Nobody grows up dreaming of being a spoiler. “Tank” may be the worst word in sports, but “spoiler” isn’t that far behind. If you grow up around here, you dream of taking a ride up the Canyon of Heroes — or, at the least, crowding the sidewalks of lower Manhattan in order to watch your favorite team take a bow for winning a championship.
Maybe you dream of popping champagne bottles in a dressing room, donning protective eyewear and being showered in the bubbly. Maybe you dream of having a green jacket draped over your shoulder. Maybe you dream of taking a lap around a rink with the Stanley Cup high above your head, or guzzling a bottle of milk after taking the flag at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.
Spoiler?
Nobody wants to be a spoiler. Nobody aspires to be a spoiler. If you’re in position to be a spoiler, it means something has gone very wrong for you. It means the opponent you’re facing has higher ambitions than you’re able to strive for … and so you must make it your holy mission to spoil their fun.
Freddy Mercury never crooned, “We are the spoilers, my friends …”
The Eagles have everything to play for.
The Giants have nothing to play for.
Except for this: They can ruin Christmas in Greater Philadelphia. The Eagles are already coming in as vulnerable as they’ve been in two years following three straight losses to the 49ers, Cowboys and Seahawks. They’re scuffling. They’re struggling. They have an awful lot to lose, and the Giants have absolutely nothing to lose.
It is the quintessential formula for a spoiler game.
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