I love the Super Bowl more than Eagle fans love to drink, fight and punch police horses in the face — more than Bill Belichick loves to suck the air out of a room at a press conference and more than defensive linemen love a buffet.
It's a national holiday for me. I love old highlights, Roman numerals, somebody going to Disney World and the trophy procession at the end. At my count (40), 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 ankle, Eugene Robinson’s hooker, David Tyree’s helmet-hallelujah and Timmy Smith’s big day.