Well, Mr. Faded Glory gets to check another box off on his laundry list of adult tasks. As of today, Mr. and Ms. Faded Glory are the proud owners of a new house.

And, yes, this (a) signifies some sort of permanence in the community, (b) begins the principles of ‘equity’ and ‘investment’ and other adult-sounding terms within Mr. Faded Glory’s life, (c) actually resembles a sensible, adult decision, and (d) is living proof that even Mr. Faded Glory may, gulp, actually be growing up, or at least advancing into maturity (perhaps kicking and screaming, but you get the idea).

As if further testament to the gearshift in Mr. Faded Glory’s adult life, today – Valentine’s Day – was actually spent with a long discussion surrounding mortgages, interest rates, insurance, and down payments, whereas within the last four years, Valentine’s Day may have been earmarked for much more, uh, experimental purposes.

Will it come to pass that this blog is one day the sole remaining artifact of my yearned-for youth? Or, even as I decry any sort of homeowners’ establishment, should I just face up to the fact that my love for network-TV and gigantic corporate-sponsored sports isn’t exactly a shining example of nonconformity?

Or did we already know this? Happy Valentine’s Day.

Short break. We’re exhausted. See you soon.

(Seriously, in all things Colt, I missed the Cubs (a) signing Cliff Floyd, (b) signing Mark Prior, (c) Not signing Carlos Zambrano. WTF???)

OK, too much, too soon. My head hurts.

As the dust settles and Monday morning arrives, for the first time at season’s end – it’s great to be a Colts fan. For years MFG has been adamant in claiming he’d prefer to lose with the Colts than win with anyone else – which is, in essence, fandom. Above all, however, the organization is professional, from the owner down through the kicker, and the players are classy – if a bit snakebitten, previously.

Now, however, the Colts are champions.

A team derided as ‘soft.’ A defense classified as ‘abysmal,’ (When is the NFL and all statistical media going to quit using yards given up as the sole measure of a defense?) and a forgotten powerhouse in the beginnings of a century. The champion Colts. How sweet it is – legitimately, they’re one of the teams of the decade, with more wins, division titles, and now a championship. Not quite the Patriots’ resume, but, well, you can’t have everything.

Sure, the detractors will be out in full force. Manning didn’t play great. Doesn’t matter – Joseph Addai and Dominic Rhodes did.

Marvin Harrison didn’t step up (though 5 catches for 59 yards were all big grabs). The Bears sat back in the nickel all game – seriously, didn’t they watch the Ravens tape? Good job taking away Harrison and Wayne. You forgot the running attack.

It was an ugly, awful Super Bowl. Actually, it wasn’t a very attractive game. But even after the opening kick return, I didn’t panic. We’d seen that before. And the Colts are too good to let one touchdown diminish their spirit. They slogged through the downpour, a ferocious defense, and, honestly, just beat the snot out of the supposedly outdoor Monsters of the Midway. Even with a slim two-point lead and a boatload of mistakes, I was barely swayed – the Bears went three-and-out so many times, I simply didn’t worry they could come back. What a horrific gameplan. They looked like the Chiefs. No wrinkles on offense or defense. Chalk them up as the latest Colts victim who thought their size, will, and statistics skewed against the Colts would foretell a victory.

(And, on Tuesday, I expect Rex Grossman’s abysmal interception, returned for a touchdown by Kelvin Hayden, to be named Gregg Easterbrook’s single worst play of the year. The interception was bad enough – to Hayden’s credit, he didn’t bite on Muhsin Muhammad’s glacial move – but after the catch, Grossman jogged after the cornerback, en route to the end zone.

I’ve defended Rex Grossman. But he’s a spoiled rich kid, and Lovie Smith is about to learn what Steve Spurrier already knew – he’ll put up his numbers, but you can’t win with him. Period. And seriously, the pick-six slammed the door. Five points to the Bears was like four touchdowns at that point – when it swung to 12, Jim Nantz went into full-soliloquy mode.)

But none of it matters – not the weather, not the boring fourth quarter, not the abysmal announcing, not Phil Simms‘ apparent insanity, not the ineptitude of the Bears on both sides of the ball. Because the Colts are champs.

They knocked off the team of the decade on January 21’s game of the decade, and gained the Super Bowl. By game’s end, this Super Bowl looks like the 2004 World Series – destiny preordained.
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Postgame playlist:
Pearl Jam, Love Reign O’er Me.

