As I live in a suburb of Pittsburgh, and work in the city, I am obliged to write something about the Steelers. I don't know if this is an actual law, but around here it just as well might be.
Lucky for me, this is not mere duty. I love the Steelers and I have my No. 43 jersey ready to put on come Sunday evening. I am going to be watching the game with a bunch of friends at a party.
My prediction for the game is as follows - if the Steelers can run the ball, they will win; if they can't, the Cardinals' quarterback is going to have plenty of time to make life miserable for the Steelers secondary, not to mention for those around the keg and food table at the party.
The Steelers have to win; otherwise, the whole of Pittsburgh will be in therapy. And if that groundhog on Monday then dares issue from his burrow and predict six more weeks of winter, someone will hit him with a snow shovel.
In other football news, that would be the round sort of football, a friend send me word that the Feb. 2 issue of Sports Illustrated carries the following Sign of the Apocalypse:
"A British Club soccer game was disrupted when a parrot brought by a fan started imitating the referee's whistle."
I guess it was a case of Polly wants a red card.