Posted: August 31, 2014 in Uncategorized



“This is one of the greatest games I’ve ever seen Bob.”

“I agree with you Ted. For you millions of viewers all over the world, this may be the most spectacular Super Bowl since Super Bowl I played in 1967. In fact, I just heard from my producer, that the network is suspending advertising interruptions until this game is over. That’s how good this game is.”

“Ted, you can feel the tension is the air. Both sides of the field are squirming, trying to anticipate the next call.”

“Bob, the sold-out crowd is going crazy. I wonder what’s going on in the star-studded quarterback’s head right now …”


“I can’t believe how many people there are. The game is completely sold-out. All I hear is the rumble of voices screaming at the top of their collective voices, bobbing over a sea of blue and gold. Sweat is running down my face like a torrent river falling off gigantic cliffs. Fatigue keeps slamming my body into contortions as my lungs gasped for air. I can see the team on the sidelines with my peripheral vision, holding their helmets in one hand, the other hand swinging spasmodically in every direction. They’re looking at me with their eyes and praying for a miracle. For a lot of those guys, a loss might not end just the season, but also their careers. I am their savior. I alone can make it happen.

There are only seconds to go in the fourth quarter. I need to complete a 40-yard pass into the end zone with a perfect spiral through the toughest defensive backs in the NFL. No other options are available. I’ve spent a lifetime of rugged athletic discipline to get to this  moment, the moment when winning the Big Game is in my grasp. The fact is I want the humongous diamond ring hanging off my finger. I want to flare my nostrils as I fling my bling at everyone in the room, no, to thousands of rooms that want a glimpse of the winning QB’s Super Bowl Ring.

The coach just called the play into my headset. He wants a run off tackle to get the ball into the center of field. He’s settling for a field goal to tie to the game. Our kicker already blew two field goals today. There’s no way I’m letting that happen. I need to think, think of the play I want to run, the play that will win the game … I got it! I see it clearly in my head. I have act very cool as I shake off the coach’s play. I don’t want any part of my body giving me away.


The ref blows his whistle. It’s on.

“Okay guys, here it is: Red Bird, T-Hawk, Cut-Right, 76 Off Suit … except Big Time, I want you to delay for a two count, then sprint down the sideline for 35 yards as fast as your Olympic Gold Medal feet will carry you. Then, without even a fake, do a post. When you turn around, then ball will hit your numbers at Mach IV speed. Just fold your arms tight and lay down. By the time you hit the turf, you’ll be in the end zone.

Big Time takes a few nanoseconds to take it all in, then points and says, ‘I’ll be there with open arms.’

The play begins.

Hut, hut … hut!

I’m looking to the left and then to the right, then stepping back I fake the hand-off, then back three steps with my eyes glaring down the left side of the field … fake pump. The defensive backs bite. They begin to move in unison in the direction of my eyes, the direction they think the ball is going. Unfortunately for them, it’s not going to be there.

I can hear three hundred pound linemen pounding toward me. Their animal instinct is to rip the ball loss from my arms or drop me for a loss. I slip by three rushing boulders. Suddenly I pivot. With the precision of a particle accelerator I throw a spiral to my right for ten, twenty, thirty, forty yards downfield. No one is in site of the ball. 85,000 people stand mute, pinching their stadium neighbors, dropping their beers, clinging to their hearts as they watch the ball spiral down the field. Not one defender sees it coming, and then … BLAP … as if by magic, the ball slams squarely in the middle of Big Time’s numbers. The ball hit its mark.

Wait … a sole screeching voice whines its way through the air. The ball drops to the ground … the only sound is a single moan from the QB. 

“Doggone it Bradley, don’t throw it so hard, it makes my hands hurt,” shouted Jennifer, Bradley’s girlfriend.

“You dropped it Jennifer. How could you drop it when I hit you right in the numbers?”

“I didn’t drop it, you threw it too fast, and I’m not wearing numbers. This is a $250 Nordstrom  cashmere sweater that you almost ruined.”

“I was just about to win the Super …..”

“Bradley quit pretending you’re some big hot shot. You were a high school football star 15-years ago  who watches Red Zone and still lives his life precariously through your big screen on Sunday .

She picked up the ball and tossed it back from her five-yard differential. It plopped three-yards short of Bradley. 

“We’re supposed to be having a romantic picnic and all you want to do is throw a spongy football. I’m tired, let’s go eat.” Jennifer huffs over to the red and white checkerboard table cloth, grabs the bottle of Raymond Chardonnay,pours herself a full glass, and sits down with her arms crossed waiting for Bradley to join her.

A couple walked past us holding hands.

“You guys look so cute playing football in the park.”

Little did they know that they just witnessed the biggest Super Bowl loss in the history of National League Football.



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