Thriller became poetry in motion
January 06, 2003
By Marcos Bretón -- Bee Staff Writer
SAN FRANCISCO -- The game was a fable, a fractured fairy tale.
It had heroes and villains and guys meant for jail.
Its stars were named T.O., Garcia and "Mooch."
At the end, all were giddy/ Like a day swilling "hooch."
Their feats were mythic/ A proud Niner day.
Though they knew they were lucky/ It could have gone the other way.
It was a shock to Mr. Shockey/ Lord Fassel was frumpy.
Kerry Collins was bummed/ Jason Sehorn all grumpy.
It was a blow to their dreams/ A long-snapper's lament.
Then they headed for the Apple/ Their spirits all spent.
But across a smelly hallway/ In the winners' locker room.
Was a happy ol' Cedric/ His career nearly ruin'd.
He's really a sub/ A lad from Tennessee.
Who played with reckless abandon/ Like he really couldn't see.
That dude just isn't right/ Admit it, you were thinking.
When he looked in the air and started his blinking.
His fate seemed sealed/ He'd done all it takes.
To go down in history linked to bad breaks.
From anonymous to infamous/ A tale worthy of The Bard.
Cedrick Wilson reaching out/ With hands greased by lard.
Cedrick Wilson/ Game tied/ Until you arrived.
Cedrick Wilson, rally-killer/ Sucks the life from a thriller.
Cedrick Wilson, big boo-boo/ Was it Mooch's Waterloo?
Then came halftime whistle/ What are the Niners to do?
The momentum had swung/ Guys in red really tanked.
The Giants would be winners/ Take that to the bank.
Their lead grew and grew/ The Niners were failing.
This despite T.O's words/ His locker-room wailing.
Twenty-four points down/ The Giants still surging.
It really looked grim/ The fans stopped all their urging.
They headed for the exits/ They jumped in their cars.
They couldn't bear to see it/ Unless drunk and in bars.
But then came a blessing/ Though the road was still daunting.
Jeremy Shockey dropped a touchdown/ Had to stop all his taunting.
New York settled for a field goal/ A partially successful drive.
But they couldn't imagine/ the Niners still alive.
No guts, no glory/ No-huddle offense, too.
Throw the ball to Mr. Owens/ He knows what to do.
A touchdown. A two-point/ A game in the making.
The Giants still haughty/ They hardly were quaking.
The thing about football/ They didn't comprehend.
Is that you never stop driving/ Until the game's end.
The offense stopped working/ The Niners caught a break.
And here came Jeff Garcia/ A hero on the make.
He ran and he darted/ He stirred recollections.
Of Montana and Young/ And champagne-soaked confections.
That magic return/ That Candlestick fever.
And before very long/ There were many believers.
Try as they might/ The Giants strained and sputtered.
And soon forced to punt/ They melted like butter.
At the start of the fourth/ New York had scored in each quarter.
But their scoring had bowed before a new world order.
That final drive/ That sound from the stands.
Had forced the poor Giants to sit on their hands.
And then in an instant/ Tai Streets appeared.
In a sliver of the end zone/ His actions revered.
They railed and tussled/ Giants fighting in vain.
And getting lost in emotion/ Niner Karma like rain.
Still they drove and completed/ Passes cutting like knives.
There was still lots of tension/ Fans hiding their eyes.
Then came a pure moment/ Time standing still.
It was still in the cards/ Giants poised for the kill.
They should have made it/ 41 yards isn't far.
But the ball never got there/ As if painted with tar.
Alas poor Trey Junkin/ His snap weighted by age.
By rust and retirement/ Maybe should have stayed away.
And then it ended/ The Niners had won.
A game for the ages/ A miraculous run.
They are now bound for Tampa/ Their eyes filled with tears.
While their fans screamed and hollered/ And cracked many beers.
Mooch was saved and relieved/ He would coach his own way.
He would look for more glory in the wilds of Tampa Bay.
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