They must be Giants

GAMEDAY

On a cold winter day in 1963, a lifelong love affair was born. The New York Giants played the Chicago Bears for the NFL Championship, and the Giants had golden boy Frank Gifford and some weird-looking bald guy named Y.A. Tittle. My brother and dad watched it on our 21" Philco black and white TV. The Giants lost that day, but I didn't care -- I was mesmerized.

Never again would I not care if they lost.

While my relationship with the Yankees didn't survive George Steinbrenner, interleague play, artificial turf and steroids, the Giants have remained a constant. The years of 64-80 built character while also teaching me to be a somewhat gracious loser. It also made me appreciate winning even more. Many people, plays and moments stand out, some good, some great, some ugly and some heartbreaking: Fran Tarkenton hitting Homer Jones on a flea flicker, "the Fumble," LT knocking Ron Jaworski into another area code, Phil Simms refusing to lose, Mark Bavaro carrying a whole team of 49ers on his back (literally) on a Monday night in '86, Trey Junkin's bad snap that put me into a six-month funk that only ended with the birth of my first child. And, the redemption of Eli.

And so many more.

Many people don't understand this. Including my wife (well, she hates football, but that's another story). But I am looking forward to passing my love of the Giants and the game to Jack. He needs to know that the Cowboys, Eagles and Redskins are all evil, each in different ways. He needs to know how for three hours each week, we can lose ourselves to something that is graceful and barbaric both at the same time. He needs to know what it's like to live and die on each game, on each quarter, on each play. He needs to know that with each moment of agony comes the promise of wonderment. He needs to feel and understand the passion. He needs to know this game and this team, and how it can make you feel alive.

The Giants open the season today against the hated Redskins.

Let the games begin.