I love the Super Bowl more than Bruce Arians loves complaining about being wronged, Rob Gronkowski loves parting shirtless with floozies and Patrick Mahomes’ mom loves reminding everybody on social media that her son’s name isn’t Pat.
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 (44), 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.