A Great Show
If you could pick the most common pair of first and last names in America, high atop the list, probably only beaten by John Smith, is Mike Jones. Mike Jones is an everyman. Mike Jones is omnipresent, that person embodying America. Mike Jones shies away from the limelight, putting his hard-hat on every day, never admiring the stars nor shooting for them. Mike Jones is in every community, picking up his lunchpail eating a hamburger. Mike Jones is the person responsible for the best finish in the best game in the biggest sporting event in America's history. Mike Jones is the guy who made The Tackle.When Trent Green was writhing in pain on the Trans World Dome Turf, there was no darker gotham in the country than the Gateway to the West. Green was the future, the messiah. He was the man that, along with Marshall Faulk, would lead the Rams to glory, the handsome QB that could throw daggers all over the field to his fast, fleet flankers messers Bruce and Holt. On that day, Rams President John Shaw called owner Georgia Frontiere and unearthed a depressing, vulgar tirade about the decrepid luck of his club. A few hundred miles away, Jeff Fisher wondered, "is this the year?". That was a question worth answering of Fisher. Fisher was known as a talented and smart coach, but one that was in an run of mediocrity unmatched. Under his direction, the Oilers had gone 8-8 in three straight seasons, playing in three different home stadiums (the Astrodome, The Liberty Bowl and Vanderbilt Stadium). Fisher was confident, as he was dealt a team with good character players and been branded a new home (Adelphia Coliseum) and a new name, the "Titans". There was uncertain pessimism in Nashville, and despair in St. Louis, both ridiculously misguided. Little did Jeff Fisher, or Georgia Frontiere know, those two teams would put on the Greatest Show the Super Bowl had, and has, ever seen.
If one man new the power of Kurt Warner (other than Warner, and God for that matter, as Kurt would say) it was Dick Vermeil. The oft-crying coach, in a agitated sob that only he could rightfully pull off, lowered his voiced, focused his eyes and let out a decree. "We will rally behind Kurt Warner" he decreed, "and we will play good football." From Vermeil's ears to Kurt Warner's arm to Keith Lyle and Kevin Carter's bodies, it was true. The Rams were great, pacing the NFC with 13 wins, scoring 526 points and allowing just 242. The were the Greatest Show on Turf, with Mike Martz as the oafish ringleader, choreographing an aeriel show unrivaled in the legaue. Kurt Warner played like how the greatest Rams optimist envisioned the now-fallen and forgotten Green leading the team. The Rams were the best.
As for those Titans, they weren't. They scratched and clawed their way through the season, with a mental resolve that mirrored their gruff coach and stoic quarterback, a man named McNair. With Eddie George pounding, McNair passing, and a defense led by a freak, they copped 13 wins, but lost out to Jacksonville albeit beating them twice. Their storied year never reach the status, or exposure, of the Rams. The Titans just battled quietly in their new stadium, isolated from the league in small-town Tennessee. However, like the 'Titans' of Rome, they ran through the leagues, rolling into the enemies most daunting, that of 13-3 Indianapolis and 14-2 Jacksonville, and beat them up, in every way possible. They won with brute force, the Rams with brilliant flames.
That label, however, suffered a major hemmhorage in the NFC Title Game, when the big, bad Bucs came to the Gateway, with a defense that would be in the middle of the Greatest run of Defense since the Steel Curtain. The Bucs came into the game and fought and clawed their way, playing the perfect Tampa-2, a system named for their team, built to beat the other one. The Rams sat leery-eyed, finally realizing that Kurt Warner was still an MVP.... of an Arena League team. Kurt Warner was still a rookie, was still young and imperfect. Trudging down the field, facing a 3rd down and a 6-5 defecit, Kurt heaved a prayer, one that nestled over the outsretched arm of Brian Kelly, and settling in the hands of Ricky Proehl. Kurt Warner threw 41 tds (becoming the first person not named Marino to cross 40), yet Proehl did not catch a single one. He was option 5, if not 6, bested by Isaac Bruce, Torry Hold, Marshall Faulk and Az-Zahir Hakim. He was the forgotten man, slipping behind the Tampa-2, sliding into history. It was finally. The Rams. The Titans. Brash. Braun. Stunning Theatrics against Strong Tactics. It was cinderella, with both teams jockeying for the title. Clock would strike 12, but not before one hell of a ball.The fact that the Rams and Titans were playing in the Super Bowl was scary enough, and coupled with the fact that Atlanta had an icestorm on Super Bowl Saturday, it was just set up for brilliance. If there was a way to draw up the way the game would be great, it would have the Rams playing to their full offensive potential, flying up and down the field, with the resourceful Titans blitzing and battling their way to forcing Rams field goals. It would have Eddie George and Stebe McNair proudly and passionately putting it all on the line, dropping blood, sweat and tears, if not other bodily fluids, onto the Georgia Dome turf, clawing that team back into the game. The fact that each and every one of these things happened was surprising. It was the Super Bowl, after all, the game that had featured a score of 55-10 just ten years ago, and 49-26 five. Now the Super Bowl is annually a close, competitive game, and it all started on that icy Sunday in Atlanta.
