On 10 May 2008, a long-track, violent (EF-4) tornado crossed parts of Oklahoma and Missouri, and laid further waste to much of the old mining town of Picher, barely south of the Kansas-Oklahoma line. NWS Tulsa has a nice, concise, online briefing about the tornado, which killed six people and injured at least 150 others in Picher before causing even more casualties in Missouri.
The tornado only has hastened the inevitable demise of Picher (AP story). Once sporting a population of 20,000, only around 800 folks remain. Picher lies inside the notorious Tar Creek Superfund site (more information here and here). Federal and state officials are doing the right thing by not funding any rebuilding, and instead directing relief toward relocation of the folks who remain.
While I still wish they had taken this approach on a larger scale with New Orleans, post-Katrina, it seems the lesson has been learned to some extent. Common sense and rational thought prevail over sentimentality, as it should. Government buyouts of homes already were underway, and should accelerate. Evacuating and demolishing the town now is the simplest and most prudent solution.
Now I only will grieve for those whose lives were lost, because I grieved for the long-dying town itself long ago, on my first and only daylight visit. Steve Corfidi and I were on a storm chase trip from Kansas City, back in March 1996, on the way to the Nowata area. As we zigzagged through town, we sat aghast at the deplorable state of Picher. Though it was just a few minutes from 12 years ago, those mental images linger vividly today.
Ramshackle frame houses abounded, some abandoned, others occupied. A few of the occupied homes were in worse conditions than those long vacant, with busted windows, peeling paint, rotting wood, torn screen doors, animals running hither and yon, some porch overhangs leaning downward on the verge of collapse. One entire house had a roof displaced noticeably sideways from the foundation, its walls leaning in the direction of the displacement, clothes on a clothesline in the yard, the glow of a TV shining from within. The only thriving businesses we saw were a bar and a convenience store. We since have talked often of the extreme disrepair and poverty we witnessed, and the status of Picher as part of the Superfund site.
Perhaps the saddest sight was the dirty, shirtless children playing in the yellowish mud that had drained directly off a big heap of mine tailings looming behind one house. This rock detritus (locally known as "chat") comprises mini-mountains in the countryside around Picher, as well as in portions of the town itself. The "chat piles" contain residue of the materials for which they were extracted: lead and zinc, as well as cadmium. The lead, in particular, has been the focus of concern because of its drainage from the tailings piles and into soil, as well as airborne dust contamination, and elevated lead levels in children and adults there.
Whomever that whomever wishes to blame for the situation, the fact is that the area is highly toxic. It needs to be evacuated and remediated, not lived within. Those poor townsfolk have been residing in a festering wasteland (literally!) for decades, and now a substantial chunk of the town is blown to smithereens by a big fat tornado. Some folks didn't want to leave, but I hope this changes their minds. I applaud the notion of just helping the citizens of Picher to get the hell out and never return. Leave whatever's left of the town to the bulldozer and environmental mitigation process. The abandonment of Picher should have happened long ago, and it's terrible that it appears to take a killer tornado to finish off the town, effectively.
This is not an occasion to celebrate, mind you. People perished! But perhaps some good can come from a bad event -- a blessing in disguise, of sorts. If all goes as hoped, a tornado never again will kill Picher residents, and kids never again will play in lead-contaminated mine waste there.
It's never too early in the season for another entry in my longstanding website devoted to the futility and weirdness of the Texas Rangers baseball club. The newest item:
The 2008 season already was turning into a thudding clunker by the end of April, with the Rangers firmly cemented at the bottom of the standings. Seeming somewhat indignant at this development with which we fans are quite accustomed, some national sports writers made the following observations in their respective rags in the same week:
A couple of months ago, before all this travel, I was sawing apart assorted ice storm damage, when a falling branch clocked me upside the head and dug out a chunk of my scalp. I didn't cut its base correctly and it fell the wrong way...namely, onto me. I was wearing a hoodie, and didn't realize the tree had done anything more than bounce off my skull until a minute later, when I felt that characteristic warm cascade of liquid dribbling down the back of my neck, and around both sides of my right ear. "Bummer," I thought...I would have to waste the waning daylight tending to a busted-open head instead of finishing the chore at hand.
