Beyond the game, this was a referendum on a career.
Tom Brady came into Sunday having just barely won three championships; he lost another two by even thinner margins. At 37 years old, his opportunity window is shutting quickly enough to take off fingers.
The two he'd lost weren't his fault. His model wife, Gisele Bundchen, famously reminded us of that.
But Sunday's Super Bowl? Brady was going to wear this one. He threw two bad interceptions. Instead, it was Seattle that caved at the very end, in a game that ended in an on-field brawl.
In the midst of all that, Brady stood there, statuesque. He'd found his famous poise in an epic fourth quarter. The game seemed designed for maximum last-laughedness.
In the final quarter, trailing by 10, Brady put together two surgical, clock-eating drives. Everyone else was aquiver with nervous energy. As things tightened, Brady got closer and closer to sleepwalking. There hasn't been such a marvel of efficiency since the invention of the combustion engine.
He was saved at the end by an awful Seattle call that resulted in a game-saving, goal-line interception. A lot of the conversation this morning will be rehashing why the Seahawks chose to pass when you have a battering ram for a running back.
But the credit goes to New England and Brady. They won 28-24.
In capturing his fourth Super Bowl and matching Joe Montana and Terry Bradshaw, Brady laid a credible claim as the greatest ever. When you consider how thin so many of his teams have been – yesterday's New England offence featured only one first-round draft pick – it's probably unassailable.
No scandal can undo him. No amount of working-class animus (unfair) or anti-Boston sentiment (fair) can deny him his place in the pantheon. He may have already been there before. He's certainly there now.
He shares this with coach Bill Belichick – also a four-time winner, also probably the best ever at his job. Belichick laid out a perfect death-by-a-thousand-cuts plan against an epochal defence. They got lucky, too. But luck favours the prepared. Especially the possibly illegally prepared.
The story of Deflategate managed to live right up until kickoff. The NFL has wisely dragged its heels on the investigation, waiting for attention spans to wander in the off-season. Brady gave an interview aired Sunday that was a Nixonian exercise in deflection. He knows that, soon, none of this will matter. This win wipes all slates clean.
A Praetorian Guard of officials was there to keep things on the up-and-up. Per Super Bowl rules, 108 game balls were supplied. All of them were microchipped. The balls are prized as giveaways to fat cats and sponsors – hence the huge number.
They were supervised by a Chicago Bears equipment manager, checked in secret by NFL factotums and distributed on the sidelines by ball boys provided by the Arizona Cardinals.
This left us falling back on the game for narrative juice. There wasn't much to be had in early going.
Brady was clockwork until he delivered that rarest of jewels – a helpful interception.
The throw was unforgivable, straight to Seattle cornerback Jeremy Lane, who was standing stock-still on his own goal line. However, Lane suffered a gruesome injury on the return. His absence opened a gaping hole in the no-fly zone of the Seahawks secondary.
There was no scoring in the first period. Seattle quarterback Russell Wilson didn't complete a pass until halfway through the second quarter. Time was flying, but not because we were having fun.
Then it all tipped over the hill of nerves and began tumbling downhill toward entertainment. Brady began tic-tac-toeing his way through the Seattle defence. Marshawn Lynch began speaking the way he prefers – via (brutal) body language.
The star of the suddenly electric second quarter was former Winnipeg Blue Bomber Chris Matthews. His first catch went for 44 yards, giving Wilson 50 yards passing. He scored a touchdown with six seconds left – the first-ever Super Bowl TD for a former CFLer. We went to the break tied 14-14 and full of hope.
That was momentarily unsettled by what has become the real purpose of the Super Bowl – the halftime show. The performer was human Barbie doll Katy Perry – riding a giant robotic lion, dancing with sharks, flying around in some sort of Willy Wonka-esque star-chariot contraption. Also, singing.
The Romans routinely killed thousands of men and beasts in a single day of the Games. This was more alarming.
Maybe the Patriots watched it. They came out flat. Brady tossed up another early pick. New England began popping seams on defence. It went sideways in a hurry, until Brady steadied the boat.
If you made a day of it, you're probably still in bed. Until Wednesday.
The NFL Network kicked off its coverage at 4 a.m. local time. By 5, they were doing a live hit outside the Patriots hotel in the pitch black – using a topographical map to explain who was sleeping where. Five hours after that, they broadcast an extended feature on the Seahawks' lucky barber. If you've ever played, watched or heard of football, you were probably on TV yesterday.
Good news – you have just enough time to say goodbye to your family before coverage begins this afternoon for next year's Super Bowl.
The question all this televised hoopla begged was, "What country does the Super Bowl take place in?"
Between the fly-overs, salutes to the troops, a hard-hitting Barack Obama interview (Who do you like better? Hillary Clinton or Joe Biden?), anthropomorphic eagles and an endless pregame performance of God Bless America, it got confusing.
France? Is the right answer "France?" Wait, where are eagles from?
(Whispering from offstage.)
Oh, right. America. Sorry. We won't make that mistake next year. Which starts now.
Cathal Kelly