So here it comes, either the Indianapolis Colts' ultimate dream or their worst nightmare. Here come the New York Jets, America's Cinderella and Indy's Frankenstein. The Jets are the Colts' creation, a team that only reached the playoffs because Colts president Bill Polian and coach Jim Caldwell weren't interested in perfection. Now, this imposing monster of a team, bolstered by a frightful defense and the enduring power of belief, is coming to Lucas Oil Stadium for Sunday's AFC Championship Game.
If you think this is some kind of giant break for the Colts, who, like in 2006, have been spared another meeting with their arch-nemesis Chargers, think again:
It's one thing for the Jets to smack down the Cincinnati Bengals, who had a sore-armed quarterback and no receivers.
It's another to go into San Diego and take the hottest team and one of the hottest quarterbacks, Philip Rivers, to the woodshed. The Chargers ordinarily score 20 points per game falling out of bed. The Jets, who weren't supposed to be able to blitz a quarterback like Rivers and his core of receivers, made them look lost and hapless.
Are the Jets one-dimensional? Sure, they are. But that one dimension wins playoff games. Recall the 2000 Baltimore Ravens, who went weeks without scoring an offensive touchdown. Didn't matter. They won with defense, won the Super Bowl, and did it with a defensive line coach named, um, Rex Ryan.
A week ago, I looked at the Colts' three possible division opponents -- Cincinnati, Baltimore and the Jets -- and suggested the Jets would be a soft touch, a 31-3 loser, a one-dimensional team with no hope of winning here.
Then I watched what they did Sunday in San Diego. I watched what they did without the benefit of their usually productive running game. I watched Mark Sanchez continue to grow before America's eyes. I watched Ryan make a smart, gutsy fourth-down decision like a guy on a cosmic roll at a Vegas craps table.
Gulp.
On the surface, it might look like the Colts caught a huge break Sunday, getting the No. 5 seed in here one week after dispatching the No. 6. But the Jets aren't playing like a No. 5 seed anymore. And beyond that, there's a whiff of magic about them now, a sense they are destiny's team, and that's a very dangerous combination.
It wasn't so long ago that Ryan incorrectly told the media his team was out of playoff contention. Then it happened: The Colts laid down the last quarter-and-a-half, gift-wrapping a Jets victory. And the Bengals, sitting Cedric Benson and playing with very little on the line, mailed it in that final game of the regular season.
Now look.
The backdoor Jets are on the doorstep of the Super Bowl.
America's Cinderella.
And the Colts' version of the Frankenstein monster.
Need some comparisons?
Forty-one years ago, another Colts team faced the Jets as a prohibitive double-digit favorite. That was Super Bowl III, the Joe Namath "guarantee,'' the game that essentially forced the NFL-AFL merger. Forty-one years ago, nobody in Baltimore and almost nobody in America thought the upstart Jets had a chance. Well, they have a chance Sunday. They absolutely have a chance.
After the Colts' divisional victory Saturday, players were naturally asked who they preferred to play, and they naturally answered that they didn't care. Pump them full of sodium pentathol, and I'd bet most of them hoped for a return visit from the Jets. First, the Chargers have driven them crazy in recent years. But they still feel like they owe the Jets a little something, that they were forced to give away that game and their perfect season by management.
When the starters were still out there, the Jets did almost nothing. The Colts scored 15 points, just missing on long passes to Reggie Wayne and Dallas Clark. The Jets kicked a field goal, and got their other seven points on a Brad Smith kickoff return.
To Colts fans, I would say this before you book your tickets to Miami: Be careful what you wish for.
Now, then, the real fun starts, and Ryan and his Jets are going to make it fun.
Ryan is the anti-Jim Caldwell, similar only in the sense that both men are rookie head coaches. He is full of bluster and bold pronouncements, a Namath-esque figure without the full-length mink and the panty hose commercials. Caldwell? Shoot, you have to sit in his lap simply to hear him during one of his media briefings. The next time he says something that's headline-worthy will be his first. He's so guarded, when somebody asked him what his wife bought him for his birthday Saturday, he chose not to share that information. (What was it? Plutonium?)
The Jets are the swaggering teens, filled with testosterone and bravado. They are the embodiment of New York and New Jersey. They roar, they tweet, they posture and, lately, they back it up.
The Colts are the button-down, wing-tip-wearing professionals, a conservative, no-frills Midwestern team in every conceivable way.
