It’s the classic dream scenario for any young boy envisioning himself as a professional quarterback: You’re down by a touchdown with time for one more play in the biggest game of them all, the Super Bowl. You drop back to pass and see your receiver cutting across an open field, with no defender in sight. You throw a perfect strike into the hands of the receiver, who catches the ball right in stride and continues his dash to the end zone. The tying score is a yard away when your dream turns into a nightmare.
One yard short. Three feet – only a handful of inches – away from a Super Bowl title. Instead, the confetti comes down but you slowly walk off the field, unable to come to grips with the opportunity that just slipped away.
This nightmare setting is what I saw happen to quarterback Steve McNair and his Tennessee Titans in Super Bowl XXXIV, which took place on Jan. 30, 2000. I have never been a Titans fan, but on that particular night I cheered for the Titans as if I was on their sideline.
Why? To this day I’m not sure. I was not particularly fond of their opponent, the St. Louis Rams, who had been dubbed “The Greatest Show on Turf” in honor of their spectacular offense. Maybe the reason I cheered so hard for the Titans was their heroic quarterback, Steve McNair. Though Rams quarterback Kurt Warner was probably more heralded than McNair for his gaudy passing numbers and high-flying offense. “Air” McNair seemed like the ideal quarterback to me. Sure, he could throw a great ball and was extremely mobile, but there was more to him than that. In McNair I saw a courageous, valiant leader and someone who could command a huddle.
I was only seven years old when the Rams played the Titans in the Super Bowl. At that age, most kids don’t really care much about the outcome of the Super Bowl, but I was not like most kids. Instead, I sat on my couch from the moment the game kicked off, cheering wildly for Tennessee. The Rams jumped out to a 16-0 lead, but the Titans clawed their way back into the game, eventually tying the score at 16 in the fourth quarter. At this point, I was elated; McNair had done it again. A comeback victory was surely within reach.
Unfortunately, St. Louis scored to take a 23-16 lead immediately following Tennessee’s tying score, but I got excited as McNair drove the Titans down to the Rams 10-yard line. Then the nightmare began.
With six seconds remaining, McNair dropped back and passed the ball short over the middle to receiver Kevin Dyson, who appeared to have a path to the end zone. Then Rams linebacker Mike Jones made one of the greatest plays in Super Bowl history, turning around just in time to wrap up Dyson one yard short of the goal line.
Confetti came down and the Rams celebrated a Super Bowl victory. I watched as St. Louis coach Dick Vermeil raised his arms in victory on the sideline, as his players rejoiced in triumph. I watched an inconsolable Steve McNair kneel on the ground in pain, having come so close to tasting victory. And my parents watched me as I commiserated with the Titans in the agony of defeat.
“I’m never watching sports again!” I sobbed to my father as he tucked me in bed that night. This statement has turned out to be one of the most egregiously empty threats of all-time, but at the time the defeat had obviously caused me a great deal of pain.
Football is only one component of the Super Bowl, which has become a massive international event. The Super Bowl parties, funny advertisements, halftime show and general fanfare all contribute to the diminishing of the actual game, but at its heart, the Super Bowl is a sporting contest where some guys win and some guys lose.
Why was I so upset at the outcome? Perhaps it was the juxtaposition between the jubilation of Rams players and the anguish of defeat displayed by Steve McNair and his Titans. In a game of that magnitude, with only a yard separating the winners and losers, I could not stand to see one team lose a once-in-a-lifetime shot to win a Super Bowl. So that night I cried like Steve McNair.