Mr. Warren Sapp, historian and menace, cited as precedents the work of the Purple People Eaters, the Steel Curtain, the Cowboys who brought Doomsday and the Fearsome Foursome of a time before time -- before football became so important it needed Roman numerals.
All those great defensive units were the beating hearts of dynastic teams. Which is what we see now in Mr. Sapp, Simeon Rice, and their playmates in menace, the Buccaneers, for whom we the media have been so lax in our creative duties that we have yet to give them a roguish handle.
One thing is different, Mr. Sapp said, about those historic teams and his Buccaneers: "I don't think any of them had to face an offense like the one we faced." A smile of warm contentment moved across Mr. Sapp's broad face as he added, "And we put a choke hold on 'em."
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So we might call these Bucs the Chokers, except that anyone doing that would have to face Mr. Sapp and explain his reasoning. No, thankee.
Better to try another line of thought, this one suggested by Raiders quarterback Rich Gannon, who came to the Super Bowl as the NFL's MVP after as near perfect a season as any flinger of the hoghide ever dreamed of.
Said poor Gannon after throwing five balls to the Bucs, three returned for touchdowns: "A nightmarish performance."
Dear Mr. Sapp: Is it safe to call you and your buddies The Nightmares?
Rice thinks so. What Mr. Sapp does inside at tackle, Rice does from the edge -- a defensive end whose speed is that of lightning. We know that because he tells us so. A media wretch thought to ask Rice in the wake of the havoc wrought on the Raiders, "Do you think you were a nightmare to Barry Sims?"
"Who?" Rice said, as if the Raiders tackle never existed, or had ceased to exist, or perhaps by now wishes he had never existed. Then Rice said, "I don't think he slept, knowing he had to see me." But Rice brightened, quick as lightning at trash talk, and said, "If he did get any sleep, yeah, he sure wouldn't dream. It'd been nightmares."
Nightmares 48, Raid-uh-ohs 21.
Even before they played, The Nightmares knew this would be a dream.
The safety, Dexter Jackson, knew what you'd have thought everyone knew by now: that when Rich Gannon pump-fakes a long pass left, he comes back deep to the right. Mr. Sapp testified to that during the week's preparations; Jackson came to him and said, "I'm gonna get me one, big man."
He got two. Got them in about five minutes. Got them when the game was in the making. From a 3-3 tie, Jackson's interceptions gave the Bucs the field position and psychological edge that led to a 13-3 lead.
Once ahead by 10 points, only one team in 37 Super Bowls has ever lost -- a factoid that may have been in Mr. Sapp's thoughts when he said of the Nightmares' 20-3 halftime lead, "We dug the hole, and we're really good at putting you in and putting the dirt on you."
Speed did it. At times, the Raiders must have wondered if there were 13 Nightmares on the field. They were everywhere: Rice here, Sapp there, Jackson flying to the ball. "Our speed," Jackson said, "is that fast." As fast as thought. As fast as lightning. As fast as a Simeon Rice quote on why the Raiders couldn't complete a pass: "You can't hold on to the ball when it's hot in the quarterback's hands." Which means a quarterback in the heat of pursuit by Mr. Sapp and Rice is a man eager to dump the hot potato somewhere, anywhere.
One more thing, a curious thing. The last time a George Bush was president, the 1991 Super Bowl became a pep rally for war against Iraq and Saddam Hussein. The president's visage was telecast into the stadium. He exhorted the nation to whip up on any nation crossing the borders of another. Here it is, still Iraq and Saddam in our gun sights with another George Bush leading cheers in the ballpark. But this time Iraq is just sitting there. Guess who has border-crossing in mind?
Square-jawed, of course, and handsome as a cloudless day in San Diego, of course, U.S. Marine Corps 1st Lt. Dennis Dalton rides backseat in an F-18 Hornet fighter/bomber. At 1,200 mph in a $50 million machine, he tells the flyboy up front when and where to unload the killing goods. He's a weapons-and-sensors officer, "a wizzo," he says with a smile.
That top gun's heartbreaker smile is there even when he tells you, at a Super Bowl party, that soon, maybe very soon, he'll leave the Marine Corps Air Station north of San Diego. To quote the lieutenant: "We're getting ready for the big party coming up in the desert."
Wait.
Here's an idea.
Leave Lt. Dalton at home.
Send The Nightmares to the desert.
Within the week, they could shut down Iraq in three-and-outs. We could save the Marines for bigger games, perhaps one with that guy we used to be so mad at, old whatshisname, Osama bin Laden.