The Colts created this monster, and along the way, they've gotten some help from two horrendous field goal kickers and a San Diego coach, Norv Turner, who butchered the last two minutes of Sunday's game.
Charity began at home, right here in Indianapolis.
It ends here, too.
Bob Kravitz, IndyStar.com
If you think this is some kind of giant break for the Colts, who, like in 2006, have been spared another meeting with their arch-nemesis Chargers, think again:
It's one thing for the Jets to smack down the Cincinnati Bengals, who had a sore-armed quarterback and no receivers.
It's another to go into San Diego and take the hottest team and one of the hottest quarterbacks, Philip Rivers, to the woodshed. The Chargers ordinarily score 20 points per game falling out of bed. The Jets, who weren't supposed to be able to blitz a quarterback like Rivers and his core of receivers, made them look lost and hapless.
Are the Jets one-dimensional? Sure, they are. But that one dimension wins playoff games. Recall the 2000 Baltimore Ravens, who went weeks without scoring an offensive touchdown. Didn't matter. They won with defense, won the Super Bowl, and did it with a defensive line coach named, um, Rex Ryan.
A week ago, I looked at the Colts' three possible division opponents -- Cincinnati, Baltimore and the Jets -- and suggested the Jets would be a soft touch, a 31-3 loser, a one-dimensional team with no hope of winning here.
Then I watched what they did Sunday in San Diego. I watched what they did without the benefit of their usually productive running game. I watched Mark Sanchez continue to grow before America's eyes. I watched Ryan make a smart, gutsy fourth-down decision like a guy on a cosmic roll at a Vegas craps table.
Gulp.
On the surface, it might look like the Colts caught a huge break Sunday, getting the No. 5 seed in here one week after dispatching the No. 6. But the Jets aren't playing like a No. 5 seed anymore. And beyond that, there's a whiff of magic about them now, a sense they are destiny's team, and that's a very dangerous combination.
It wasn't so long ago that Ryan incorrectly told the media his team was out of playoff contention. Then it happened: The Colts laid down the last quarter-and-a-half, gift-wrapping a Jets victory. And the Bengals, sitting Cedric Benson and playing with very little on the line, mailed it in that final game of the regular season.
Now look.
The backdoor Jets are on the doorstep of the Super Bowl.
America's Cinderella.
And the Colts' version of the Frankenstein monster.
Need some comparisons?
Forty-one years ago, another Colts team faced the Jets as a prohibitive double-digit favorite. That was Super Bowl III, the Joe Namath "guarantee,'' the game that essentially forced the NFL-AFL merger. Forty-one years ago, nobody in Baltimore and almost nobody in America thought the upstart Jets had a chance. Well, they have a chance Sunday. They absolutely have a chance.
After the Colts' divisional victory Saturday, players were naturally asked who they preferred to play, and they naturally answered that they didn't care. Pump them full of sodium pentathol, and I'd bet most of them hoped for a return visit from the Jets. First, the Chargers have driven them crazy in recent years. But they still feel like they owe the Jets a little something, that they were forced to give away that game and their perfect season by management.
When the starters were still out there, the Jets did almost nothing. The Colts scored 15 points, just missing on long passes to Reggie Wayne and Dallas Clark. The Jets kicked a field goal, and got their other seven points on a Brad Smith kickoff return.
To Colts fans, I would say this before you book your tickets to Miami: Be careful what you wish for.
Now, then, the real fun starts, and Ryan and his Jets are going to make it fun.
Ryan is the anti-Jim Caldwell, similar only in the sense that both men are rookie head coaches. He is full of bluster and bold pronouncements, a Namath-esque figure without the full-length mink and the panty hose commercials. Caldwell? Shoot, you have to sit in his lap simply to hear him during one of his media briefings. The next time he says something that's headline-worthy will be his first. He's so guarded, when somebody asked him what his wife bought him for his birthday Saturday, he chose not to share that information. (What was it? Plutonium?)
The Jets are the swaggering teens, filled with testosterone and bravado. They are the embodiment of New York and New Jersey. They roar, they tweet, they posture and, lately, they back it up.
The Colts are the button-down, wing-tip-wearing professionals, a conservative, no-frills Midwestern team in every conceivable way.
The Colts created this monster, and along the way, they've gotten some help from two horrendous field goal kickers and a San Diego coach, Norv Turner, who butchered the last two minutes of Sunday's game.
Charity began at home, right here in Indianapolis.
It ends here, too.
Bob Kravitz, IndyStar.com
