…or What the Superbowl Taught me About Romance Writing

Not a fan of football? It’s okay. Keep reading. A New England fan? Keep reading.

The final push in a romance novel is that wonderful, breathtaking moment in which the hero and/or heroine risk it all for love. They do what they thought was impossible, they break through the barriers that have held them back all their lives, and they win against all odds. And because of that courage and that risk, they win the love and respect they now deserve, and live happily ever after.

Once upon a time in 2008, there was an empire that could not be defeated. Their leader was cyborgian in his abilities, flawless and untouchable. He had perfect features, stood a head above other men, had a body like iron. No one could defeat the empire, and no one did. The were, in a word, perfect.

Enter the opponents. Smaller, erratic, rag-tag, led by a younger brother of a much better general. Big Brother was the true champion of the family; Little Brother…well, it was luck and his name, maybe, that had gotten him to where he was. Yet he had an indefinable quality that puzzled analysts. Sometimes, though not often enough, Little Brother showed a flash of brilliance. He wasn’t the physical perfection that was Tom Brady, but he had a sweet smile and pretty eyes. The boy next door, you might say.

Somehow, the rag-tag team made it to the final battle to face Perfection. And Perfection did what was expected of them. They played magnificently, dominating the game for three quarters and fourteen minutes. Unfortunately for them, the New York Giants did what was not expected of them. In the final minute of the game—the final minute—Eli Manning, younger brother of the great Peyton, should’ve been sacked. He disappeared under a swarm of Patriots jerseys, and he was not supposed to get away. A sack would’ve essentially ended the game, and the Perfect Season, the first in history, would’ve been complete.

But Eli—somehow—got away. He threw the ball, and it was caught by a millimeter and held onto by the grace of the football gods. Three plays later, with 35 seconds left in the game, Eli threw a touchdown pass that put the Giants up for the first time in the game, and the only time it really mattered. Perfection was defeated, not by the greatest football plays in the world…but by heart.

If that’s not a romance novel, I don’t know what is.

Love him or stick pins into a voodoo doll wearing #10, one cannot deny that Eli Manning has a lot of heart. He may not have the skills or the records (not yet), but the kid just kept going, and he won the big game. Last weekend, when the Patriots coach swore revenge and Tom Brady played fired away with needle-threading precision, Eli Manning did it again. Less than a minute on the clock. The Giants are behind, the Pats are praying for the clock to run out. Eli has the ball. There’s no room for error. Nothing but a touchdown will do.

A touchdown it is.

Someday, they’re going to make a movie based on the boy who married his college sweetheart and stepped out from under the shadow of his brother, who beat the unbeatable, and became a legend in his own right. The boy with the sweet smile and the big heart who just wouldn’t give up.

Now, New England fans, I feel you, I do. I’m from New England, after all, though my sports heart is with New York. So in the interest of fairness and conciliation, read the story again. Once upon a time is now 2004. Instead of football, picture baseball. Instead of the Superbowl, remember a certain Pennant. Picture a seven-game series in which the unbeatable empire, this time from New York, is up three games to zero. Picture the scrappy little team, this time from Boston, who was down to one strike from the greatest closing pitcher of all time, a team about to face an utterly humiliating loss.

Not quite how it worked out, is it?

Talk about a final push.