  Nothing will ever minimize or take away the pain I feel as a fan from the Patriots' loss.

Admittedly, the initial pain was far less than the pain from 2003—but here I am, over two weeks later, and I still can't stop thinking about it.  I will be walking to work, or watching TV, or trying to sleep, and I will begin to replay the game in my mind and wonder what went wrong?

How could a team that looked so unbeatable, lose on the game's largest stage?  How could the highest scoring offense in NFL history with Tom Brady and his 50 TD passes and Randy Moss and his 23 TD receptions, struggle so mightily against a team they scored 38 points against just a few weeks earlier?  And how could a team that had prided itself on one game at a time, play their worst game of the season with the most on the line?

Some would say the pain from the loss to the Giants is diminished because the Patriots have already won three Super Bowls. If you grew up a Patriots' fan in the pre-Bill Parcells/Bob Kraft days, you couldn't ever have imagined one Super Bowl, let alone three (not to mention a 21-game winning streak from 2003-04 and a perfect regular season).  If the Patriots had been 17-1 going into the Super Bowl, I would agree completely.

But they weren't—they were 18-0.  They had a shot at immortality—at being the only team ever to go 19-0.  It would have made them arguably the greatest team in NFL history, and the franchise could take its place next to the Packers of the '60s, Steelers of the '70s, and Forty-Niners of the '80s as the greatest dynasties in NFL history.  They had a shot to make the 1972 Miami Dolphins irrelevant, and force Don Shula and Mercury Morris and the rest of that team to get on with their lives.  But all of that went away with the 17-14 defeat to the Giants.

This was their shot—the Patriots could come back next year and win the Super Bowl—they could win five more Super Bowls and it won't change how I feel about the loss this year.

I was never a great athlete (or even a mediocre athlete), so I, like so many other sports fans, try to live vicariously through the teams I root for.  Because of that, there is something special in being able to say you are a fan of a team that has just won a championship, knowing you have been there all along.  The feeling is even better when you can attach yourself not just to a winner, but to an all-time great. 

I have loved the Boston Celtics for as long as I can remember—but what matters most to me as a Celtics fan is thinking about that 1986 team.  Yes, they were just one of 16 title winners for the C's, but they were different—they were one of the all-time greats, and no matter what has happened since, or will happen, nothing can take that away.

The 2007 Patriots had that chance, and as a fan, I had that chance to attach myself to the only 19-0 team in NFL history.  Tom Brady said before the game that one way or the other, this is a game those playing in it will never forget.  He was exactly right.

I will never forget Super Bowl XLII.  And that is why, Giants 17-Patriots 14, is the worst loss I have ever experienced as a sports fan.