E-Mail This Article to a Friend SPORT Wrestling with history BY MITCH KRPATA

Some are already calling Super Bowl XXXVIII the greatest of them all, and it’s hard to disagree. This game had everything: brutal defense, groan-inducing special-teams gaffes, and a fourth quarter featuring more scoring than freshman orientation. Considering the laughable blowouts Super Bowls tend to be, it’s hard to find a historical precedent for such a tightly contested championship. For an appropriate sporting comparison, one has to look outside of football altogether, to another entry in the pantheon of classic athletic contests.

That’s right, I’m talking about the 1990 Wrestlemania VI. In particular, the main event: Hulk Hogan versus the Ultimate Warrior.

Think about it. Two worthy adversaries trading blows, taking each other to the limits of human endurance. One a real American, one a mysterious X factor from parts unknown. (Or, in this case, Charlotte. But, having never been to Charlotte, I can’t say for sure that it exists.) One an invincible golden boy, one a dark horse riding an unexpected wave of fan support.

The similarities are a little eerie. Every time the Patriots took the lead, I thought they’d delivered the final devastating attack. And every time, Carolina quarterback Jake Delhomme no-sold them, delivering a Warrior-like stare before driving the Panthers for an equalizer. Patriotmania was failing to run wild on Carolina.

By the time the Panthers knotted the score at 29, things looked grim. The Patriots had been unable to deliver the big boot and the leg drop. As an avowed Hulkamaniac, I saw my life flashing before my eyes. It was 1990 all over again, and my guy was about to lose.

Yes, I briefly lost faith. Can you blame me? I’d seen this before, when Hogan went for the leg drop on the Ultimate Warrior and missed. You don’t recover from trauma like that.

The Hulkster was supposed to win every time he stepped in the ring. We’d begun to count on the Pats for the same thing.

The Patriots hadn’t lost since baseball’s regular season was wrapping up. Many of us clung to them like a life preserver after Grady Little’s shocking heel turn in the ALCS. When Grady trotted back to the dugout in the eighth inning of game seven, leaving Pedro on the mound and all of Red Sox Nation out to dry, it was like he’d clobbered his ace with a steel chair. He may as well have ripped open his uniform to reveal a Yankees jersey underneath. At least that would have really given the fans something to sink their teeth into. I doubt I’m alone in saying I couldn’t take another stomach punch like that.

Fortunately, the invisible hand of WWF evil genius Vince McMahon had no grip on the outcome of Super Bowl XXXVIII. With just four seconds remaining, the Patriots pinned the Panthers. I shudder to think what might have happened in this town had we not been able to count on the Pats to fight for what’s right — indeed, to fight for our lives.