This is the year we get that one for the thumb

Here we go.

The black and gold soldiers deserve this. Don't take it away, Microsoft. They worked too hard to get here, they deserve recognition and admiration.

Their bars close at 5:30, for fuck's sake.

Arm-Pit-sburgh is a broken city, a forgotten landscape with pieces of history tossed into gutters and alleys like yesterday's Gazette. The haunted still roam, but the industry will never catch up. In what once surely bustled and jumped with excitement, now it is filled with the slow human decay of Development. Churches converted to bars, train depots into hole-in-the-wall diners, and parks into shelters. The cruel hand of irony clutches the burly city by the neck, and it squeezes until the old feelings are gone, replaced by the Coastal Imagination, and the soft whisps of prairie wind.

They used to build fucking trains here, god dammit.

But they deserve this not out of pity. Fuck that. That's too easy. It's too easy to pull for the Yankees in the Desert World Series because the planes went into the towers. It's too easy to cuddle up with the Red and White Sox because - AWWWWWWWW - aren't they cute?!!? They haven't won in 86 YEARS!!! Here's a championship, you loveable band of misfits.

They deserve it because they're better than you. They're better fans than you. They live this life, and they make no reservations about their pride. They are singular in their mentality: Go Steelers. They form their entire existence out of their sports, they plan entire months around game-times, and they know more about their team than any place else.

And it's not noble. And they're not pious. And they eat huge sandwiches with coleslaw on them and drink beer out of aluminum bottles because their city is FLAT BROKE. But none of that matters. They are what they are, and they could plain give a shit if you care or not.

They can't keep the streets clean. And they can't keep their strip of bars open late because they just lose money. They have to serve everything with a Steelers theme just to compete with one another. The city dies, but it lives. It is a triumphant defiance to the New American Way. The old is swept away, but never really disappears. It echoes now, reverberating through time and the Monongahela, rippling it's crumbling facade. Progress doesn't have to be like it is everywhere else. The winds of change bring sweet notes of redemption and revitalization.

But don't tell these people. They care about Reed, Ben, Bill and all the rest. They love the Bus more than we'll ever know. They are not heroes, these footballers. They are just like the rest of them. They are representatives. They carry the black and gold flag north to the Canadian border. And if you take them lightly, they'll plant it in your turqouise-blue ass.

So belly up to the bar and order yourself a Rothlis-burger. Grab an Iron City to wash it down (don't you DARE forget to recycle). Make sure you order that burger "loaded". They'll be generous with the slaw, don't worry. And eat it in peace, perched next to off-duty cops and electricians. The conversation is dim, but don't be suckered in. They don't care for your dissenting opinion. We're not here to discuss the "chances". We're not here to discuss "what might happen".

We're here because "if all 22 men do exactly what they're supposed to do, they will be victorious".

Here we go.