
TAMPA, Fla. -- We don't watch Super Bowls for the chip dip, as Bruce Springsteen wisecracked during his 12-minute party. We crave the emotional bull rush, a crescendo finish, the natural high that Michael Phelps finds in a marijuana pipe. The big game used to bore like a 4 a.m. infomercial, but Sunday, it delivered again, like last year, hijacking our senses with head-banging, back-and-forth drama that even might have thrilled The Boss, the rocker who hates football.
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