IT BEGAN with a jolt and a flash and a sign from above, a bolt from out of the blue. The snap, crackle and pop left behind burned bark stripped from a tree but an unscathed group of Giants. We should have known right there.
A lightning strike in the summer couldn’t stop them. Nothing could, just as nothing can stop the journey the Giants commence today, to Tampa, site of Super Bowl XXXV, where destiny and the Ravens await their arrival. Call it improbable, incredible and inconceivable that these Giants, Nobody’s Choice, returned glory and honor and pride to a franchise and a city, all the while crafting the best kind of story. When less is expected, the achievement is that much more precious.
They did not barge in. They crept onto the scene, under cover, losing every one of their four preseason games, sounding naive and misguided.
“We’ll be fine,” Jim Fassel assured the doubters.
“We can’t be stopped,” added Tiki Barber, and everyone rolled their eyes.
Stop rolling. Start staring. At the Super Bowl Giants.
It’s been quite a ride. Here are some of the stops along the way:
THE RISEThe barriers start falling. Hurdles are erected and then knocked down and the Giants are pleased and everyone else suppresses a yawn. Start printing those Thunder and Lightning T-shirts. Fassel always wins the opener and does so again, but he’s never been 2-0. Done. They can’t handle prosperity by beating a patsy on the road. Done. One, two, three. The Cardinals (21-16), the Eagles at the Vet (33-18) and the Bears in Chicago (14-7). No one is calling Mr. Heisman, Ron Dayne, fat and slow any more. Barber is on pace for 1,000 yards and everyone gets a good laugh about that pipe dream. Fassel gets the start he needs to cool the hot seat on which he sits.
INDECENT EXPOSUREWe learned so much here, only we didn’t know what we knew.
Glenn Parker, facing the music: “It starts with us and we played horrible.”
Dave Thomas, facing the music: “I can do better than that. That’s not my style.”
We didn’t much care about character and accountability, not back then, not after Redskins16, Giants 6 and then Titans 28, Giants 14. Let’s see how the 3-0 Giants do against the elite. Ouch, that hurt. Told you so, the league said. A mediocre season awaits.
SUBWAY STREAKUnder the cloak of Yankees-Mets mania and Roger Clemens going batty and Derek Jeter going deep, the Giants embark on the Bum of the Month Club. The Giants win games and influence no one. Down go the Falcons and old friend Danny Kanell, 13-6; down go the Cowboys and Troy (five interceptions) Aikman, 19-14. The Giants get a bye and then, surprise, surprise, come out of it with a win, 24-7 over the Eagles, their favorite patsies, with Dayne gaining yards (93) but losing his lunch.
“We’re 6-2 and all I read about is what we can’t do,” Fassel says.
“I think we’re right where we need to be,” decides Kerry Collins, and no one really is much in the mood to argue that point. After all, the tickertape is falling on the Damn Yankees.
Oh yes, Cleveland, 24-7. Three Collins TDs, four straight Giants wins, a nice record (7-2) and no recognition. What happens the same day down in Arizona is even more interesting. Cardinals 16, Redskins 15. Giants lead the NFC East by 1½ games. If you expect this to last, raise your hand. Higher, we can’t see you.
THE DARK SIDEHere comes Marty Schottenheimer and there goes Jim Fas- sel. What once was a promising season is spiraling out of control and worst of all is that Fassel seems all revved up with no place to go, other than out the door. This confirms the suspicions of those eager to toss dirt on the Giants. Bury them.
Hello, Super Bowl champion Rams. The masquerade that the Giants are legitimate comes to an end, 38-24. The Giants want a taste of the best but can’t swal-low the notion that they were a cut below.
Reality bites.
“Obviously we’re not close enough,” Barber sighed.
Reality ignored.
“I don’t care what anybody is saying about us,” Fassel, red-faced and defiant, snaps. “We plan to play many more big games this year.”
The words have a hollow ring. Big games seem too big for these Giants.