Congratulations. At last!

GO COLTS!

Super Bowl Sunday is bad enough as the Wal-Mart of family holidays; the day is always interminable, with kickoff moving further and further into the distance as time grows closer. And, of course, with a vested interest in the game, it makes the hollow pursuits and abysmal TV of Super Bowl Sunday even worse. Absolutely dreadful.

Add to that, MFG isn’t even at home — nope! Because Super Bowl Sunday is some sort of idiotic holiday, this post arrives straight from the official in-laws of Mr. Faded Glory. Excuse me, you likely swallowed your Chee-to in horror. Now, I’m actually not as inflamed about the circumstance as you would believe. Sure, I would prefer to be in my living room watching the game, hopping around, pacing, with the Web and cell phone nearby.

But since this is a holiday – families and friends watch the game together, and Ms. Faded Glory certainly shouldn’t be deprived of that, just because of my fan myopia. Right? Truth be told, I’ve been resigned to these circumstances for quite some time. And honestly, I never had a chance. I might as well just ride it out — enjoy the game with a group. Right?
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This will be the last post you view at Mr. Faded Glory before (well, till Monday) the Super Bowl, which, to be honest, hasn’t diminished in surreality for Colts fans (or at least me). With that in mind, it’s tough to offer an unbiased prediction, if not impossible. However, I do think that the spread – 7 points for the Colts – is a little too high. I predict a much closer game than that. (Pundits always do.)
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It’s not unexpected that Peter King forgoes a daily stop here, at Mr. Faded Glory’s blog, but honestly, where’s he been? From today’s abbreviated Super Bowl column:

I think the one amazing thing about the first four days of Super Bowl Week is how little talk of Marvin Harrison there is leading up to the game. Here’s a guy who’s going to finish his career, barring injury, with 1,400 catches or so, and all the talk is Manning, Grossman, Urlacher — even Dallas Clark. It’ll be interesting to see how Harrison matches up against the good Chicago corners with the subpar Chicago safeties over the top. He could have an eight-catch, 164-yard game.

Not 163 yards, people. 164. That alone would be good. Nothing less. 160? 150? Meh.

But seriously, Peter, hunh? Marvin’s been the subject of nearly a dozen articles, most railing against his perceived vanishing act during the playoffs. Honestly, now that Peyton’s no longer the whipping boy (Dan Marino shakes his head sadly – he got to a Super Bowl, too, after all), it’s Marvin’s turn to bear the brunt of media backlash. Backlash is still attention – perhaps Peter King should read his own magazine.

And, Peter could have picked up this morning’s Kansas City Star, to read the ramblings of MFG’s former coworker Jason Whitlock. Apparently Whitlock brought an axe to grind with the supposedly overrated Harrison (largely because of Harrison’s rivalry with Whitlock fave Ty Law), ready to excoriate him in a column questioning Marvin’s greatness and lambasting fools who dare to compare Harrison with Cris Carter or Steve Largent.

Apparently, however, Carter himself — and former coach Jimmy Johnson — talked Jason out of his contrarian stance – and soon Jason realized it was a little counterintuitive to rip Harrison while he spends so much time condemning Terrell Owens, Randy Moss, and the like. The result is a somewhat redemptive column that meanders everywhere, but his beginning agenda is yet another product of the harmful groupthink discussed yesterday, which this week, at least, forecloses rational analysis of Marvin Harrison’s career. Sigh. Love media week.

And in other news — in a classic case of failure to understand one’s place in the market, ESPN — marketed largely to intense, cynical, frustrated, energetic clusters of submerged testosterone aged 15-29, launched article comments today. What positive discourse can come from that? The Worldwide Leader isn’t NPR – it’s the landing place for hours and btus of misunderstood sports fan angst, energy, and misplaced anger, pulsating through the keystrokes of meatheads and slackers everywhere.

To illustrate, wouldn’t you know it, MFG gives a ringing endorsement of Bill Simmons‘ Miami travails, only to read a horrendous puff piece by Simmons, lavishing praise upon Miami.

The 27-year-old Simmons would have scoffed and poked fun at each absurdity he ran into, instead of swallowing it up like Disney-fied candy. The 27-year-old Simmons would have, well, spent ten or fifteen hours mercilessly ripping and railing on the article’s idiot author, such as here, here, and here. (Thanks, Deadspinners.) To quote Simmons . . . Good times, good times. Or is that Bill McNeal?