Blinded By The Light !

The anticipation is overwhelming.

 

People I considered stable for the most part are starting to come unglued.

 

Words like logic, common sense, and consideration have been cast into the wastebasket to spend eternity decaying among countless candy wrappers, beer cans, and empty pizza boxes.

 

Day in, day out, night after endless night they pound their silent keyboards.

 

Like zombies reprising a sacred ritual they spell out over and over exactly why their heroes will prevail against, no— conquer the entire civilized world!

 

Improving each season for the next five years is a preposterous idea.

 

Going from five wins and seven losses to twelve wins and an undefeated season in one year is the stuff only champions dare dream!

 

A head coach without a winning season under his belt, a quarterback without a completion on his stats, saddled with the burden of doing the impossible.

 

What you ask is the common thread of their majestic fabric?

 

They are both winners. It is as simple as that my friend.

 

Winners win, how many times must it be repeated until it is comprehended by the less inspired?

 

Every possible scenario of how and why we will win every game has been noted and jotted down in 86’s ledger, documented for eternity.

 

How convinced of their predictions are these people?

 

“Vault it!” They command, as they throw back a cup in honor of their untested but nonetheless glorious warriors.

 

It is well known fact every single team with the exception of ours is in disarray. Other team’s players are getting hurt, getting fat, getting arrested.

 

We practice outside in the sun. We are tougher, sweatier, and thirstier.

 

Don’t confuse the issue with trivial musings about other teams having more experience, better records, dare I say?— better coaching.

 

They are not— I repeat “not,” our boys!

 

I run my hand through my thinning hair and ask myself how such seemingly educated and astute people could be so blind!

 

Shaking my head I retire to my chair and surf across “Youtube.”

 

Ah, there’s Marve, rolling out hitting pass after pass, after pass.

 

I squint ever closer to the screen my sight eroding away as LaRon high steps it into the Swamp’s end zone one more time.