<?xml version="1.0" encoding="ISO-8859-1"?>
<BODY.CONTENT>
<UID>
8701050100
</UID>
<PUBLICATION>
DETROIT FREE PRESS
</PUBLICATION>
<DATE>
870126
</DATE>
<TDATE>
Monday, January 26, 1987
</TDATE>
<EDITION>
METRO FINAL CHASER
</EDITION>
<SECTION>
SPT
</SECTION>
<PAGE>
1F
</PAGE>
<ILLUSTRATION>

</ILLUSTRATION>
<CAPTION>

</CAPTION>
<BYLINE>
MITCH ALBOM
</BYLINE>
<AFFILIATION>

</AFFILIATION>
<MEMO>

</MEMO>
<COPYRIGHT>
Copyright (c) 1987, Detroit Free Press
</COPYRIGHT>
<HEADLINE>
BIG APPLE CRUSHES THE ORANGE 
HAIL TO THE 'OTHER' QB
</HEADLINE>
<SUBHEAD>

</SUBHEAD>
<CORRECTION>

</CORRECTION>
<BODY>
PASADENA, Calif. -- His hair was sticky. That's how he knew. All that Phil
Simms had wanted, all he had dreamed, the best game he could imagine. It was
all there. His hair was sticky.

  Gatorade.

  "When did  you know you'd won the MVP award?" Simms was asked, after he
completed 22 of 25 passes in the Giants' 39-20 crushing of the Broncos in
Super Bowl XXI.
  "When they dumped the Gatorade  on me," he said, breaking into a grin. "I
figured that was it."
  That was it? That was it. Super Bowl XXI, wrapped up tight and stored in
the vaults. They dumped the Gatorade on coach Bill Parcells  -- as they had
done  all season  -- and then they dumped it on Simms. Here is your Super Bowl
MVP quarterback, America. John Elway played the game in our minds. Phil Simms
did it on the field.
  "Have  you ever had a better day than that?" someone asked. "Could you ever
have a better day than that?"
  "It'd  be hard to imagine," he said. 
  "Are you vindicated now?" someone asked.
  "I wasn't  looking for vindication," he said.
  "You're always saying you're not a great quarterback but a good one,"
someone screamed. "But didn't you play great today? Wouldn't you call that
great?"
  Simms  smiled. He looked down for a second, then he looked straight into
the dozens of camera lights.
  What the hell.
  "Yeah, all right," he said. "I was great today. I was great!"
I t is a tribute to  Simms that he cannot say that too much. Make no mistake.
He was not the only element in this thumping of the Broncos. But he was the
biggest. He threw short, he threw long, he earned 268 yards, three
touchdowns, no interceptions, and was perfect in  the second half, 10-for-10,
and the second half is when this Super Bowl went from a tussle to a trashing.
  "I have never seen better quarterbacking  than that," Parcells said. "I
mean, you know, never."
  What was the difference between the 10-9 first half, led by the Broncos,
and the  39-20 laugher at the final gun? Certainly you have to begin  with
Simms. He stayed confident. Poised. And when the Giants came out for the
second half -- to the strains of "New York, New York" being sung by
three-quarters of this hardly neutral neutral-site crowd  -- well, you got the
sense the thing was over. Their game.
  And they were losing at the time.
  "Every time I challenge these guys, they respond," Parcells said. He threw
the gauntlet down on the  Giants' opening drive of the second half. Fourth
down on their 46. Fake punt, men. The Giants pulled it off, got the first
down, and a few plays later, Simms rifled a pass to big tight end Mark Bavaro,
 the silent one, and it was touchdown. Bavaro fell to one knee, crossed
himself, looked to the heavens, then flipped the ball behind his back to the
referee.
  That's how they do it in New York, folks.  A little dash, a little credit,
and then -- show off. So much for close games. The Giants followed with a
field goal, then a flea-flicker -- in the Super Bowl? -- and Simms hit a
wide-open Phil McConkey,  who did a 360-degree flip at the 1-yard line.
  "Was that the biggest play?" someone asked the quarterback.
  "You bet it was," he said. "When he caught that, I knew we had this won. I
knew it was  over. There was no way they were coming back from that. No way."
  "Did your resent all the talk this week about Elway instead of you?" he was
asked.
  "No, I really didn't. Like I said, when you  think of the Denver Broncos,
you think of John Elway. When you think of the Giants, you think of defense."
  The mob around Simms was endless. The MVP trophy was his.
  Think again.
  And what  of Elway? He was brilliant in the first period, and the 10-9
halftime lead was a Denver victory of sorts. But in the second half he was
suddenly mortal, incomplete. He was chased like a rodeo calf, he  fumbled and
was dragged to earth rudely. He was picked off. He wound up 22-for-37  for 304
yards. What can you say? He played as gamely as a quarterback can. If football
games were meant to be won by  a single player, they wouldn't pay the other
guys.
  His team did not let him down. Nor did it help him much. Rich Karlis missed
two first-half field goals that would have padded the Denver lead, not  to
mention its confidence. And the defense was never able to handle Simms -- who
remember, was the less Super quarterback coming into this game.
  "You made it look so simple," someone marveled to  Simms afterward.
  "Sometimes," he answered, "it is simple."
  Sometimes it is.
  The point spread on this one was 8 1/2  points. It was not unfair. The
mistake people make with Super Bowls is  in thinking that the two weeks
between the conference championships and the Big One is enough time to
transform your team into something else. It is not. New York was a superior
team two weeks ago. It is a superior team this morning. A Super team.
  The defense was stringent. The offense was surprisingly agile. Credit
Parcells for some gutsy calls -- including that fake punt and a series of
passes to open the New York attack.
  In his post-game press conference, Parcells mentioned his joy at winning a
title for a team that hadn't had one since 1956. "We buried the ghosts
tonight," Parcells said.
  He wasn't the only one.
  Phil Simms, the "other" quarterback, the guy who even this year was
ridiculed as being unable to win the big one, had buried a few of his own,
washed them away with the  dump of a bucket. His hair was sticky. He knew what
he had done. Someone gave him a hat that read "New York Giants, 1987 Super
Bowl Champs."
  He read it. He smiled.
  "Amen," he said.
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<DISCLAIMER>

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<KEYWORDS>
COLUMN
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