The thunder was never going to stay away. Somehow you knew that.
Somehow you knew there were too many blaring Saturday nights out there past the runways, too much Moose Myers and Tom Wible and a zillion flat-footing others. Fifty years is a goodly space of days for anything, much less 3/8 of a mile of pretty much flat greasy asphalt, and so when Baer Field Speedway went quiet two days before the Fourth of July last summer, you knew it wouldn't stay that way. You knew all that sound and fury wasn't going to just dissipate into the ether, that after five decades it had seeped into the very ground and was simply lying dormant, like springtime in February.
Which, come to think of it, was kind of what we got the other day when Dave Muzzillo of Angola,
president of the International Championship Auto Racing Top Speed Modified Tour, was introduced as the now 52-year-old track’s new promoter.
And if that counts as the best of news for local race fans -- and the drivers who spent their Saturday nights under Baer Field's smoky lights -- there was also a feeling of inevitability to it.
To be sure, keeping a local bullring like BFS upright is a hard dollar in 2015, with chronically high fuel costs and an economy that, while back on its feet and moving forward again, is fundamentally different than the economy of our fathers and grandfathers. And so anytime a local racetrack can make a go of it, it's a victory.
But in Baer Field's case, a victory you sensed would eventually come.
It's an article of faith that what you see on Sunday afternoons at Daytona or Bristol or Darlington was born on hundreds of Saturday nights in hundreds of places, all those bright globes of light and sound scattered through the rural darkness of middle America. That's not quite as true now as it used to be, but it's still true enough. And that makes places like Baer Field and Eldora and Winchester and Angola places that are still worth the investment.
For as much as high-end racing has gone corporate, there still must be grassroots to sustain it, and few places have deeper ones than Baer Field. Across five decades, a dozen Daytona 500 winners and eight NASCAR Cup champions have raced there. Three-time Indianapolis 500 winner Bobby Unser once held the track record. Fellow 500 winners Al Unser Sr., Gordon Johncock and Johnny Rutherford turned a wheel there.
The thunder, sunk deep.
And now, come April, it will rise again. The lights will blaze. The tire smoke will drape its veil of haze around them. The P.A. announcer will shout, the green will drop and a pile of Detroit muscle will loudly clear its throat.
Nothing will ever sound more eloquent.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Friday, February 6, 2015
Home sweet home
You know what you say now, you NFL fan who long ago was shunted aside by the wants and needs of the Shield. You say, who needs it, right?
Who needs to wipe out a month's wages just to park a nautical mile from the stadium, sit a nautical mile from the action and pay eight bucks for a Bud Light? Right here in your own living room, you've got the best view in the house on HD TV. You've got your own private bathroom. You've got a couch and snacks and all the Bud Light you can pour down your neck, and it doesn't even cost eight bucks a six-pack.
Well. The Shield has heard you. And it doesn't like it.
It doesn't like being one-upped by the common ruck, even though it created the situation itself. And so now there's this: The Miami Dolphins are going to horn in on your action.
They're knocking out seats in Sun Life Stadium to create 32 "living rooms." Yes, that's right. The rich elites who already occupy all the good seats in NFL stadiums will have their own recliners, iPads, and HD TVs, either 32-inch or 24-inch.
In other words, your living room will become their living room. The difference being, their living room will cost $75,000 for the standard package, ensuring that Joe Fan in his Aaron Rodgers jersey will never darken its door.
Lord knows why you'd want to spend $75,000 for the same experience you could get for nothing in your own living room, except to flaunt that you've got $75,000 just lying around. Except to be able to say, "I've got $75,000, basically three years' pay for you, schmucko, and I'm gonna spend it on a living room inside the stadium because, you know, a living room inside the stadium is better than any living room you'll ever see."
Don't you hate that?
Don't you hope the recliners won't recline and the reception on the TVs will be snowy and the snacks will amount to a lonely package of month-old bologna? Don't you then hope Mr. I've Got Money To Just Throw Away will show up at your door, looking all downcast and pathetic, and beg to watch the game in your living room?
Because you know what your response will be.
"Sure. That'll be 75 Gs, please. And the pigs-in-a-blanket are mine, so don't even think about it."