Elke was tilling soil in a flower bed, and I casually strolled up to her and said, "Wanna help me patch up this hole in my head? It's a might messy." She used to be a vet assistant many years ago, and she has cut up hundreds of rats to feed to her mom's hawks and eagles. It's good she is not squeamish about blood. I'm certainly not...besides, men tend to have high iron levels and should shed or donate blood sometimes. So all was cool as long as it didn't need stitches. We went inside to the laundry room sink...she chopped off a bunch of surrounding hair, cleaned the torn scalp out really well, dressed it old-west style and sent me back outside to fetch the tools.
A pint or two of blood lost and a knot on the head later, I healed up for a few days then got right back to tree trimming. I probably sawed down 200 limbs and branches, and half a dozen whole trees, and only one of 'em tagged me. A 99.7% is an A+ in my book. The hair has grown back and all I've got to show for it is a bumpy scar underneath a full, thick growth of new hair. Can't complain...many men in my age bracket are getting bare scalp there anyway.
A few nights ago I was corresponding with an old friend from the Metroplex, who was giving me some grief about that, and we got around to discussing the last time anything like this happened. I was about 15, biking on a sidewalk, while roaring downhill at speeds that may have been illegal for a car. Suddenly, thanks to a badly buckled segment of pavement on that sidewalk, the bike wasn't under me anymore and I was airborne at that very velocity...head-on into the trunk of a big ol' hackberry tree.
You might guess who won that collision, but it would be only partially correct. At that age I was known for having a very hard head (the head-butt being a fantastic tactic to gain quick advantage in close-quarters fighting), and it showed. I actually tore off a few square inches of bark, but left some of my scalp and hair in the remaining bark that was still there over the following week or two. To this day, my hairline is a bit higher on the right side of my forehead, as a result of that very incident. The tree is still there on the north side of Oram St., 150 yards east of the corner of Skillman, and for a couple years, had a little scar too. Call it a draw!
After wincing away the blinking points of light and that annoying buzzing sensation between my ears, I asked, "how the hell did I get over here, this far from that tree?", gathered up my unnaturally bent bicycle, and strolled down to the Eckerd's drugstore a block away. Blood poured down my forehead and face as I calmly asked the pharmacist if I could use his wash basin, some soap and some wrapping. The look on this dignified old gentleman's face was priceless, at least what I could see of it through my own ugly mess of dirt, hair and blood. I probably looked like Bruiser Brody after one of his chair-swinging, ice-pick dodging ringside riots with Abdullah the Butcher. Lots of free gauze and iodine for me, though...
My mom was rather aghast at how I appeared when I got home, but saw I would be OK in a few days. My dad, of course, being a former rodeo man and still tough-as-an-old-boot Texan, shrugged off my own injuries as nothing special ("Hell, you ain't dead and you ain't crippled, so what's the big deal?") -- but was absolutely furious because of what I did to that bike. He must have spent a couple hours straightening the rims and handlebars, and fixing the tire, occasional staccato bursts of profanity tightly glued to my name as his wrenches slipped or a spoke broke. His frustration mounted by the minute with both my recklessness that caused this ordeal and with his own lack of coordination using knuckle-busting tools. I didn't dare to even go say "thanks" when he was done, for dread of uncorking the lid on an already seething temper that by then was on the brink of pyroclastic explosion.
It may have been as close as he ever came to backhanding me halfway to Houston, and I couldn't claim I didn't partially deserve it.
Or was it that Pyrex beaker full of new zinc pennies that I melted down on the kitchen stove burner a few weeks before, only to see it break and spill molten zinc all over the stove's innards?
