This Super Bowl is about something more than football. It's about two states that have somehow become locked in a weird tango of antagonism and similarity.

Think about it for a moment: North Carolina's team, the Panthers, is playing Massachusetts' team, the Patriots, for the championship of professional football in Super Bowl XXXVIII. At the same time, a North Carolina senator is facing off against a Massachusetts senator to see who will become the Democratic nominee for president.

There's more of this, as long as we're comparing and contrasting.

Massachusetts' John Kerry was born to privilege and attended an Ivy League school. North Carolina's John Edwards grew up in Southern mill towns and attended a cow college. (Attention N.C. State alumni: That characterization is for entertainment purposes only. Save your hate mail for another occasion.)

Interestingly, the charisma and youthful good looks of Edwards have prompted countless pundits to compare him to John F. Kennedy, who, of course, was another Massachusetts senator.

Also, consider that Edwards and Kennedy share a first name, and that their last names have the same number of letters, as do the names of the two Super Bowl teams. Hmmmm. We're getting into some "X-Files" territory here.

Massachusetts has a bloviated, toad-like politician who has served in Congress seemingly forever and whose name has become synonymous with tax-happy liberalism (Ted Kennedy).

North Carolina, until last year, had a bloviated, owl-like politician who served in Congress seemingly forever, and whose name had become synonymous with tax-hating conservatism (Jesse Helms).

And let's not forget that in the greatest national dust-up of all time -- the Grudge Match of 1861-65 -- North Carolina and Massachusetts played on opposing teams.

Want more history? How about this: Massachusetts may have been on the winning side of the Civil War, but it lost the Textile War that shortly followed. The growth of North Carolina's textile industry after the Civil War came at the direct expense of towns in Massachusetts that were left with empty, abandoned mills when their textile operations moved South.

Take that, Yankees.

(Of course, now that Mexico and Central America have hijacked North Carolina's textile business, they could say, "Take that, Yanquis.")

In short, this Super Bowl comes with a sense of preordination.

What AFC team other than the New England Patriots would be a more appropriate foe for the Carolina Panthers in their first Super Bowl?

The Indianapolis Colts? I suppose something could be made of the sole aspect that distinguishes Indianapolis from any other boring, flat, featureless Midwestern city: the Indianapolis 500. You know, NASCAR vs. Indy-car racing. But once you've pointed that out, there's not much else to say about an Indianapolis-Carolina matchup.

The New York Jets? Sure, that would have a North-South flavor to it, but how much fun is it to beat a team from New York that isn't owned by George Steinbrenner? Answer: No fun at all.

Kansas City Chiefs? See the "boring, flat, featureless" comment above.

Denver Broncos? Without John Elway, the Broncos are just another team, and without the mountains, Denver is just another undistinguished city.

Oakland Raiders? What's there to say about Oakland other than it's got all the charm of Detroit with none of the legacy?

San Diego Chargers? I'll have to consult my atlas, but I'm not sure San Diego is even considered part of the United States.

No, this Super Bowl has a just-right feel to it. The Patriots are exactly the team the Panthers should be playing, for many reasons.

OK, I'll admit it: We're all still mad about that Gettysburg thing.

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