Has there ever been a larger collective desire than for the Giants to pick off Tom Brady and the Heartbreakers in Super Bowl 42? Imagine how futile we are going to feel on Monday morning when they are still slaughtered, or at least bruised and beaten. We pride ourselves as a nation that can will itself to war with a few belligerent country-western anthems, and yet we actually have no power to change the outcome of our national pasttime. It will be swift and merciless. A bayonet to our soft gut, to our belief that, at least since John Hughes, pretty boys shouldn't win against the goofy kids. The last stand of our American dream put down on the fields of Phoenix, which is clearly a fake city to begin with. The audacity of hope! Yet to paraphrase our President, perhaps the only man ballsy or foolish enough to put money on the Giants, were he not sure gambling was a mortal sin: Go Giants, Beat Patriots.