Henry Large, no man ever more aptly named, loved a good slobberknocker.

Were slobberknockers the kinds of things for which a person might purchase tickets, tokens or other means of entry, I firmly believe Mr. Large, Coach Large, would be among those lucky souls at the front of the queue, waiting for a full-season pass.

My wife, almost ready to give birth to our first baby, a boy, is different.

She has tried, good-naturedly and patiently, to understand my fascination with football for years now. She's even taken to watching a game with me on occasion, though she'd insist she's not really watching at all but instead just reading or poking around online or, when she feels a little panicked because she was watching the game and wants to quickly change the subject, enjoying spending time with me.

Ha!

She's a product of the local environment, so feels a strange, inexplicable attachment to the hometown team, the Burgundy and Gold, Mr. Snyder's team, though she knows full well a badly trained troupe of circus chimps could run the team better than current management.

She's even picked up some of the players' names over the last couple years, so adroitly sprinkling them into conversation that my double takes give me temporary whiplash. She was devastated when Vinny dealt away her favorite player; she was back on her feet mere days later after discovering that one of our neighbors had named their new dog Laveranues.

But I'd be hard-pressed to tell you that she really enjoys watching a game, or even sees games the same way I do. Don't believe me? I can fully admit that I don't see games the same way John Madden does, or Howie Long, or even Shannon Sharpe. (I don't think I see what Shannon Sharpe sees but, since I can't understand the words coming out of his mouth half the time, who knows what he's seeing!)

Of the two games on this weekend, Mags seemed to actually enjoy watching one. The other, literally, drove her from the room. Yes, her "shows" were on later that night, and she knew those "shows" weren't getting shown in glorious hi-def at the expense of the AFC Championship game, no way, no how. I'll find another TV, some low-def, cathode-ray dinosaur somewhere in the house for just about anything if I'm asked; I'm pretty sure I've taken in most if not all World Series games over the last few years on one of those antiques. But football? During the playoffs? The conference championships?

No.

So together we watched the Eagles and the Cardinals. Games that leave me slack-jawed and dumbfounded are the ones that seem to go over best with the wife. Which may well explain her peculiar interest with this entire postseason. The Titans and Giants both, so formidable looking and playing so well, playing so right, on both sides of the ball just weeks ago, bit the dust. And the Cardinals still haven't lost.

I repeat: the Cardinals still haven't lost.

The Cardinals (the Cardinals?!?!?) are going to the Super Bowl. Just weeks ago I was advocating their demotion to the CFL. And now the Cardinals, and their two-gloves-wearing, one-time-grocery-bagging, former-Super-Bowl-MVP-winning quarterback, are the one team left standing to represent the NFC come February 1st.

The score was 21-6, Cardinals, almost in the blink of an eye. It was 24-6 by the half, and the looks on the faces of the talking heads in the studio perfectly reflected the flabbergastery playing out across the country.

"But you said the Eagles were going to win," said my best friend for life.

"I said I thought they were going to win," I ground out before stomping out to the deck to check on the grill. Ribs were on the menu, after all.

And then, like an answer to unuttered prayers, the Eagles came back. They stormed back. They marched back.

They clawed, and spit, and fought, and dragged themselves back, and oh my God, they were winning and this Arizona blight was about to be exorcised and I was just so happy because I hadn't gotten on that infernal Cardinals' bandwagon and I was going to be right!!

Light shone down from above and I bathed in it and rejoiced in my rightness.

And then the Cardinals scored, one last time, for good, and added the two-point conversion just to drive it all home and they took the lead and they won and I wanted to hit myself in the head with my trusty tack-hammer.

But then, out crawled the slobberknocker, and my heart started to beat again, and for the next four hours I could only watch in awe as the Ravens and the Steelers absolutely went at each other. Willis McGahee was the scariest victim of the controlled chaos that unfolded. (As of Monday morning, the day after game, the AP was reporting McGahee had significant neck pain but was moving his arms and legs.) But that chaos, that madness, was evident the entire game.

I don't know that two teams have so outwardly disliked each other in my lifetime. Certainly not so violently, and definitely not so obviously.

Raiders - Steelers? Maybe.

Redskins - Cowboys? Not so much.

For reasons I don't fully understand, the Steelers and the Ravens play each other, every time, like they're trying to rid themselves of something that hurts, something that might take away from them that which they covet most, something that has assaulted what they consider their honor, their character, that which makes them who and what they are, and to lose would prove more painful than anything they are willing to even consider.

There is animus there, real, honest, deep-seated hostility the likes of which is difficult to conceive.

The Ravens, a team whose psyche dear Dr. Freud would have enjoyed plumbing immensely, have always wanted to be the biggest bully on the block. It's somehow the cornerstone that was laid at the franchise's founding in Baltimore, and it's served them well enough through the years. Much has been made of Ray Lewis, Ed Reed, Terrell Suggs, et al. Their posturing, their flexing, their dancing, their grimacing. All of it, every bit of it, designed to instill fear in the hearts of their opponents and swell their own egos.

And the Steelers, more than any other team, love to climb in the cage with them, take their best shot, chew it up, spit it out, and then punch them square in the mouth just like they did on Sunday. Joe "Falco" Flacco saw his wonderful rookie adventure dashed upon the rocks of Heinz Field, splintered by the relentless, cold-blooded pressure applied by the Steelers' defense. A little Samoan named Troy Polamalu reminded everyone Ed Reed isn't the only game-changing guy lurking in the secondary. Hines Ward left it all on the field, like he always does, before leaving with a knee injury. And Ben Roethlisberger gave us what he so often does: enough to win and not so much to cost his team the victory.

But best of all, they bettered the Ravens at their own game, without all the screaming, without all the hooting, without all the hollering. They didn't preen, they didn't pose, they didn't primp and they didn't flex for all the cameras. They simply rolled up their sleeves and went to work, imposing their will on the birds from Charm City physically, mentally, and every which way in between.

If Mr. Large was watching, and I'd be stunned if he missed it, he enjoyed himself a helluva slobberknocker.

Oh, and I'm still not getting on that stupid bandwagon. The Cardinals have shown me they're good enough to win out, and have the heart to do it.

I just don't think they're quite ready for the bully that's waiting for them down in Tampa.

You can always reach Alex Cudaback at cuda24@yahoo.com