Or the time I climbed up to the top of the kitchen cabinets at age 4 to go catch some spiders I saw up there, found a shoe box filled with hundreds of metal nails of all shapes and sizes, and dumped them all over the floor far below?
Or that time at age 6 that I found the prized watch that his late older brother took off a slain Japanese soldier in WWII, and hurled it against the wall in a horrifically successful effort to "crack the metal nut open" and see what was inside?
Or the time at age 9 that he got home from work and I hollered howdy to him -- at 4 a.m., on a school night, from our roof top, through howling wind, while I was trying to get a better view of an approaching thunderstorm?
Or the time my mom was in the hospital when I was 7, and I hid days and days worth of his uneaten cooking between my toy box and the wall?
Or when I threw dozens of water-soaked pieces of toilet paper onto our painted bathroom ceiling at age 5 to see them stick up there and drip all over the room in fun patterns?
Or was it that time at about age 8 that I thoroughly dissected his wind-up alarm clock down to its tiniest gears, and in what I thought was a favor, laid it all out neatly on his nightstand for him to reassemble?
Or the time at about age 10 when I wired together a bunch of old TV and radio parts at random with part of a string of Christmas lights, and plugged them into the wall to see what would happen (blew multiple fuses in the fuse box and filled the house with acrid smoke)?
Or was it...forget it...I've made my point. :-O
Fortunately, he tended to calm down and forgive about as fast as he could boil over. After that crash, I healed up fine but for that prematurely elevated hairline on one side. I think I kept the blood-and-iodine soaked bandages for a few weeks as a souvenir until one of my parents found out and made me throw them away. I wonder why...
Now I'm the father of a 14 year old who already is taller than me (and I'm 6'3"), even clumsier, and more injury prone. At least neither he nor I experiment with molten zinc or wet toilet paper these days. Still -- poor Elke...she has to deal with both of us!
I've been too busy to do much BLOGging lately, but this has been a good brand of preoccupation. The most active early portion of storm chase season in my recent memory is calming down somewhat, and I have been fortunate enough to participate in most of the events as a mobile observer.
Here we are in mid-April, and in climatologically common fashion, several strong synoptic waves and short waves in the upper levels have come and gone since mid March. This is the time of year when, as Rodgers and Hammerstein once wrote, the wind comes sweepin' down the plains...but then, back up them again, then back down again, then back up again, and so forth.
The difference is that, in many recent years over the southern Plains, the approaching waves were timed badly with respect either to the solar heating cycle or to scant return of Gulf moisture following its expulsion deep into the subtropics by preceding frontal passages. Granted, moisture return has been same-day and less than ideal for prolifically tornadic storms in most of these events. But there have been some, and I was fortunate enough to witness the beginning of one of the tornadic circulations (SW of Breckenridge TX near Eolian, 9 Apr).
More importantly, these systems have decorated southern Plains skies with an impressive array of photogenic supercells with amazing structure, the likes of which more commonly swirl across the high plains in May and early June than this region in March and April. Normally, I count myself fortunate to get the right days off and atmospheric cooperation for one or two great "structure storms" in a season. This year there have been five -- three of them in one day (7 Apr on three sides of Wichita Falls) and two on the other (30 Mar around Corn and Gotebo OK).
Things have been so busy, in fact, between the usual family time, working during several severe weather events, and traveling for both business and pleasure (including visual indulgences of the atmospheric kind), that I've hardly had time to stop and smell the roses -- or in our case, the eruption of pleasantly pungent wisteria blooms over our front porch that is being buzzed by clouds of ecstatic bumblebees on a daily basis.
