After burning through the only physical specimen in the League that is his equal, Clay Matthews tossed his mane and snarled, "See you later, bub," the carcass of Michael Vick resting under his cleats, with its claws not even extended--the battle was more one-sided than one would expect. Clay unleashed his savagery without regret, without restraint, and Michael played like a domesticated animal asking when to sit and when to roll over. Now, the Sabretooth prepares to hunt inside a dome, that in the Atlanta skyline resembles an ice cube staring blankly into the sun. The temperature never rises and never dips; its set to the cool beat of Matty Ice's heart: it does not falter. Perhaps the best way to slow a creature shaped by fiery furnace and heated hammer is with a flurry of play action passes and a Beast of a runningback, Michael Turner. Perhaps the only way to stop a fire is to freeze it.
Then again, what good will snow drifts and blizzards do when the anger of one's adversary was born out of the Ice Age? Could it be that the football fury that is Clay Matthews was born solely to make quarterbacks like Matt Ryan feel what it's like to shiver, to quake, to fail, to know the coldness of their flesh and veins?
The game may be indoors, but it is still a battle of elements. It is still a game of violence. And it is still about survival on a cold, desolate plain.
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