Who needs to wipe out a month's wages just to park a nautical mile from the stadium, sit a nautical mile from the action and pay eight bucks for a Bud Light? Right here in your own living room, you've got the best view in the house on HD TV. You've got your own private bathroom. You've got a couch and snacks and all the Bud Light you can pour down your neck, and it doesn't even cost eight bucks a six-pack.
Well. The Shield has heard you. And it doesn't like it.
It doesn't like being one-upped by the common ruck, even though it created the situation itself. And so now there's this: The Miami Dolphins are going to horn in on your action.
They're knocking out seats in Sun Life Stadium to create 32 "living rooms." Yes, that's right. The rich elites who already occupy all the good seats in NFL stadiums will have their own recliners, iPads, and HD TVs, either 32-inch or 24-inch.
In other words, your living room will become their living room. The difference being, their living room will cost $75,000 for the standard package, ensuring that Joe Fan in his Aaron Rodgers jersey will never darken its door.
Lord knows why you'd want to spend $75,000 for the same experience you could get for nothing in your own living room, except to flaunt that you've got $75,000 just lying around. Except to be able to say, "I've got $75,000, basically three years' pay for you, schmucko, and I'm gonna spend it on a living room inside the stadium because, you know, a living room inside the stadium is better than any living room you'll ever see."
Don't you hate that?
Don't you hope the recliners won't recline and the reception on the TVs will be snowy and the snacks will amount to a lonely package of month-old bologna? Don't you then hope Mr. I've Got Money To Just Throw Away will show up at your door, looking all downcast and pathetic, and beg to watch the game in your living room?
Because you know what your response will be.
"Sure. That'll be 75 Gs, please. And the pigs-in-a-blanket are mine, so don't even think about it."
Thursday, February 5, 2015
The luckless ones
Enough, for now, about winners and champions and the mortally lucky, like the New England Patriots, who stood and watched as Pete Carroll handed them the Super Bowl by A) not running Marshawn Lynch and B) running instead a pass play that wouldn't have scored anyway.
Let's raise a cracked glass insead this morning to the non-champions, the unlucky, the dogged victims of inexorable fate.
Or, in the case of Cleveland Browns fans, the Dog Pound-ed victims.
America's most frequently dismayed fan base took another shot to the hope gland yesterday when it came out that the Brownies could lose draft picks and face a suspension of GM Ray Farmer for texts sent the sidelines during games. This is a distinct no-no, which is probably why the Browns did it, being as they are the most can't-get-out-of-their-own-way-ing franchise in sports.
It's no fun to worship a team that, like Dick Van Dyke, never misses a chance to trip over the hassock. But it's been especially hard so far this offseason: Before TextGate, there, came the news that troubled (and immensely talented) wide receiver Josh Gordon would be suspended a year for again violating the league's drug policy, and quarterback Johnny Manziel was headed for rehab to essentially learn how not to be a goofy 22-year-old. Which, of course, simply added to the growing sense of doom among Browns fans that their guys had burned another valuable draft pick.
Raise a glass to 'em. Hell, raise several.
Raise a glass, too, to the young men playing basketball at Syracuse right now. Because of infractions that occurred before most of them were there, the school self-imposed a postseason ban yesterday. That means no March Madness for a group of players who likely had nothing to do with the infract-ing. Meanwhile, it's no skin off the kids who cheated -- nor, really, of those who either let it happen or actively helped it happen.
Here's what I think the school should have done: Suspend Jim Boeheim and his coaching staff and let the team coach itself in the tournament. It's not as far-fetched as you might think. My father, who played high school ball in Indiana in the '40s, remembers that during timeouts the team captain ran the huddle, not the coach. So there's precedent of a sort.
Of course, that would never happen in major college basketball, where the coaches are the stars and the players merely the supporting cast. There's too much chance Syracuse might actually do OK. This might get people thinking that maybe the coaches don't have as much to do with things as we're encouraged to believe -- and that in turn might get them wondering why these guys are making such huge piles of money.
Bottom line, it's about the bottom line. Another great idea killed by commerce.
Darn.
