While it will continue, by now we have heard every expert, coach, talking head, former player, and shaman from Maine to Mexico dissect Sunday's game more than a frog in a tenth grade biology class, it's time to play the game. We have heard the special interest stories - Eli and his brother, the war hero in the Giants locker room, Mercury Morris and the 1972 Dolphins, the rehash of Tedy Bruschi's stroke, Bruschi Brothers constructions, Junior's return to the big game after 181 games, Mercury Morris and the 1972 Dolphins, tight end Kevin Boss' trip from Division II to Super Bowl, Tom Brady's childhood mentor's taking ill, and, of course, Mercury Morris and the 1972 Dolphins.
We have heard every little injury from Tom Brady's ankle, Plaxico Burress' and Rich Seubert's knees, and Jabar Gaffney's shoulder, to Scott Pioli's administrative assistant's paper cut.
We have been inundated with all kinds of speculation and useless information.
I'm a little surprised that I don't know what's Bruschi's favorite restaurant, or Bill Belichick's hat size, or who Tom Coughlin's favorite singer is.
We have experienced the return of Spygate courtesy of Arlen Specter - who appears, when Goodell's written correspondence to his inquiry is read, to be a bitter Eagle's fan rattling his saber because he has a little power.
We have heard Buress' predictions, the Giants' trash talk, the Patriots' muted responses.
The bottom line - none of the above matters in two days. The trash talk, the injuries, Specter, the stroke, the 181 game gap, definitely not Mercury Morris and the '72 Dolphins, and not Spygate.
All that matters is what happens on a field in Arizona between two teams when approximately 100 men strap on the helmets and pads and smack the sweet bejeezus out of each other for 60-minutes on Sunday night.
At the end of that one team will be left standing.
All I have to say about it...in the immortal words of Al Bundy, "let's rock."