In one six day period, I traveled from Norman to Orlando (to speak on TC tornadoes at the National Hurricane Conference), back to Norman, down to Mineral Wells TX the same day my flight got back...down further to Fredericksburg and Llano (yes...Cooper's barbecue, German food and wildflower photography with Elke again)...back to Norman, down to Wichita Falls the same day I got back to Norman (three spectacular, sculpted supercells in one fine evening), then back to Norman the same night. This was after recent trips to Texas A&M in College Station, a US-China Symposium session here in Norman, and a regional severe weather conference in Beaufort NC -- also to give talks on TC tornadoes. A few other chases also interspersed themselves somewhere in the past month, including a fun one with the kids down to southeast Oklahoma that was at least as much about dad time as about storms. It was good to get some rest after all that, but I ain't complaining...far from it!
Usually I don't like rushing around so much, but that was an absolute blast. I love learning and teaching about tornadoes and about hurricanes, so the combination of the two is outstanding. Then there is that great Texas Hill Country drive that Elke and I try to do annually anymore, usually around the peak of wildflower season if I've got fortuitously placed days off. The bluebonnets this year actually were better in North Texas, up around I-20, than in some of the usual hot spots like the Willow City loop, thanks to untimely dry and wet periods farther south. Nonetheless it still was a great time with fantastic food and scenery, and some time just to spend with my beautiful bride of six years. And of course, the feasts at the smörgåsbord of atmospheric violence...every one was an adventure unto itself, as all worthwhile chase trips are. I've just started posting photo-festooned summaries of those to our chase BLOG, and will continue to do so in the coming days or nights.
I'm going on a stretch of assorted evening and night shifts through early May that will curtail storm observing almost completely, but I am not complaining about that, either. Some years have been so lame, both atmospherically and as far as timing of opportunities, that I've been unable to chase even once by this time. it's great to have some spectacular storms under the belt already, and a couple of period of more extended time off in mid May and mid June still are a good ways off.
Yet Another Large Event Venue Is Spared a Mass Disaster
There was exactly one tornado reported in the whole USA on 14 March 2008 (preliminary), and it hit large venues in downtown Atlanta. That's astounding. It goes to show that there doesn't need to be a well-organized outbreak, or even a singular large and violent tornado (this one "only" was an EF-2) to realize a dangerous situation. A single, isolated severe storm in precisely the wrong place can pose a huge problem also.
They got extraordinarily lucky at the Georgia Dome. Even while barely sideswiping it, the tornado and its inflow winds were starting to transform that stadium from an indoor to an outdoor facility. Had the tornado been stronger and/or scored a more direct hit, there would have been larger pieces of that roof coming down onto those fans -- maybe even the hanging catwalk that already was swinging back and forth.
The PA announcer in the infamous video waited 'til the tornado was upon them to announce severe weather in the area. That's not evidence of a well-known, detailed severe weather plan. In this day and age, the liability risk is too large for any major venue to fail to execute a short-fuse severe storm and tornado plan of action. Instead, it was "every man for himself" in the fan seating.
The reason fans hadn't already dispersed into the street (where they would have been even more endangered) was that the game went into overtime. That's pure, unadulterated good luck. Spectator safety, when severe weather strikes large venues, should not depend on serendipity. But it did, and here's how:
1. The game happened to go to overtime, keeping the fans inside before the tornado, yet
2. By good fortune, the tornado strike wasn't stronger and more direct, therefore the roof didn't suffer partial or substantial collapse with major falling pieces crushing those fans still milling about the exposed seating areas.
A comprehensive plan for such situations would discourage the fans from going outside, but also, use fully warning-informed announcements and posted tornado shelter signs to direct them away from areas where that roof could fall down on them. In a place like that, such shelter may include areas under the upper deck and any concourses not exposed to outside airflow.
The nightmare scenario about which I've BLOGged here, and about which Les Lemon and I have presented many times and written in a paper years ago, almost happened...again.
The good news is that Les, who has great organizational skills and some key contacts, has been working hard behind the scenes to assemble a national committee of experts from many related communities (public and private meteorology, severe storms forecasting and research, large venue operators, major league sports, sociology, emergency management, etc.) to tackle this matter in a systematic, nationwide way. The G-Dome event certainly will help to motivate some folks who otherwise were hesitant or unaware of the problem to get proactive. Others will keep their heads in the sand, baselessly blame "acts of God" and play Russian roulette with the crowds at these events.
