Blog

Again, in pretending to some effective degree that the 2001 Super Bowl didn't happen, I've chosen to re-live the glory that was Super Bowl XXV.

I had to work that night, toiling at the neighborhood Carvel, slinging ice cream for the body image-challenged sort that populated the suburban Long Island town I had spent my high school years living amongst. Undaunted, I recall carrying my bedroom television to the store, setting up a makeshift antenna out of aluminum foil that worked a little bit better than awful when one would firmly and repeatedly smack the side of the set, and doing a pretty shitty job selling ice cream sundaes and birthday cakes while the closest Super Bowl in history played out in front of me (along with both the coworkers and loiterers gathered around this flickering, snowy hearth I'd fashioned).

I'll refrain from the recap of the infamous (if you're a Buffalo fan) end. But you can watch the entire final 10 minutes below. Ominously, they talk about Scott Norwood throughout. It always comes down to the kicker in a tight spot. Always seems to, anyway. And they only remember you, as I know they do in Buffalo, when you earn it... for better or worse.