What is a dynasty anyway?

I distinctly remember it. At least thirty other Choates freshmen were all anxiously huddled around me in the Brittle lounge, naively noshing on EBAS pizza, without yet realizing how disgusting they were for doing so, and waiting for Super Bowl XXXIX to kick off. My friends and I had annexed the couch closest to the television, a momentous accomplishment in and of itself. Presumably, they were just as eager as I was for that euphoric three-hour moment: the moment when Jacksonville, Florida, my hometown and the site of the 2005 Super Bowl, would be permanently elevated into the nation’s consciousness and formally realize its long-held potential as the “Bold New City of the South.” Yes, the years of anticipation finally came to fruition as the city’s downtown glistened conspicuously as the backdrop for sports’ most visible occasion. All the over-the-hill hair bands in the world couldn’t taint this occasion. Little did I know that after the Super Bowl, the headlines wouldn’t duly recognize Jacksonville’s rise to national eminence. For the next morning, there was just one word on everyone’s lips: “Patriots.” With New England’s third Super Bowl victory in four seasons, the papers quickly crowned that ball club of the frigid Northeast football’s newest “dynasty.”

And the story came very quickly indeed. Literally as the game ended, Patriots linebacker Willie McGinest held up the front page of a newspaper (with quite dubious credentials and authenticity) that shouted, “DYNASTY!” and showcased their three Vince Lombardi Trophies. I thought it was a bit presumptive. My friend Jarrod, a Patriots fan himself, chimed in, “It’s official. We’re a dynasty. Your Jacksonville Jaguars can’t say that.” Jarrod was right; “my” Jaguars and their decade-long history couldn’t say that. More importantly, though, they couldn’t say that they had won three Super Bowls, either. During their post-game celebration, Jarrod and the twenty-nine other Patriots supporters, blinded by their supreme arrogance and ignorantly embracing their newfound, “official” title, seemingly overlooked the actual meaningful accomplishment of the Patriots: they had just won their third Super Bowl in four years. And the pure rapture of having done so became obscured in a pathetic attempt by legions of Patriots fans and sports enthusiasts to gain some completely contrived reassurance that they had just witnessed the achievement of sports immortality.

Certainly this wasn’t the first time I had heard this nonsense. Debates had raged for weeks leading up to the Super Bowl: “Would a third victory in four years qualify this Patriots’ club as a dynasty?” The answer then, of course, was, “No, not necessarily. And if they lose that doesn’t mean they won’t be considered one. It’s simply too early to determine if they are in the class of the ‘80s 49ers, the ‘70s Steelers, or the ‘60s Packers.” Today, after a year of consideration and reconsideration, the answer is still the same. History and hindsight will determine how the Patriots teams of this decade are remembered; if history deems that they have earned sports’ most dubious and meaninglessly unofficial distinction, then congratulations to the Patriots and all of their loyal fans.

I still can’t understand, though, why the entire sports nation has become so enamored with the concept of a dynasty, and why it has tripped over itself to proclaim the Patriots as such. My instinct is to write it off as a function of our appreciation and love of sports greatness, which, to many, is the closest and most easily comprehensible approximation of achievable worldly immortality. However, my instinct must be wrong. Nobody clamored to anoint the 1999-2002 Los Angeles Lakers a dynasty after they won three consecutive NBA Championships. Nor have the 1996-2000 New York Yankees, who won four World Series in five years (clearly meeting the Patriots’ sole criterion), often been discussed or regarded as a dynasty. And not until recent times, when “dynasty” became a hotter keyword in the sports world than “defenestration” was within the Dartmouth bubble, had I heard the 1990-1998 Chicago Bulls referred to as such. Rather, they were simply “Jordan’s Bulls” or the “90’s Bulls Teams.” While the Patriots’ success wasn’t particularly unique in the past decade, the rush to categorize this success was.

More importantly, though, who cares? The debate is not only completely subjective to one’s own criteria for greatness, but no governing body will ever vote to decide either way and grant or deny the distinction, which itself confers no special privileges or honors. It therefore has become the most futile sports debate I’ve ever had the misfortune of stumbling upon–-this from someone who will adamantly defend his ridiculous claims that Fred Taylor is the best running back in the NFL and that the New Jersey Nets would have been better off keeping Stephon Marbury rather than trading him for the exalted Jason Kidd, despite the fact that this trade precisely coincided with the team’s 2001 rise to prominence. If we really went by the strictest definition, the NFL’s most illustrious dynasty would be the Detroit Lions, which are now into their third generation of ownership under the Ford family. Unfortunately for the Lions, the team’s greatest success in the last five years has come off the field, where Joey Harrington’s piano playing far outperforms that of any other NFL player. I highly doubt that’s the select company with whom the Patriots would like to be considered.

Sure, consider how hindsight will regard them, but please, enough discussion of dynasties. Let history run its course, and in the meantime, feel free to come visit me in Jacksonville, which has recently begun its dynasty as the “Bold, Distinguished City of the South.”