[EDIT] As of this writing (18 March 2008, 2152 CDT), a fairly thorough search of the Georgia Dome website reveals no public severe weather safety plan, whatsoever. This is interesting, considering the taxpayers fund this facility directly through the State of Georgia's Georgia World Congress Center Authority.
The first true storm intercept trip of the spring season can't be matched for its sense of relief and release, even if temporary, from the frigid and dreary dungeon of winter. It is a door atop a stairwell leading upward from the catacombs, opening wide into the bright light of the dawn of storm season, another spring's world of adventures, anticipations of travels yet to be determined.
Think of all the new sights, sounds and smells and combinations thereof, somewhere out there -- who knows where? Isn't that sort of uncertainty a fantastic thing in its own right, one of those far-too-uncommon unknowns that is to be anticipated instead of dreaded?
Moments of elation and frustration and boredom and excitement, impatient waiting followed by a frenzy of danger or beauty or some hybrid of both, all cobble together to form a big gift revealed and assembled one component at a time. Each chase day is another multi-hued piece that clips onto the one before, and in turn into the next, to form a truly unique whole kaleidoscope of learning, beauty and adventure, a storm season that never can be duplicated again in ten thousand lifetimes.
This isn't just a chance to whisk away the mental cobwebs of a long offseason, shake off observational rust and test drive new equipment (if any), but also, to begin a season-long process of renewal and reinvigoration, all at the behest of every southerly surge of warm, moist return flow. Such rejuvenation has an uncertain duration, across still undetermined travels and parts unknown, dictated by the whims of the atmosphere. Its beginning, on the other hand, is definite and most welcome: storm chase trip number one. It is wanted, needed, and finally happening!
The inaugural chase of the new year begins against that backdrop. Heading out onto the highway amidst the mild southerly breezes, the promise of a new storm observing season begins to be fulfilled, with all that brings not only in anticipation and eagerness to experience whatever adventures that lie ahead, but also a sense of heading home. Yes, home. For the connoisseur at the smorgasbord of atmospheric violence, home is wherever the storms are.
During some recent time in College Station for business and pleasure, I had the honor and opportunity to visit the museum portion of the library of George H. W. Bush (41st President). This easily was the most visually pleasing corner of campus, and one well worth a visit for anyone interested in American history and the lives of presidents in particular. I had a hard time with lighting and composition for photography on this day, but have posted a few photos online which turned out acceptably.
The museum (external link) is airy, open and well designed on the inside, with chronological pods devoted to various stages of Bush's life and accomplishments as a private businessman, war hero and civilian public servant, as well as sections featuring his ancestors, his wife Barbara, her literacy campaign, and a mock-up of the Oval Office. The building and its exhibits stand collectively as a dignified and educational testimonial to the life and times of Bush-41, without any unnecessary gaudiness or overstatement.
Since I briefly met and shook hands with the elder Bush while I was a teen and he still was VP, and since he was the first Presidential candidate for whom I ever voted (1988 elections), the place had some special meaning beyond its own outward merit. The man was and is a class act, a war hero, a respected leader free of ugly scandal, and a role model for the nearly lost art of statesmanship. As such, the visit to his and Barbara's future gravesite (where they already moved the remains of their eldest daughter Robin, who died at age three of leukemia) was somber and just a little spooky.
I almost forgot to take a look. It began as a casual diversion on a whim of curiosity -- an impulsive and unplanned stroll over a creek and down a sidewalk winding through the woods -- but became much more. I stood for several moments at the wrought iron entrance to the plots, looking at the bronze memorial plaque with the empty spaces reserved for the years of the elder Bushes' passing, then quietly surveying the scene all around. It was a warm, sunny, winter's noontime, with not another person anywhere nearby, only some songbirds in the trees and a pair of crested caracaras soaring high above for company. The thought hit me that opportunities for such reflective solitude at this place will be extraordinarily uncommon once these graves contain Robin's (and George W's and Jeb's) parents, and visitors collectively wear off a good deal of shoe rubber on the path leading there.