Dave Kindred is a contributing writer for the Sporting News. Email him at [email protected].
All those great defensive units were the beating hearts of dynastic teams. Which is what we see now in Mr. Sapp, Simeon Rice, and their playmates in menace, the Buccaneers, for whom we the media have been so lax in our creative duties that we have yet to give them a roguish handle.
One thing is different, Mr. Sapp said, about those historic teams and his Buccaneers: "I don't think any of them had to face an offense like the one we faced." A smile of warm contentment moved across Mr. Sapp's broad face as he added, "And we put a choke hold on 'em."
ADVERTISEMENT
So we might call these Bucs the Chokers, except that anyone doing that would have to face Mr. Sapp and explain his reasoning. No, thankee.
Better to try another line of thought, this one suggested by Raiders quarterback Rich Gannon, who came to the Super Bowl as the NFL's MVP after as near perfect a season as any flinger of the hoghide ever dreamed of.
Said poor Gannon after throwing five balls to the Bucs, three returned for touchdowns: "A nightmarish performance."
Dear Mr. Sapp: Is it safe to call you and your buddies The Nightmares?
Rice thinks so. What Mr. Sapp does inside at tackle, Rice does from the edge -- a defensive end whose speed is that of lightning. We know that because he tells us so. A media wretch thought to ask Rice in the wake of the havoc wrought on the Raiders, "Do you think you were a nightmare to Barry Sims?"
"Who?" Rice said, as if the Raiders tackle never existed, or had ceased to exist, or perhaps by now wishes he had never existed. Then Rice said, "I don't think he slept, knowing he had to see me." But Rice brightened, quick as lightning at trash talk, and said, "If he did get any sleep, yeah, he sure wouldn't dream. It'd been nightmares."
Nightmares 48, Raid-uh-ohs 21.
Even before they played, The Nightmares knew this would be a dream.
The safety, Dexter Jackson, knew what you'd have thought everyone knew by now: that when Rich Gannon pump-fakes a long pass left, he comes back deep to the right. Mr. Sapp testified to that during the week's preparations; Jackson came to him and said, "I'm gonna get me one, big man."
He got two. Got them in about five minutes. Got them when the game was in the making. From a 3-3 tie, Jackson's interceptions gave the Bucs the field position and psychological edge that led to a 13-3 lead.
Once ahead by 10 points, only one team in 37 Super Bowls has ever lost -- a factoid that may have been in Mr. Sapp's thoughts when he said of the Nightmares' 20-3 halftime lead, "We dug the hole, and we're really good at putting you in and putting the dirt on you."
Speed did it. At times, the Raiders must have wondered if there were 13 Nightmares on the field. They were everywhere: Rice here, Sapp there, Jackson flying to the ball. "Our speed," Jackson said, "is that fast." As fast as thought. As fast as lightning. As fast as a Simeon Rice quote on why the Raiders couldn't complete a pass: "You can't hold on to the ball when it's hot in the quarterback's hands." Which means a quarterback in the heat of pursuit by Mr. Sapp and Rice is a man eager to dump the hot potato somewhere, anywhere.
One more thing, a curious thing. The last time a George Bush was president, the 1991 Super Bowl became a pep rally for war against Iraq and Saddam Hussein. The president's visage was telecast into the stadium. He exhorted the nation to whip up on any nation crossing the borders of another. Here it is, still Iraq and Saddam in our gun sights with another George Bush leading cheers in the ballpark. But this time Iraq is just sitting there. Guess who has border-crossing in mind?
Square-jawed, of course, and handsome as a cloudless day in San Diego, of course, U.S. Marine Corps 1st Lt. Dennis Dalton rides backseat in an F-18 Hornet fighter/bomber. At 1,200 mph in a $50 million machine, he tells the flyboy up front when and where to unload the killing goods. He's a weapons-and-sensors officer, "a wizzo," he says with a smile.
That top gun's heartbreaker smile is there even when he tells you, at a Super Bowl party, that soon, maybe very soon, he'll leave the Marine Corps Air Station north of San Diego. To quote the lieutenant: "We're getting ready for the big party coming up in the desert."
Wait.
Here's an idea.
Leave Lt. Dalton at home.
Send The Nightmares to the desert.
Within the week, they could shut down Iraq in three-and-outs. We could save the Marines for bigger games, perhaps one with that guy we used to be so mad at, old whatshisname, Osama bin Laden.
Dave Kindred is a contributing writer for the Sporting News. Email him at [email protected].
