The Sporting Life:
The Public Professor’s
Saturday Sports Column
Here we are again, the Steelers in another Super Bowl.
They’ve already claimed six Lombardi trophies, more than any other team. They’re also vying for their third championship in the last six years, making them by far and away the most successful franchise since the Patriots were forced to stop cheating. So
you might think that for a Steelers fan such as myself, lucky number seven would be the icing on the cake, and that having already won two of the last five, it wouldn’t be so bad should they lose this time around.
You would be wrong.
I’ll concede this much. It certainly wouldn’t be like a Vikings fan witnessing the methodical destruction of their team in four Super Bowls over a seven year period. Nor would it be like a Bills fan watching their team go down four straight times, like Joe Frazier against George Foreman. And it would hardly be like a pre-Nike sellout jersey Broncos fan watching their team not only lose four, but losing by wide margins in the first two and getting hammered so badly in the last two that it not only made the Baby Jesus cry, it even made the Baby Buddha reconsider everything he ever thought about the nature of human suffering.
But that’s all I’m conceding. And here’s why.
I’m old enough to remember four of the six championship teams, the last two of the Steel Curtain era against the Cowboys and Rams, and the most recent two with Cowher and Tomlin’s Dick LeBeau-directed defenses besting the Seahawks and Cardinals. But you know which Steelers Super Bowl sticks with me the most? None of those.
It’s the Super Bowl XXX loss to Dallas in January of 1996. That game is seared into my head.
The cocky, coke-addled Cowboys were a big favorite and no one outside of Pittsburgh gave the Steelers much of a chance. But I knew. I knew it was a good match up for them.
I knew that NT Joel Steed was a monster who demanded two blockers, even from Dallas’ grotesquely large offensive line. I knew that the two DEs in that their 3-4 configuration, Brenston Buckner and Ray Seals, would absorb the Dallas 
tackles. I knew ILB Levon Kirkland was the biggest linebacker in the league and could also handle a Dallas guard. I knew that would leave the other LBs, Gregg Lloyd, Kevin Greene, and Chad Brown, free to blitz, drop into coverage, or support the run in their fancy new zone blitz schemes, which came courtesy of Defensive Coordinator Dom Capers (now holding that same job for Green Bay) and LeBeau, his wiz DB Coach. And I knew that even without an injured Rod Woodson (he would make a cameo, becoming the first player to ever return from ACL surgery in the same season), that CBs Willie Williams and converted safety Carnell Lake could stay with the not particularly fast Michael Irvin and the not particularly good Kevin Williams, freeing up the safeties, ball hawk Darren Perry and big hitting Myron Bell, to blitz, support the run, drop back, or cover TE Jay Novacek.
I knew all these things. It was as clear as day to me. Pittsburgh could shut down the mighty Dallas offense, which featured “The Triplets”: their brutish dolt of a quarterback, Troy Aikman; their eminently unlikeable RB, Emmit Smith, the 
kind of prima dona who insisted on keeping the ball every time he scored a TD and having one of its panels lithographed white with the date and score etched into it; and the preening Michael Irvin, who seemed to be single-handedly keeping afloat half the pimps and pushers in north Texas.
I knew they could do it. I knew the Steelers matched up well and that they could shut these guys down. I knew the Steelers could win this game.
I was right, of course. The Steelers defense totally dominated the Dallas offense, yielding only one legitimate TD drive. It came in the first quarter, and it needed a trick play. Aikman threw a bomb to CB Deion Sanders, a player so shallow, garish, and unimaginative, that practically no one over the age sixteen thought he was anything other than a bad joke of a human being left over from the 1980s. That catch led to a short TD pass, and it was the only real drive the Cowboys ever put together.
But we all know how it went. Neil O’Donnell threw three picks. I don’t really blame him. One was a Hail Mary at the end of the game, so it doesn’t count. The 
other two were crucial misreads of the Dallas zone defense, and he dropped them right into the lap of a mediocre CB named Larry Brown, who returned them long enough to set up short TDs and garner himself a huge free agent contract from Al Davis the following off season. Word on the street is that at least one of those picks was the fault of rookie WR Andre Hastings, who failed to make the hot read and break off his route. A conspiratorial paranoid would note that the mediocre Hastings also landed a big free agent deal a few years later, with New Orleans.
The Steelers gained more offensive yards, had 25 first downs to Dallas’ 15, and held the Cowboys to just 56 yards rushing. But they lost. And I was depressed for two weeks. I mean depressed. Draggin’ tail and walking around in a daze, when I bothered to get out of bed at all.
If they lose tomorrow, it won’t be as bad as that. I do have the comfort of the recent victories to keep me warm at night. But it will hurt. Most NFL fans know there’s 
nothing better than winning a Super Bowl, but nothing is worse than losing one. It’s true. Sometimes you remember the bad losses more than the great wins. So tomorrow my future memories are on the line in Super Bowl XLV
Being played in Fuckin’ Dallas, Texas all places.
Just Hopin’ and prayin’. Oi.
You can also find me every Saturday at Meet the Matts.