Valentine's Day is almost upon us.  I have a love-hate relationship with that day: I love to hate it.

Call it sour grapes.  Call it whatever the heck you want, honestly.  The day excites me about as much as repeatedly slamming my head in my own car door.  My utter hatred for it dates waaaaay back, and with good reason: for some reason, growing up, I was always single — or, at least, alone — on February 14th.  Prior to 2004, the year I got married, I happened to be seeing someone precisely once in my old-enough-to-date years.  And I hardly call sitting in a coffee house at a table with my then-girlfriend and my own mother a good V-day date.

Even when Wife #1 and I met face-to-face the first time, I went to visit her the week before Valentine's Day.  Sure, we had a nice celebration the night before I returned home, even though she had to attend a class for the early portion of that evening, but we weren't physically together on the actual day.  And there were even obstacles during the three she and I spent together, but we won't get into that.  The bottom line is this: Valentine's Day despises me, and I spurn it.  It's a two-way hatred that burns almost as deep as the fourth level of hell.

Okay, I admit that I'm actually looking forward to it this year.  Do I expect it to be much different than what seems like millennia past?  No, that would fit the definition of insanity.  But, barring some strange twist of fate in the next 24 hours — and given my track record on February 14, I'm not yet ruling out the possibility — I'll be spending a peaceful Thursday night with someone whose company I rather enjoy, preparing and cooking a lasagna together and enjoying a quiet evening with a movie and a bottle of wine.  If you ask me, that's the way to spend it.

And it sure beats the year I sat at a restaurant with my friend, Joanna, and flipped off all the happy couples who came in to eat. 

Okay, far be it for me to postulate that God would be vengeful in something so seemingly minor as a football game.  Seriously, with the war, violence, famine, drought, floods, earthquakes, wild fires and American Idol punishing the world, it seems that the Lord would have bigger fish to fry.  But no, this was a lesson in the pitfalls of deception and pride.

For 17 weeks, I agonized that the New England Patriots could go undefeated after being caught cheating — and, worse, after showing no remorse for it.  It seemed to go against the grain of everything I was ever taught.  How, after all, could cheaters prosper?

But last night, at halftime, it really dawned on me that the New York Giants actually had a chance at upsetting the heavily favored Patriots.  The same aptly named Patriots who became the darlings of America after taking the first Super Bowl following the attacks on the World Trade Centers were now the most hated sports team in America, and their success had encouraged most pundits to pick them in a very lopsided blowout.  But the Giants had other ideas, and they had a fantastic gameplan.  Oh, and they had that same thing that propelled the Patriots to their first Super Bowl victory seven years ago against a heavily-favored St. Louis Rams team: the "underdog" label.  And if you don't think having the entire world doubt you can pull off what seems to be an out-of-reach miracle, just ask my beloved Steelers, who in 2005 became the only team in NFL history to enter the playoffs as the worst-seeded team and wind up winning the NFL Championship.

God's plan, as always, was perfect.  In this case, it was perfect in its irony.  The Patriots have made their legacy on pulling out the impossible wins, no matter how little time was left in the game.  They had led for most of the game but lost that lead early in the fourth quarter.  Then, with just over three minutes remaining, they had marched downfield and recaptured the lead, leaving New York's Eli Manning — brother to last year's Super Bowl MVP, Peyton Manning — mere minutes to march his team 83 yards to retake the lead.  And so many times, the task proved far too daunting to opponents.  Maybe Manning just had enough moxy to stare certain defeat in the eyes and laugh.  Maybe his teammate, Plaxico Burress, was correct in stating that Manning just had ice water running through his veins.  Or may, just maybe, I've been right about Eli all along: he's just not bright enough to understand that he was supposed to lose this game.

Regardless, he seemed to shed that constant possum-in-headlights look he's always sporting and appeared to be consumed by his brother's cool-under-fire spirit.  He converted big play after big play, including escaping from the grasp of numerous Patriots and lobbing a 32-yard pass that ended with one of the most improbably catches most of us are ever going to witness.  Then, in a moment that could easily be explained away by saying God temporarily blinded the evil ones, Burress ran right past New England cornerback Ellis Hobbs, who appeared to be planning his post-game celebration about 39 seconds too soon.  Four seconds later, the Giants had recaptured the lead.

This is where the beauty lies: as wonderfully fulfilling as it would have seemed to watch the Patriots struggle mightily just to finish 8-8 this season after the infamous Spygate scandal, I realize in retrospect that this is far sweeter.  There is simply unspeakably sweet justice in watching the Bad Guys build themselves up, and dominate everyone in their paths, only to see them lose to the second-lowest seed in the NFC in the big game.  There they stood, on the world's biggest sports stage (literally, it was the second-most watched television event of any kind, of all time, behind only the M*A*S*H finale), taller than Paul Bunyon.  And then, in one high, floating lob into the back corner of the endzone, an improbable bunch of guys did the improbable thing, and very improbably swept the Patriots' feet right out from under them.

Victory is sweet.  Justice on a Biblical level, however, is far sweeter.