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The ravenous birds flew south to get to Raymond James; to play in the Super Bowl, the ultimate of games; with prodigal son Trent, once considered spent, but now bravely returning to the Tampa soil, where he once toiled and did a lot of learning. They cackled and crowed, while winning on the playoff road. The offense did their jobs, as the defense did explode. Though statistically, at least to me, with numbers unimpressed upon me, did each victory prove they were the very best. Winning each and every way, at first seemed like a pretense. Their special teams fulfilled their dreams while scoring on defense. The ball took some funny bounces, while staying in the air just barely long enough for Shannon to sharply ensnare. To make Del Greco miss not once, but once again, once more and block it and return it the other way for a score, would let them stay in the field of play, but it looked out of bounds for them to win quite handily while making only six first downs. The Oakland Raiders seemed to have it all, but they soon were quickly humbled. All hopes of being in the Super Bowl were intercepted and fumbled. They said the same exact thing all the Ravens opponents would : "they had a lucky day against us - they're really not that good". Luck is the residue of design and desire, when fate and fortune are often found to conspire. The skill to having such sweet success, is to make it all seem effortless. Having put the Vikings on the funeral pyre, stoking up the fire, the Giants headed boldly onto the field with only one desire : to send the big bad birds back to Baltimore and listen to them boast again nevermore. The game, itself, was murder, the defense made us all witness the epitome of planning, actuated to express, by their tough and tacit testimony, to acquit the errant thought, that they didn't deserve to win it all, by how fearlessly they fought.
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