Who Truly Holds the Title of the Best American Football Team in History?
The question of who truly holds the title of the best American football team in history is one of those glorious, unending debates that fuels sports bars, talk radio, and my own late-night conversations with fellow fans. It’s a question with no single, definitive answer, and that’s precisely what makes it so compelling. As someone who has spent decades immersed in the game’s history, from studying dusty playbooks to analyzing modern analytics, I’ve come to believe that the answer isn’t found in a simple ranking, but in understanding the very different kinds of dominance that separate eras, and even within a single season, a single game. Let me explain what I mean.
Consider, for a moment, a different sport entirely. Just the other day, I was reading about a college basketball game where a 6-foot-9 Nigerian player powered his team with a career-high 28 points, nine rebounds, four steals, and a block to hand a previously undefeated rival their first loss. That stat line is a masterpiece of individual dominance impacting a team’s legacy in a single, pivotal moment. It got me thinking about American football in a microcosm. Our greatest teams are often defined by such pivotal, season-altering performances, but scaled up over an entire campaign. Was the 1972 Miami Dolphins, with their perfect 17-0 record, the best because they achieved what no one else has? Their defense was legendary, allowing only 17.6 points per game, and they had the clutch gene, winning multiple close games. But critics, myself included, sometimes point to a softer schedule. Does that diminish the perfection? I wrestle with that.
Then you have the 1985 Chicago Bears. My goodness, what a force of nature. That defense, the 46 scheme orchestrated by Buddy Ryan, wasn’t just playing football; it was a public menace. They allowed a paltry 12.4 points per game and recorded two shutouts in the playoffs. As a fan watching them dismantle opponents, it felt less like a sport and more like an inevitability. They finished 18-1, and that single loss was a fluky Monday night affair against the Dolphins. Their Super Bowl XX victory was a 46-10 demolition. The sheer, violent artistry of their dominance is a strong argument for their supremacy. But here’s where my personal bias might show: I find myself drawn to teams that transformed the game. The 1999 St. Louis Rams, "The Greatest Show on Turf," didn’t just win; they changed offensive football forever with their speed and aerial assault, averaging 32.9 points per game. Kurt Warner’s story alone adds a layer of mythic quality that pure stats can’t capture.
We cannot ignore the modern dynasties, either. The New England Patriots of the early 2000s and the 2007 squad that went 18-0 before the infamous Super Bowl loss to the Giants present a different model: sustained, systemic excellence. The 2007 Patriots scored an absurd 589 points, an average of 36.8 per game. Tom Brady threw for 4,806 yards and 50 touchdowns. The precision was robotic, and for most of that season, they seemed untouchable. Yet, that one loss in the ultimate game forever alters their claim, doesn’t it? It’s a stark reminder that a single bad night, like the Blue Eagles suffering their first loss from a phenomenal individual effort, can redefine everything. The more recent Tampa Bay Buccaneers team that won Super Bowl LV with Tom Brady did something incredible, but was it the best ever? Probably not, but their defensive mastery in that playoff run, allowing just 19.6 points per game across three wins, was a clinic.
So, where does this leave us? For me, the "best" team must embody a combination of peak dominance, historical impact, and sheer, undeniable force. The 1972 Dolphins have the pristine record. The 1985 Bears have the most terrifying defensive identity. The 2007 Patriots have the most statistically explosive offense. But if you put a gun to my head and forced me to choose, I’d lean towards the 1985 Bears. Why? Because their brand of football felt absolute. They didn’t just beat you; they broke your will. They left a cultural imprint far beyond the win-loss column. The '72 Dolphins were a marvel of consistency and clutch play, but the Bears were a hurricane. In a hypothetical, cross-era matchup—a favorite parlor game of mine—I believe the Bears’ physicality would disrupt any offense, even the Patriots’ or the Rams’, in a way that those teams couldn’t reciprocate against that historic defense. Their +258 point differential in a 16-game season is just staggering.
In the end, the beauty of this debate is its impossibility. The game evolves, rules change, and athletes grow bigger and faster. A team’s greatness is often cemented by its context—by the rivals it vanquishes and the way it captures the imagination of its time. That Nigerian player’s 28-point, 9-rebound game was a legendary performance in its own right, defining a moment. Our historic NFL teams did that for an entire season, or in some cases, for a generation. The title of "best ever" may be shared, argued over, and never settled, but that constant discussion is what keeps the history of this sport so vividly alive. For my money, it’s the '85 Bears, but ask me again next week after I re-watch the 1989 49ers' playoff highlights, and I might just change my mind.