I had the chance, as did most of America, to watch the Saints win Super Bowl XLIV, which I had to convince my niece stood for “44” in Roman numerals and not some text language slang.

Here are my thoughts, in no particular order:

I was in Knoxville the weekend before the Super Bowl. I now understand why Peyton Manning is such a student of the game. There is nothing to do in Knoxville. While attending UT, he had plenty of time to study football and study film and study playbooks and shuffle his feet and not go to class and study some more.

Pre-game orchestra rap with Jay Z and Rihanna.

Just when the NFL thought Brett Favre was their poster child for bouncing back from a beating, here comes Rihanna.

An odd combination there. Orchestra music in a rap song? You also had the Saints in the Super Bowl.  That’s not common either.  So who knows?  Maybe we’ll soon see Tiger Woods in a monogamous marriage.

The kicker for the Colts is 42 years old. Matt Stover.

42? Now we know whose dad invited The Who to the game.

How old is The Who anyway? The only way they’re connected to the Super Bowl is that they actually remember when people used Roman numerals.

The Super Bowl Shuffle is back.  Not only the dance with Jim McMahon. But also Peyton Manning’s feet. Not only did he throw a costly interception, but he also broke the top score in Dance Dance Revolution.

The Saints were America’s sentimental favorite because of the damage New Orleans suffered at the hands of Katrina.  I felt bad for the Colts.  The only team I feel worse for is whatever country plays Haiti in the World Cup.  When some guy blocks a penalty kick he’ll hear from the world, “You’re a dick!”

Tim Tebow tackled his mom in a commercial. Just when you thought that jump-pass thing he does was the most unmanly thing in his arsenal.

Congrats, New Orleans!!  I hope you party like it’s MCMXCIX.

Categories: Columns