This just had to happen. The stupid Vikings couldn’t beat the Eagles and relieve me – and all Giants fans – of this extreme anxiety. Seriously, this week I will probably lose three years off my life from the stress of anticipation – not to mention the decade I’ll lose while watching the game on Sunday (I predict that I won’t live past next Wednesday if the Giants lose due to the trauma and devastating disappointment).

The thing that scares me the most about the Eagles – more than Brian Westbrook or Jim Johnson – are the

debates I would have with one of my good friends, and fellow Giants mega-fan, Dan (big ups kid!). We argued about whether the Eagles or Cowboys pose a bigger threat to the Giants in the playoffs. He valiantly, and accurately, argued that the Cowboys’ roster, although underachieving this year, is scary good. Dan said that he would rather have to face the Eagles two-man offense than the Cowboys star studded juggernaut of a football team. I countered with the fact that Tony Romo chokes big-time in every meaningful game. I argued that I would rather face Romo and a very questionable Cowboys defense than Donovan McNabb and a brilliant coordinator in Johnson (not to mention all the players he has to work with).

Here’s the thing that scares me: I was right. Romo and the Cowboys laid a humpty-dumpty sized egg in Week 17 against the Eagles, eliminating Dallas and securing a playoff spot for Philly. But what if I’m too accurate with my assessment of the Eagles? What if Donovan McNabb plays an unbelievable game and Jim Johnson’s defense completely confounds the Giants offense? Have I jinxed all hopes for the Giants winning, before the playoffs even started? And, thus, begins a short rant on the most meaningless (and paradoxically important) aspect in every sports fan’s life: superstitions.

Superstitions are completely unnecessary. They are rituals which are performed habitually in order to make a fan think that they are impacting their team’s success. I hate to break it to you, but wearing your old #27 Rodney Hampton jersey that you got for your eleventh birthday in 1993 has no bearing on whether the Giants beat the Patriots in the last Super Bowl. In most cases, every single player directly associated with the

entire Giants franchise has no idea who you are or cares that you are wearing that pretty sweet old-school jersey. (Although, maybe the revenue generated from that particular purchase allowed the Giants to hire Jerry Reese in 1994. Perhaps without the purchase of that vintage Rodney Hampton jersey, Reese would never have risen to GM and put together such a fine team.)

Hence the problem with superstitions. We always find rediculous reasons to justify them. In fact, the justifications of superstitions may be the only thing stupider than the ritual itself. For some cosmically incomprehensible reason, though, we are all slaves to our own superstitions. It affects where you watch the game, what you wear, who you watch it with, maybe even what you eat during the game.

So on Sunday, I will meet up with my two friends to watch the Giants try to put a hurtin’ on the Eagles. The three of us watched every playoff game together last year, so we’re not going to mess with that streak at all this postseason. I just hope it’s enough to offset my stupidity in arguing with Dan that the Eagles are the more dangerous team.

Prove me wrong G-Men. Please God, prove me wrong.