Let's raise a cracked glass insead this morning to the non-champions, the unlucky, the dogged victims of inexorable fate.
Or, in the case of Cleveland Browns fans, the Dog Pound-ed victims.
America's most frequently dismayed fan base took another shot to the hope gland yesterday when it came out that the Brownies could lose draft picks and face a suspension of GM Ray Farmer for texts sent the sidelines during games. This is a distinct no-no, which is probably why the Browns did it, being as they are the most can't-get-out-of-their-own-way-ing franchise in sports.
It's no fun to worship a team that, like Dick Van Dyke, never misses a chance to trip over the hassock. But it's been especially hard so far this offseason: Before TextGate, there, came the news that troubled (and immensely talented) wide receiver Josh Gordon would be suspended a year for again violating the league's drug policy, and quarterback Johnny Manziel was headed for rehab to essentially learn how not to be a goofy 22-year-old. Which, of course, simply added to the growing sense of doom among Browns fans that their guys had burned another valuable draft pick.
Raise a glass to 'em. Hell, raise several.
Raise a glass, too, to the young men playing basketball at Syracuse right now. Because of infractions that occurred before most of them were there, the school self-imposed a postseason ban yesterday. That means no March Madness for a group of players who likely had nothing to do with the infract-ing. Meanwhile, it's no skin off the kids who cheated -- nor, really, of those who either let it happen or actively helped it happen.
Here's what I think the school should have done: Suspend Jim Boeheim and his coaching staff and let the team coach itself in the tournament. It's not as far-fetched as you might think. My father, who played high school ball in Indiana in the '40s, remembers that during timeouts the team captain ran the huddle, not the coach. So there's precedent of a sort.
Of course, that would never happen in major college basketball, where the coaches are the stars and the players merely the supporting cast. There's too much chance Syracuse might actually do OK. This might get people thinking that maybe the coaches don't have as much to do with things as we're encouraged to believe -- and that in turn might get them wondering why these guys are making such huge piles of money.
Bottom line, it's about the bottom line. Another great idea killed by commerce.
Darn.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
It's not about ... who's driving
Once upon a time, in an alternate reality far, far away, Lance Armstrong was the knight without stain, a man so above reproach that even to suggest his brave narrative might be a little too brave brought down wrath unending.
I know. It happened to me.
Wrote one time that it wasn't unreasonable to be a little skeptical of the man's story, which involved rising from his deathbed to, within two years, become the greatest Tour de France champion ever. I didn't wonder aloud how he could be dominating all the drug cheats in his sport if he weren't one himself. In fact, I gave him what turned out to be too much the benefit of the doubt by saying I thought he really was doing it clean.
I bought into the narrative, in other words.
And got killed for it.
Simply because I suggested it wasn't unreasonable to wonder how he did what he did, the e-mails and letters and phone calls poured in. In a quarter-century as a columnist, I was never more viciously slammed for anything -- even my occasional suggestions that Bob Knight was probably not a guy who had a firm grip on his temper.
Well. Now that we know what we know about Lance -- that he was both a fraud and a de facto mafiaso, not only doping but strong-arming others into either silence or complicity -- I often wonder about the people who called or wrote or emailed, and what they're thinking now. And I'm wondering that today, with the news that Lance once again has revealed that character matters, especially when you don't have any.
It seems that just after Christmas, Lance imbibed a little too much one night, got behind the wheel of his car and crashed into a couple of parked vehicles. Then, because he's Lance, he apparently either convinced or allowed his girlfriend to take the fall by claiming she was the one behind the wheel.
It was classic megalomania from a classic megalomaniac.
Look. I'll always tip my hat to the man for beating cancer and becoming a symbol of hope for millions of cancer patients. But I'll also recognize that, ultimately, he turned out to be a false symbol. This latest disclosure does nothing to disabuse me of that. It just makes me sad.
Once upon a time, in an alternate reality far, far away, Lance Armstrong wrote a book with Sally Jenkins titled "It's Not About The Bike." In retrospect, it might have been the one thing about him that wasn't a bald-faced lie.
It wasn't about the bike, see. It never has been.
For Lance, it's about Lance. Always.
I know. It happened to me.
