Superbowl XXXIX: The Saga of the Game
by Joshua Adams

What kind of inspired madman composes a poem summarizing the tackles, passes, sacks and turnovers that make the Super Bowl the massive sporting event that it is? Joshua Adams, that's who.

This year, under the watchful gaze of the FCC, poetic commentary on the Super Bowl descends into hell. At least metaphorically. For those not inclined to scan verse at random, the poem is written in terza rima, first used to significant effect by Dante in "The Divine Comedy," and later by various scribes, including Percy Shelley and William Carlos Williams. In each stanza, the first and third lines rhyme, while the second line rhymes with the first line of the subsequent stanza, and so on. Sometimes said to give the impression of an endless cavalcade of poetic action, terza rima also has the virtue of being unaffiliated with either Chunky Soup or Donovan McNabb's mother.

The First Half

Midway through the National Anthem, four
jets arrive to reinforce Fox's ratings
at risk, if the Eagles fail to soar.

Why is why, perhaps, the abject baiting
of liberals begins at the earliest
with a huddle of Dons re-enacting

the signing of the Declaration blessed
with Don Shula out of retirement
long enough to distract us from the breasts

of GoDaddy.com advertisements.
Altogether too many punts, for sure
until Terrel Owens, on consignment

revives the crowd from its stupor pure
long enough for McNabb to bite the dust
and throw two pics, the quarterback's cure

for boredom. Will anyone score? Tom must
miss his grandmother dearly, which
explains another punt for the Pats. McNabb

hurls to Pinkston, who soars like a crane
and sets up a flag-ridden scoring drive
but at least livens up a sum zero game.

After review, coach Belicheck is right!
Hop on board the Corey Dillon express
but hold onto the ball in the pile-on fight!

Deion Branch cuts too quick for the rest.
Joe Buck uses the word "unflappable" —
where was he during our GRE test?

Terry Bradshaw or Lenin? Impossible
to tell, but Paul McCartney sounds as good
as ever. Though the wardrobe's reliable,

"Thank you, Super Bowl!" definitely should
have been ad-libbed with "Thank you, John Lennon."
Halftime over, we're still lost in the woods.

The Second Half

A new half, a new Brady, fights seven
rushing Eagles and finds, verily, Vrabel:
six points plus one puts New England in heaven.

Tabasco gives us girls made for cable
which is where Cialis really belongs.
Easy, cowboy, keep the colts in the stable.

Westbrook makes a dazzling catch, strong
to the endzone, and the Eagles have tied
the game ... for now. The third quarter gong

sounds riotous as the Pats slide
from Lexington & Concord to Jacksonville
and Corey Dillon gives the D a ride.

Desperate Housewife Donovan still
heaves blindly into the night, where President
Clinton sits idly, comparatively svelte, quill

in hand should the cheerleaders, confident,
relinquish their digits at last. What now?
An interception by Bruschi cements

the New England lead. Collinsworth allows
more meandering prognostication,
while Terrell Owens makes good on his vow.

The clock won't choose to take a vacation
while the Eagles continue to huddle
McNabb, free of intimidation

connects for a touchdown, on the bubble
of a comeback the Eagles' onside kick
goes right to the Pats, who render it rubble.

In the future, Philly, no-huddle's the trick
to moving the ball when the clock winds down.
The Pats a dynasty? Better believe it.

— Joshua Adams (joshua at uchicago dot edu)

— graphic by Derek Evernden (derek@ocellus.net)