I love the Super Bowl more than hair stylists love getting Pat Mahomes in their salon and even more than Andy Reid loves Tommy Bahama shirts.
It's a national holiday for me. I love old highlights, Roman numerals (You sucked 2016 for their elimination), somebody going to Disney World and the trophy procession at the end. At my count (43), I’ve been mentally cognizant of every Super Bowl since Dallas crushed the orange out of Denver in Super Bowl XII. For every Bradshaw bomb, Montana rally, Manning miracle, Brady drive and Emmitt Smith scamper, I could tell you tales of Jack Squirek’s pick-six, Tim Krumrie’s dangling ankle, Eugene Robinson’s hooker, David Tyree’s helmet-hallelujah, Timmy Smith’s big day and The Philly Special.