He gets knocked down. He gets up again. John Elway the quarterback whom all-American boys model themselves on did a little anarchic tubthumping on Sunday night in San Diego. In three previous seasons Elway kept his worst wine till the end. Three times he has gone home on the losers' bus.

On Sunday his Denver Broncos caused one of the biggest upsets in Super Bowl history, and, if Elway wasn't the key player on the field, he was certainly the best story.

Terrel Davis, the running back who scored three Denver touchdowns in a sentimental return to the town he grew up in, discovered this soon after the game ended. Terrel was in the media tent quietly explaining the sequence of his success, when Elway appeared flashing his movie star grin.

Had Bill Clinton arrived arm in arm with an eight-month pregnant Monica Lewinsky, the media couldn't have deserted Terrel more rapidly. As one, every head turned. The press of the world scampered towards the bright light of John Elway's smile with scarcely a backward glance at Terrel and his MVP award.

Elway, who at 37 should really be too old for all this mullarkey, was sickeningly nice and unflappable throughout the frenzy. Having tended to the needs of most of the TV and radio stations in America, he fielded silly questions from the great mass of print media for an hour, baulking only when this star-struck journalist asked Elway for a view on why the GAA couldn't organise post AllIreland press conferences for 20 journalists as smoothly as this.

Elway scored one touchdown, but threw no touchdown passes himself on a day when his team's tactic of rushing rather than passing paid big dividends.

"We knew there was one way to go here," said Elway. "I have said all along that Terrel Davis would be the difference between the Super Bowls I have lost in and the Super Bowls I have won in. Not throwing a touchdown pass doesn't make any difference. Winning here erases everything in the past."

Reggie White, the lay pastor who doubles as a defensive end for the Packers and who has sacked more quarterbacks than any defencer in history (all for Jesus) was taking it philosophically.

"God is still my king," announced the Minister of Defence. "Today all that happened was that Terrell Davis picked his holes well. He picked them very well. I'm happy for him. I'm happy for John Elway."

Indeed the major religions grouped together to announce that not being happy for John Elway was officially a mortal sin. Blessed are the rich and good looking for the Super Bowl shall be theirs. The Pope and Fidel Castro issued a joint communique saying how happy they were. The White House followed suit, but later refused to confirm or deny it.

For Elway's counterpart, Brett Favre, so many things went wrong that he himself must have half expected to be subpoenaed to talk about a relationship with Bill Clinton during the half-time show.

"It was one of those days," said Brett, who looked like he'd kill for a fistful of painkillers. "We knew us being red hot favourites was a pile of bull. We were favourites last year and did what we were supposed to do. We were favourites this year and couldn't. I'm just happy for John Elway."

The game, one of the closest Super Bowls for many years, was pronounced a classic by most American sports commentators (a group not given to hyperbole). It was the first Super Bowl in which both sides scored on their first possession, the first in which the most valuable player award was won by a player in his home town, it contained the second longest field goal in Super Bowl history, and was the first occasion upon which the entire nation of Iraq declared a national holiday in honour of a winning quarterback.

Even the half-time show was deemed a success, shaking the cynical denizens of the press row out of their complacency with its gimmickry. We sat with our heads resting on our fists steadfastly refusing to wave red and yellow flags in the air or participate in the illusion of creating the world's largest spinning record.

When Martha and the Vandel las sang Like a Heatwave, though, the organisers contrived to send great heatwaves around the stadium every time Martha got to the chorus. "Hey," we shouted like kids at Disney, "it's, it's like a heatwave."