By Steve Coony

It probably should have been the 98 receptions that did it, the 1493 receiving yards, the 74 first downs or, better yet, the NFL record 23 receiving touchdowns that re-endeared Randy Moss to my heart, but it was something far smaller but even more convincing that accomplished this task: his Super Bowl XLII post game interview.

When I was a young football fan I couldn’t have loved Randy Moss any more. The young freak was like superhero on the field. Wearing flamboyant purple-and-yellow, he soared above other athletes, stealing touchdowns out of mid-air and, more importantly, he was fun to watch. A super-athlete, running down the field in the days before 42-inch verticals and 4.3-forty dashes were commonplace, Moss was a child’s dream: a living breathing touchdown, a big play, charismatic machine.

Then something happened: I grew up. I started to play football on a truly competitive scale. I started to learn the importance of teamwork, competing on every play, hard work and determination. I grew tired of Moss and his touchdown-making ability. Quite frankly, I didn’t like his lazy-play-when-I-want-to attitude. He still impressed me, but I would never want him as my teammate. I would rather have Chad Johnson, Hines Ward or even Terrell Owens, because they were willing to do the little things, like cross the middle and even block downfield. (I understand most people hate the TO argument but save a few pill episodes and random outbursts, TO is an all around wide receiver. His occasional outbursts did not bother me as much as Moss’s because, for the most part, TO was doing more than running a streak route down the field.)

Then it happened Randy Moss flat-out gave up on the Raiders, and the Raiders gave up on Moss. He made the 3,000-mile-long journey to New England, and something magical happened. I doubted it all season long even up until the final snap of the Super Bowl. I was waiting-more like dying-to watch Moss blow up: for the former superhero to explode back into the Afro Samurai-esque “hate him or love him” outcast of the Oakland Raiders, but it never happened. Every time I thought it was going to happen it didn’t. Even after allegations of domestic abuse, it still didn’t happen. Moss never blew up. Then Moss caught the go-ahead touchdown, and all shots of him blaming anything on anyone were gone; Moss had no fire. There was no pot to stir and no firecracker to throw at his little brother. Moss was out of ammo.

Something else happened. I was watching the post game interviews and becoming thoroughly disgusted with the Patriots lack of crediting a Giants team that had, flat-out, won the game.

With a Darth-Vader-like redemption from the Dark Side, Moss threw down his red-bladed lightsaber, lifted up the touchdown-grubbing Randy Moss of old and plummeted him to the depths of football lore. Moss returned to the Light Side of things.

He spoke humbly and with true feeling; he gave credit where credit was due and even questioned his own team’s intensity and inability to match the Giants. Moss became a man again, no longer a monster. Even better to a former Moss lover, he did one thing that I did not even think possible: to my football-loving heart he became, simply, “Straight Cash Homie.”