Day Two of Mourning

The Giants homepage shows a deserted locker room with the words "AN EMPTY FEELING....." emblazoned across the image. Yes. That is correct.

I'm sitting at my desk, staring at newspaper cutouts from the day after we, the New York Giants, won the Super Bowl XLII on February 3, 2008. Eli Manning, David Tyree, Plaxico Burress and Tommy C. are all here with me, sprinkled in between Yankees and Michael Phelps photos.

Even after Burress, in total dope fashion, shot himself in the leg at a night club, I kept his picture hanging, no. 17, with his hands reached over his head in victorious celebration. Whether his presence would have made a difference Sunday, nobody can speculate (though it's no secret Manning and his G-Men were 1-4 without him).

"You gonna keep that Burress picture up?" a co-worker, who happens to be a Boston fan, said in passing about a week ago on his way to the water cooler behind my desk.

"Yup." (I won't mention that before the Burress incident I was contemplating buying his jersey.)

Next to Burress is no. 85, David Tyree, with his over-the-head, fingertip save of a catch. Within a second of Tyree laying in an awkward, upward bow pose across the Patriots' Rodney Harrison, I was off the floor of our Dream Hotel suite and on the couch like Tom Cruise on Oprah. I was crying and laughing and screaming all in the same breath.

My office Giants gallery used to give me pride and comfort... until now.

I am no sportscaster. I am just a fan. I am no football expert. I am just a fan. I am, however, an athlete. I never played professionally for a world championship, but my Virginia women's swim team won the Atlantic Coast Conference championship twice in a row. From the second we left the pool in February of 1998, the score was back to 0-0. My coach Dino let us gloat and celebrate our victory for about a day before he shared the following: "We went from being the hunters to being the hunted, ladies. Get that ingrained in your heads." Our signature team T-shirt for the following year was "Got heart?" Without it, we knew we'd be nothing. We won again.

The Giants didn't seem to understand this simple concept of being a "repeat" team. They played like a scared, disjointed, misguided mess, nothing but eagle bait. The defense can only be as strong as the offense, and regardless of our big D rocking it in the first half, there was no cohesive offense visible on that field. There was no magic. There was no sign of Eli the Brave of last year's Super Bowl team. He was a ghost who threw 15-for-29 and two interceptions.

Brandon Jacobs, once off the injured list, was crazy and fired up last week in the locker room, according to his teammate Chris Snee. Where was this energy on the field? Why didn't the other players feed off this fresh, hungry spirit?

I hoped coming back from half-time we'd see a different team. I hoped Coach Coughlin gave the squad a good thrashing in the locker room. Nothing like a good yell got me fired up to kick some enemy a**. But that didn't happen.

My friend Blaz leaned in and asked, "Are you into this? I'm feeling you're not into this and you need to be into this." I promised him my nerves had taken over and silenced me. I don't know what it was. I was jazzed over Ahmad Bradshaw's 65-yard run off the opening kick, and that was it for the rest of the 59:45 minutes of play. Something was off. I knew it. I had a really bad feeling and I couldn't get the L-word out of my head.

NovaCat kept saying, "It's not over, guys. It's not over."

We would catch each other with our heads on our foreheads or our heads in our hands and we'd whack each other. We'd switch Giants apparel, hoping to change our luck for the better. You take my hat, I'll take your hat. You take my shirt, I'll take his shirt.

"What if we really L? What if we really L? I think I'll die if we really L. We may really L."

For the past couple of days the e-mails have been flying and "depressing" keeps coming up. I am beyond depressed. I feel like somebody, and not just a dream, has died. It's all I can think about. I can't even watch football. Seeing Manning in TV commercials makes me physically sick to my stomach.

Goodbye Burress. Goodbye Tyree. Goodbye Manning. My desk walls are now riddled with holes where your pictures used to be. I feel like a traitor for pulling you down, but looking at these images of last year's momentous win hurts like open eyes in a tub full of soap.

I root for teams with heart. I give them mine for a whole season and I expect the same in return. Like forgiving a lover who's cheated, it's going to take a lot for me to give my full heart to the Giants again.

Got heart, G-Men? You've got about 240 days to prove it.