The Rams were the Rams, Warner was Warner, Faulk was Faulk and the Greatest Show was the Greatest Show. Kurt Warner threw for 277 yards in the first half, a total that topped 57 of the 66 Super Bowl QBs performances... for the entire game. Faulk had a long catch, Bruce had multiple. Torry Holt seemed to be running with rockets attached to his feet. Even Fred Miller, a paunchy 330 lb lineman got into the act. Yet, there was trouble. The Titans aggresive blitz scheme (led by the mad-man that is Gregg Williams, late of Saints fame, the perfect foil to the mercurial Martz) pounded Warner, and the Titans embodied Roman Warriors keeping the city of fortune, the end zone safe, forcing five field goals, one missed and one snap bobbled and just 9 points. It was a half that entertained, as the Rams played offense between the 20s better than ever before, and also embarrased, with four unsuccesful field goal attempts between the two teams. They entered the locker room, the Rams dominating on the stat-sheet, but relatively scraping the scoreboard 9-0.
The Rams continued with their routine, jetting down the field and then getting stopped twice inside the 10-yard line. The second stop was a short pass, which led to the Titans defensive enforcer Blaine Bishop hitting his head and lying motionless on the ground. After the game stalled, the Rams finally did not, with Warner hitting Holt, giving the Rams a 16-0 lead. The game was over. No team had ever come back from by more than 10. The Titans were down 16, and had failed to put up a point.
Titans: 173 yards.
Rams: 1 yard.
Titans: 16 points
Rams: 0 points.
Titans: 18:53.
Rams: 1:42.
Those are the stats of pure domination. Those are the stats of one team, led by two supreme athletes and even more supreme competitors, using sheer will to drain every last bit of energy away from their opponents. After Jeff Fisher's memorable "They're celebrating. They're celebrating. Go Win the GAME!!!! GO WIN THE GAME!!!!!!!" speech, the Titans did just that, personified by Eddie George's amazing one yard touchdown run, where he carries himself and some fat, tired Ram behemoth into the endzone. The game was now in the balance. In a quarter and a half, the game was reversed on its axis. Hell had indeed frozen over. It would soon be thawed.
With his team having done nothing offensively, and less than that defensively, Warner got the opportunity to do what every child dreamt of, the chance at being the hero in the Super Bowl, something that would seemed so very far away four years earlier when he was the hero, of the famed Arena Bowl. Sadly, he did not get that opportunity, as he scored too fast. One play. One pass, with one catch and run on the back-end, and all that work the Titans put in was gone. The identity of the Rams was their ability to score quick, and it was that self-same identity, the single thing that mysticized opponents, that allowed the Rams to erase 20 minutes of futility. Warner, holding strong under intense pressure from Jevon Kearse (a man has never done more to earn his nickname than Kearse's "The Freak"), unloaded a lofty hanging ball, that Bruce deftly adjusted to, caught and bobbed and weaved his way to the end zone. Suddenly, just 15 seconds after all was lost, it was Rams 23 Titans 16. Setting up the most memorable final drive in Super Bowl history.
Steve McNair got the same opportunity that Warner got, although he had to start from his own 12 yard line, 88 yards away from Glory, a trip to Disney World, and a huge diamond studded ring. 88 yards away from history, magic and triumph. He got 87. It was a slow drive, but one that was played out perfectly, the steady Titans, never gaining more than 14 yards on any play, overpowering and out-willing the Rams tired defense. McNair, who twice ran for 16 yards and drew another 15 on a penalty, standing back, a tree-trunk of a man in strength, and a heart and will the size of a California Redwood, guided that team down to the Rams 26. Facing a 3rd and 5, with 18 seconds to go, it was almost over. After the snap, the Rams defense finally siphoned enough energy to get at McNair, forcing him out, being chased by two men largers, stronger and faster than McNair. Yet, they were not tougher. McNair, bouyed by his hand pivoting the turf, stayed balanced and calm against the highest of choas, steadied himself and fired one last desperate pass, one that lasered into the breast of Kevin Dyson. 7 seconds left, one last play, one last chance. That trip to Disney world once stood 88 yards away, now only 10.
This was it, the play that would forever be known as the tackle. The day all the no-man's Mike Jones' of the world rejoiced. The Rams defensive no-name leader Mike Jones, steady but not spectacular all day, stood ready to face one last play. He had no idea it would be his desire, solely, that would bring home a trophy for St. Louis. Kevin Dyson ran the perfect route, on the perfect play, one that allowed him to matched up with the slower Jones, three yards away from the end zone. Jones leaped out, hands around Dyson's legs, bringing him down awkwardly on top of himself. When it was done, a swift yet eternally long moment in time, the Greatest Super Bowl of All-Time ended with the Titans one yard short. There was no need for any more, as pure exhaustion sunk into the Rams, and desperate darkness into the Titans. The teams, the flashy Rams that showed more heart than known, and the sturdy Titans that showed just how far their fight could reach, fought for 60 minutes, piling up points and yards. Yet, it had the ending for any fan and purist. Football, as it was once written by Paul "Bear" Bryant, "is a game of tackling. Period". There was no better way for the Super Bowl to end then by a single tackle, a perfect tackle, a perfect ending.
"He was a warrior. He was a sweet man. I have never met a man that could combine those two things in a more perfect way that Steve McNair. May he never be forgotten. May he always be remembered for what he did for his team, and his community. Steve, we love you." - Jeff Fisher
RIP. Steve McNair. You didn't lose, you ran out of time.