Then came the more over-arching realization, vivid as if I were watching it unfold in person or on TV. "A former American President whom I admire is going to be buried right here someday," I thought, with a jolt of empathetic grief foreshadowing the eventuality. Maybe it's because it has been just a few short years since I closed the casket lid over my own dad and then watched his burial, but I could imagine vividly -- in the form of a virtual video playing in my head -- the sad, but eventual and inevitable, occasions. Our current President and his siblings, clad in dark suits and dresses, accompanied by spouses, kids and grandkids, in the darkest throes of grief, will walk over the creek too, down that same winding path and over this very spot. They will lay a beloved parent to rest, and in the case of their father, amidst a military funeral honors detail, Taps wailing from that solitary bugle, the flag folded and presented, perhaps with millions of worldwide admirers watching on TV if broadcasting is permitted. Even if not, photos will appear later, followed by many thousands of visitors in person in ensuing days and years. "All of that grief and mourning will be focused right here where I stand alone," I realized.
That was a rather potent and unanticipated reaction for a little side trek that started out as almost an afterthought.
I am not a depressed or morose person by nature, not in the least. Still, that scene haunted me off and on for much of the way home. It probably will again when that time does come, watching that broadcast or seeing those photos from what is now a very familiar and unambiguously evocative place. Let's hope that scene waits many, many years to take place.
Fortunately, the library and museum stand nearby as a much grander and more prominent presence, serving as documentation and commemoration of the former President and his life. So in that sense, the unobtrusive, almost unmarked path through the woods and to the graves is a metaphor for how a celebration of one's time on Earth should not be overshadowed by the grief marking the end of that life.
My friend and colleague Greg Stumpf would like to announce this traveling charity event to benefit the citizens of Greensburg KS. As an extension of the Storms of 2007 project, this is a most worthy cause...
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Project Greensburg
Storm Chasers Giving Back to the Community
Date: February 6, 2008
Web URL: http://www.thestormsof2007.org
On May 4, 2007, the quiet farming community of Greensburg, Kansas, was nearly entirely destroyed by an EF-5 tornado. When people are in desperate need, others instinctively rush to help, sometimes in very unique ways. This is how Project Greensburg was born.
Project Greensburg will be a series of free public showings of the storm-chaser produced "Storms of 2007" DVD in several cities across central Kansas. DVDs will be for sale at these showings, and all profits raised at these special events will be donated for disaster relief for the City of Greensburg. More information on the "Storms of 2007" DVD is available at http://www.thestormsof2007.org.
The first showing will be on March 1, 2008 at the Pratt Community College Auditorium in Pratt, Kansas. Doors will open at 5:30pm. Mike Umscheid, the National Weather Service meteorologist who issued the Tornado Warning for Greensburg, will be the special speaker at this event. Greg Stumpf, a National Severe Storms Laboratory meteorologist who, in 2004, co-created of the "Storms of" DVD charity project, will also speak. Mickey Ptak, the lead producer of the "Storms of 2007" DVD, will round out the show.
Natural disasters attract a distinctive group of individuals who are awed by the power of nature. For decades, "storm chasers" have pursued tornadoes, hurricanes, and other severe storms, armed with video cameras and other equipment. Some of these storm chasers have turned their talents into a successful fundraiser to benefit storm victims - the "Storms of 2007" DVD - and 100% of the profits are donated to organizations and charities which help storm victims. Over 100 storm chasers collaborated to collect some of the most remarkable video of the year for the DVD. The "Storms of 2007" DVD is the 4th volume from the highly successful "Storms of" DVD series. Sales from the first three DVDs have already raised over $20,000. The majority of the profits for the DVDs have been donated to the American Red Cross Disaster Relief Fund. This unique gift is for sale now at http://www.thestormsof2007.org.
