Cursèd consciousness

I nearly had one of the five greatest dreams of my life this morning. Actually, even considering how it turned out, it might still rank that high.

For some reason (perhaps I should interpret this as a sign that I've read too much Super Bowl coverage), I was dreaming that the Oakland Raiders (not the Carolina Panthers) were playing the New England Patriots in Sunday's big game. (Yes, I realize this is impossible as both teams play in the AFC and thus would've faced off in the playoffs leading up to the Super Bowl, but as you'll discover, my dreams subscribe to some pretty bizarre logic.)

And it gets better...

While I evidently didn't witness most of the game (I think it was because despite the Raiders playing for the NFL title, I still knew in my dream that it was this year's Raiders and that the Raiders stunk this year, thus I couldn't bring myself to watch the first 58 minutes of the game, recalling how well things went last year in the real Super Bowl when the real Raiders who were the real offensive juggernaut played real [sic] terrible and got embarrassed), I apparently opted to tune in for the final two minutes of the game.

New England quarterback Tom Brady was trying to rally his team, like he's shown a penchant for doing, which trailed by a touchdown, 18-11 (yes, that was the actual score, don't ask me how such odd numbers were put on the board, because I didn't see that part), and it's inside the two-minute warning. In typical Brady fashion, he's leading the march down a rain-soaked field (again, don't ask me why they didn't bother closing the roof of Houston's Reliant Stadium), bringing the Patsies perilously close to the red zone and a possible game-tying score.

And then, inexplicably, it all unravels. On what I believe was a third-down play, Brady's pass protection was nonexistent. As in, instead of a five-man defensive line, there appeared to be four linemen around the line of scrimmage, only one of whom was one of Brady's blockers. Despite the three-on-one surge, Brady managed to elude the sack and get rid of the ball.

Only here it gets weird. In a scene straight out of Super Tecmo Bowl, Brady throws a functional reverse lateral to his right. And even more bizarre, there's not a single New England player near it. Nope, just a particularly opportunistic (or fortunate, considering this had to be the worst-blown assignment in pigskin history) defensive back who picks off the pass and runs it all the way back. Except that evidently a good number of New England offensive players hustle back to help impede his road to glory, though the unnamed Raider does scamper all the way into the end zone and pay dirt.

But then comes the most surreal twist yet. Remember how I said that the New England players made things difficult on the runback? Apparently they got a hit or two on the DB, which may have caused his knee to touch the turf during the return, nullifying the touchdown, though not possession. This is established, obviously, thanks to the wonder of NFL instant replay. The officials call for a video review (since, after all, it's within the final two minutes of the half and no longer within the purview of the coaches to challenge the call), rule the DB down by contact and take the six off the board. Ridiculous, I know.

Nonetheless, the Raiders still lead by a touchdown, they have the ball deep in New England territory and fewer than 90 ticks on the clock. Victory is a slam dunk. I mean, at this point, they just run out the clock and there's nothing the Pats can do about it (it seems New England didn't have enough timeouts to try to get the ball back, or at least this must have been the case since I was supremely confident that the Raiders had the game in hand and Al Davis was moments away from accepting that big silver football).

Naturally, at this point I wake up. And it all becomes painfully clear. The Raiders aren't in the Super Bowl. In fact, they really stink. And I don't even get the pleasure of consoling myself by at least dreaming about a championship celebration and thus temporarily transcending their suckiness in my subconscious.

Methinks this is some sort of sick and twisted joke perpetrated by the football gods to remind me that I'm doomed to suffer as a Raiders fan so long as Al Davis calls the shots (which include, inexplicably, hiring proven loser Norv -- his name is Norv! -- Turner as coach).

Granted, the Raiders have not only been to the Super Bowl but won it in my lifetime. Unfortunately, that victory came back in 1984, when I was barely two months past my second birthday and far too young to appreciate what an idiot Davis was/is, or the genius of Apple's "1984" ad that ran during the third quarter of the Raiders' romp.

Alas, such is the cruelty of fate.