But weep not. The arrival of the Lions offers a reprieve but instead prompts a crisis. Serious teams do not do this, do not fold up and run for cover, do not cower and hide. Whispers abound. The coach has lost the team. Bring us the head of Larry Mac Duff, the buffoon to blame for these special-teams atrocities. Down 21-0, Fassel freaks, gives the halftime tirade from hell and his guys respond by falling behind 28-0 two minutes into the third quarter en route to a 31-21 thrashing. More whispers. For goodness sake, the punter is pointing fingers! Someone named Bashir Levingston is sent packing and everyone thinks Fassel is trying to put out an inferno with a water gun.
They are no longer the first-place Giants, no longer playoff-bound. “I’m going to wipe the smiles off everybody here,” Fassel barks.
At least he’ll get a job as an offensive coordinator next year.
HE’S DRIVING WHAT?Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Today sounds like Turkey Day.
“This team is going to the playoffs,” Fassel announces. He’s wound up, agitated, wild-eyed. “I love this!” he cackles and you want to look for the little metal balls he’s shuffling in his hand. Bus driver, poker player, jockey, train conductor. Certifiable?
The coach makes a guarantee. Players are supportive, but confused. The front office makes nice but is not impressed. Hell, you were 7-2, big-shot, you better damn well get us to the playoffs.
Fassel’s neck is on the block. Chop away.
HAIL TO THE CHIEF“It looks like they took to heart everything I said,” Fassel states after Giants 31, Cardinals 7 in the desert. What served as greater motivation, the guarantee or the sight or Dave Brown on the other side? Very nice, but everyone beats the Cards.
At last, at last, a day to remember. The kick by Eddie Murray is up, it’s . . .
“I’m thinking, God, please, we fought too hard to lose on a play at the end of the game,” Michael Strahan pleads.
. . . no good. The Giants outlast the Redskins 9-7, burst into their visitor’s locker room and catch the final moments of Titans 15, Eagles 13. In Week 14, six games mean something to the Giants, and five go their way. They are alone at the top. This is getting strange.
So is Fassel. Shup up! he tells his team. No more newspapers, no more talking to his staff. The man is on a power trip. Also a winning streak.
The Steelers fall 30-10. “We’ve got the power,” Jessie Armstead declares, “and the power started when coach Fassel made his playoff prediction.”
The bottom drops out in Dallas. Giants are down 13-0 and can’t come back. But they do, 17-13. Gatorade drenching No. 1 for Fassel. Giants clinch the division title.
They close out in style. Collins (three TDs) and Amani Toomer (193 receiving yards) and the Jaguars fall 28-25. Gatorade shower No. 2, party time at Giants Stadium, No. 1 seed in the NFC and what do we make of this?
“Maybe,” Keith Hamilton says, “they’ll doubt us all the way to Tampa.”
TOWEL TIMEGood seats, huh? This should be interesting . . . look at him go! He’s going to score! Ron Dixon, tardy rookie, ringing the bell with a 97-yard kickoff return and here come those crazy, whirling towels, which is not really a New York thing but it looks so wild. Welcome to the playoffs. Beating the Eagles three times is easy, 20-10 this time and Jason Sehorn didn’t do what we think he just did, did he? Gatorade dousing No. 3 for Fassel and everything is grand but the Vikings are next and they’re . . .
Pitiful. Don Larsen isn’t in the building but The Perfect Game lives on. Those who were here long ago insist it’s never looked and sounded quite like this. Confetti, the towels, the noise, the PARTY. Collins hoists five TDs and then the trophy. The Perfect Offense (41 points). The Perfect Defense (0). Fassel is drenched, then carried off in triumph. Wellington Mara takes the mike and talks some trash.
“It was,” Barber decides, “awesome, something to behold.”
The NFC is conquered.
FINAL STOPThe Giants are going to the Super Bowl. They took off today for Tampa. Here they come, a Big Blue bolt, from out of the blue, preparing for another lightning strike.
