Robert Benchley once said that there are two kind of people in the world: Those who divide the world in two kinds of people, and those who don’t. I’m more prone to trilogies myself. The world is a set of triangles; not railroad tracks.

Therefore, I start with Super Bowl XLII. As you must know, the underdog won, in the last thirty-five seconds, led to triumph by a young man who only one month before had all of Gotham flaming him for what was seen as a character flaw: Eli Manning was too “humble”; too “temperate”; too–well–“polite” (note the threes?). He did not brag, shout, or curse; he showed little emotion, either good or ill; it did not seem to bother him enough when he performed badly; it did not seem to please him enough when he performed well. Where was the “leader’s fire,” the “passion,” all wild-haired and flame-eyed—pumping fists and talking trash?

But the things found so contemptible in young Eli were the very things western culture had always considered aspirational—the star-points on the chivalric code. When the pressure of the world pushes in, don’t break a sweat; with laurels and praises thrown your way, deflect them. Courtesy above all, even when impoverished. Gloat not, but grovel neither. The purpose is greater than the performer, etc., etc. The knight errant returned from his mission with the same equipoise that saw him begin it; even and steady in honor. These things had never meant a lack of fortitude before, were never signs of faint heart or tepid zeal. They were the surest evidence of manly achievement.

Which leads me to my third point: the sea-change in virtue may have begun with the advent of popular literature. With the demands of pulp fiction and the dimestore novel, “heroism” took on a short-hand face. Written for mass consumption, the sketch artists could not establish intricacies of character. It was not the age of Chretien de Troyes, after all, and a hero had to have swagger to be recognized as such. But tellingly, the “actions” by which the hero became known were not his goals, but his demeanor; not what he set out to do (a noble mission was part of how you could tell a knight was a knight) but how he went about it: with swagger. Look the part, regardless of whether you are the man.

But the genre that started the trend, the dimestore western, can also be the place where such simplifications are undone. Elmore Leonard’s 3:10 to Yuma does so by means of what is surely an accidental postmodern twist. In the film versions of the piece (1957 and 2007, both excellent), a youth is smitten with a hero—the glorious bad man, Ben Wade. He thinks little of his own father, Dan Evans, who is losing his farm and the respect of his family. When Evans stumbles upon Wade’s capture by authorities, he volunteers to help get Wade across hostile territory to the train that will take him to trial.

In the latest screen adaptation, the boy is shown reading Western “shoot-em-up” magazines—all guns and glory. His father (Christian Bale) cannot compete with Wade (Russell Crowe); but his father does not want to. Rather, Evans, with unspoken purpose, shows his son that bravery has many faces, that conviction is revealed not by how something is achieved, but by its undertaking, its unweathered dedication. All of those who would help Evans fall away in the end, and he and his son are left alone to accomplish the task—one that converts even Wade himself to the cause. The boy’s epiphany comes when he sees that valor has been mistaken for passivity—valor more concerned with its purpose than with naming itself as such.

Something is set right in the world when the hero’s face is not what proves his worth.

A 17-14 victory over one of the greatest football teams in history, and now the virtues that were seen as flaws are lauded as the very things that made the accomplishment possible: cool-headed Eli; calm amongst all storms; an inner passion that burns brightest, without need of flaming tongues. Sudden converts to the old ideal.