A sentimental old fool.

Yep, I am one. Anyone who gets misty watching the NFL Films version of the New England Patriots 2001-2002 season, and ends up weepy when Adam Vinatieri kicks that incredible 45-yard field goal against Oakland in a blizzard, should be put down like an aged golden retriever. Never mind that it's the greatest single kick in NFL history, you simply need to have more of a real life. And is it worth mentioning that the rapid heartbeat and waterworks don't go away until Vinatieri drills the Super Bowl game winner right down John "Run out the clock and wait for overtime" Madden's gullet to beat the Rams in the Super Bowl? No fair weather friend here.

The story of last year's Patriots win is unsurpassable. This doesn't even factor in the undertones of a team, named the Patriots, whose colors are red, white, and blue, winning American sports' ultimate title the year after 9/11. New England was never bathed in more glory, and the circumstances of the upset were straight from Hoosiers or a Chip Hilton book.

There is one element of the Super Bowl win that stands out almost as much as Vinatieri's heroics versus Oakland and St. Louis -- the en masse introduction of the team, as opposed to that of individual players -- and many people who know that I support the Patriots mentioned this to me without prompting. The sense of unity and single-minded purpose could not have been made more apparent, and the Pats won more fans nationwide through this simple gesture than they could ever imagine.

Now, let's flip the coin and talk about the Boston Red Sox, who tanked yet another season after an incredible, uplifting start. That made matters even worse.

Despite the all star emergence of Derek Lowe, who had a legitimate claim to the Cy Young Award won by Oakland's Barry Zito, the troika of Beantown superstars, Pedro Martinez, Manny Ramirez, and Nomar Garciaparra, are as far from exuding the selflessness of the Pats as Providence is from Peking. Do I love Pedro? You bet. He's a brilliant pitcher, engaging and as tough as nails. He just doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut. Instead of being lauded by local media for coming back off a career-threatening arm injury and posting numbers that would make 99 percent of the pitchers in baseball cream their jeans, he gets vilified for "shutting down" at the end of the season when this was essentially the wisest thing he could do. All Pedro had to do was to say the doctors advised him to not go out for a meaningless start, and he is paid to listen to his physician.

Ramirez is another story. Red Sox brass and manager Grady Little do themselves no favors by making excuses for this self-absorbed loafer. He whines and moans when he's DH, rather than playing in the field, and yet he's a horrible defensive player, seemingly spending more time gazing into space than working on his fielding. Now notorious for not running balls out while at bat, his petulance is not the brooding of a moody genius but the disinterest of a not-very-bright jock. Sorry, not all still waters run deep.

Garciaparra is the true enigma. You have to love him as a baseball player. He's dedicated, bright, friendly, has more tics than a Tourette's suffer, and a concentration level to match a chess grandmaster. But a leader? Not in a million years. That's sad, and it puts him in the A-Hole Rodriguez category, which is that of a superstar with tunnel vision. The statisticians can tell you that New York's Derek Jeter is the fourth-best shortstop in the league, behind A-Hole, Nomar, and Miguel Tejada, but he provides his team with a spark both on and off the field. Nomar seems content simply to put his numbers up and hope for the best, rather than going down to defeat snarling and snapping at anything or anybody that gets near him, as does Jeter. This is a pity, because such a lack of fire in the belly could cause Nomar to be tagged a loser if the BoSox don't win a pennant or World Series during his tenure at Fenway. We need much more passion from Pedro, Manny, and Nomar if the Olde Towne Team wants to escape the ludicrous Curse of the Bambino in our time.

The Celtics, meanwhile, are the ultimate overachievers, and it was only some incredibly stupid basketball that kept them from making the NBA finals last year. Antoine Walker gets more cramps in his head in one game than Lance Armstrong does in his whole body during the Tour de France, which almost nullifies Armstrong's enormous contributions. Paul Pierce has become one of the most entertaining offensive players in the league, but he can't carry the bountiful mid-level talent on the team after you get past him and 'Toine. This is a team that has worked hard to rise above its deficiencies, but history shows how difficult it is to play uphill year after year. The only redeeming quality is that in retrospect, one can fully appreciate what it was like screaming your lungs out for the Bird-McHale-Parish Celtics, not fully understanding what colossal talents we were watching. When Dennis Johnson is no better than the fourth-most talented player on your team, you've got a wagon. Back in the day, as these kookie kids say.

The Boston Bruins? They play hockey, don't they?

Finally, while the New England Revolution put on a fantastic stretch run to make it to the Major League Soccer championship match in Foxboro -- which they lost in overtime to the Los Angeles Galaxy -- MLS soccer remains a second-rate league. But the fan support made the World Cup in Korea and Japan seem as if one was watching their home team play on the road. The US delivered a stunning performance, bulwarked by players who have been smart enough to leave the US to play internationally. The Americans have arguably two of the best five goalkeepers in the world in Brad Freidel and Kasey Keller, both of whom play in the English Premiership. The unfortunate thing for the US is that one of the other five is Oliver Kahn of Germany, who ended the Yanks' dreams in a 1-0 quarterfinal defeat.

Still, this was a coming-of-age party for the Americans, made all the more exciting by the upsets taking place on the other side of the world at hours when I could have been awake only years ago, aided greatly by illicit substances. Both host nations shocked their elite visitors, and the early exits of Italy, Portugal, and France -- the holders who set a new standard for gagging, not even scoring a goal in their three matches -- defied logic. The incessant cheering and chants of the Koreans were inspiring, and the petulance of the European choke artists was a just dessert for a squad that failed to bring their hearts.

The winner, Brazil, took the Cup home with justification. The best thing that happened to the South Americans was losing their captain, Emerson, before the Cup began when he hurt himself fooling around playing goalie. He is a totally negative player, and by not having him racing around the field, hacking down opponents, let his teammates fall back on the "jogo bonito," the beautiful game, which they play so well. Ronaldo, the greedhead boy wonder, redeemed himself after wetting his shorts in the 1998 final, and Brazil's 10-man display of keep-away throughout the second half against England -- taking the ball for a walk, as they say in Brazil -- was remarkable. Men versus boys, which the English know full well, even if they will never admit it.

All in all, a year of some bittersweet emotions. But the New England Patriots will never provide me with more thrills and chills, and memories chiseled into my brain, than they did last winter. The day of the Oakland game, my car spun out on black ice at the top of the Jamestown Bridge, one of those numbers in which you might as well let go of the wheel because you don't have an iota of control over the vehicle.

I thought I was emotionally spent upon safely reaching home, but that didn't suggest how wound up I wound up being three hours later. And following a Super Bowl party at my house -- which ended with 10 people in flat out full cry, jumping around in bedlam, when Vinatieri hit the winning field goal -- I noticed my telephone message light blinking. I played back the message, and it was my mother. She had called to celebrate the win right after the ball went between the posts. Even though the phone was 10 feet from where we were watching in the living room, not one person heard it amid the tumult. Now, that's worth remembering. Even by an old fool.

Issue Date: December 27, 2002 - January 2, 2003