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This sounds like a great way to raise some money for the townsfolk of Greensburg, as well as to spread some good news about storm observers and the positive outcomes of storm observing. I got the DVD as a Christmas present (would have bought it otherwise), and it's well worth owning for any weather buff.
Only a bonafide tornado nut like me would notice something like this, but here goes anyway. For several hours last night and into this morning (Feb. 5-6), the Drudge Report (normally one of my favorite websites) perpetuated a goof at minimum, and a copyright violation at maximum. Before I provide the answer below, take a mental exercise and guess which tornado is in the photo below. [Click on the thumbnail to get the full-sized screen capture in a separate window or pane.]
The tornado-related articles on Drudge that night dealt with the Super Tuesday tornado outbreak of 5 Feb 2008. That photo is real, and was taken from within the damage path of a tornado as it retreated from town.
The town was Union City, OK, and the date was 24 May 1973! I recognized that tornado immediately, having catalogued numerous slides of it over 20 years ago as a former NSSL student research aide and storm intercept crew member.
Some asking around amongst storm chasing old-timers has indicated that the photo was taken by Al Moller using Randy Zipser's camera. I don't know if it is copyrighted by either of those guys, or was released to the public domain. Either way, the record should be set straight, even if very, very few ever would notice or even care.
Admnittedly I was premature in declaring football season "over." For me, it was, because my team wasn't in the Super Bowl, and my pro football interests typically are focused in laser fashion on one team and one team only, your five-time Super Bowl champion Dallas Cowboys. My attitude about today's game was, "Ho hum. The Giants will keep it interesting for awhile but the Pats will prevail in the end thanks to their relentless offensive pressure and superior firepower." Wrong. It was the Giants' defensive firepower that kept it close, and in the end, set the stage for the offense finally to wake up and do something useful.
I didn't like either team in the Super Bowl, so I didn't root for either, but instead sat back and enjoyed what was a thrilling game. That was an amazing fourth quarter! The play of the game will go down as an all-time classic, one that even I (who can't stand the Giants) must admit was one of the most amazing in Super Bowl history. This was where Eli Manning somehow got out of a three-way blitz sandwich, scrambled left after nearly tripping, and heaved the desperation pass that David Tyree leaped to catch off his helmet, while draped by two Patriots. Luck and skill. That's how games like this are won.
I didn't wake up until the end of the first half (coming off a night shift), and was rather surprised to see the score 7-3 at that juncture. I'll begrudgingly hand it to the Giants for bringing the heat nonstop, and smacking Mr. Not-so-perfect all over the field. Indeed, that stick on the last drive, where an unblocked middle blitzer absolutely laid waste to Brady, was a great defensive play call -- perfect execution to place a perfect scowl on Mr. Perfect. I don't fell sorry for him, though. Gisele surely will do a fine job of soothing his aches and pains in the next few weeks.
I'm happy to see the Pats lose, but wish some team besides the Giants would have been the ones to do it (say, the Cowboys!). At least there's reason for optimism for my team going into next season, for once. The talent is there, no doubt, and should be reinforced by the addition of two first round picks, assuming Jerry doesn't do something phenomenally stupid, like trade those picks up for Darren McFadden. [Why? Marion the Barbarian is a ferocious beast. Instead, draft a talented change-up runner like Felix Jones with one of the existing picks instead, and use the other on badly needed DB depth...say, Aqib Talib.] The staff vacancies resulting from the Tuna's Dolphin raid have been filled by smart, experienced coaches, including Dave Campo, who is right where he belongs as secondary coach.
I would take a win or two less in the regular season if it means the team peaks at the end, instead of in the middle. Two teams I do not like -- Pittsburgh and the Giants -- recently have showed how it can be done.