Wrote one time that it wasn't unreasonable to be a little skeptical of the man's story, which involved rising from his deathbed to, within two years, become the greatest Tour de France champion ever. I didn't wonder aloud how he could be dominating all the drug cheats in his sport if he weren't one himself. In fact, I gave him what turned out to be too much the benefit of the doubt by saying I thought he really was doing it clean.
I bought into the narrative, in other words.
And got killed for it.
Simply because I suggested it wasn't unreasonable to wonder how he did what he did, the e-mails and letters and phone calls poured in. In a quarter-century as a columnist, I was never more viciously slammed for anything -- even my occasional suggestions that Bob Knight was probably not a guy who had a firm grip on his temper.
Well. Now that we know what we know about Lance -- that he was both a fraud and a de facto mafiaso, not only doping but strong-arming others into either silence or complicity -- I often wonder about the people who called or wrote or emailed, and what they're thinking now. And I'm wondering that today, with the news that Lance once again has revealed that character matters, especially when you don't have any.
It seems that just after Christmas, Lance imbibed a little too much one night, got behind the wheel of his car and crashed into a couple of parked vehicles. Then, because he's Lance, he apparently either convinced or allowed his girlfriend to take the fall by claiming she was the one behind the wheel.
It was classic megalomania from a classic megalomaniac.
Look. I'll always tip my hat to the man for beating cancer and becoming a symbol of hope for millions of cancer patients. But I'll also recognize that, ultimately, he turned out to be a false symbol. This latest disclosure does nothing to disabuse me of that. It just makes me sad.
Once upon a time, in an alternate reality far, far away, Lance Armstrong wrote a book with Sally Jenkins titled "It's Not About The Bike." In retrospect, it might have been the one thing about him that wasn't a bald-faced lie.
It wasn't about the bike, see. It never has been.
For Lance, it's about Lance. Always.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Johnny Therapy
You learn something every day, if you're lucky. And so today the lesson comes from Johnny Manziel, strange as that may sound.
The lesson is this: You can get help for being 22 years old.
Near as I can figures that's essentially what Manziel, the Cleveland Browns livin'-a-little-too-large quarterback, is entering rehab for, as announced yesterday by Manziel's "spokesperson." (And when did backup quarterbacks start employing "spokespersons," anyway?). Johnny Football is going to become Johnny Therapy, not for any disclosed substance abuse, but in order to "figure out his value system."
And here I thought people went to church for that.
Johnny, though, is entering rehab for it, which suggests that either he was smart enough to figure out that his life was about to spin completely out of control, or someone close to him was smart enough to figure it out for him. Somehow I think it's the latter, and somehow I think that someone was his employer.
This frankly has the Browns' fingerprints all over it, and further suggests that at some point there was a come-to-Jesus meeting between Manziel and management. And if there was, I imagine the gist of it was that Johnny Football needed to rein in Johnny Good Times, or Johnny would be playing his Football in Saskatchewan or some similar outpost.
So, he's off to rehab himself from ... what, exactly? Being too willing to have a good time? Being not enough like Tom Brady or Peyton Manning? Being Johnny?
Maybe this isn't at all unusual (I'm guessingit probably isn't), but it sure seems unusual. And maybe later we'll find out that Manziel was, in fact, spiraling out of control with drugs or booze or gambling or some other recognized vice.
Right now, though, he's the only high-profile athlete of whom I've heard who entered rehab to stop being 22. And it's a fascinating window into the mentality of the NFL, which values image above all else, particularly as it applies to high profile positions such as quarterback.
I haven't, for instance, heard anything about Rob Gronkowski, the Patriots' equally good-timin' tight end, entering rehab to figure out his value system. But, then he's just a tight end, not the de facto CEO on the field the quarterback position has become in the NFL.
And so, off to rehab Johnny Therapy will go. And if this was truly all his own doing, good on him. It's a rare human who recognizes he's headed down the wrong path before he's gone too far down it. Nothing in Manziel's public persona suggests he is that rare human -- so far he's more personified the genus Goofius Kidius -- but if so, there's far more depth to him than any of us suspected.
And that's a good thing.
The lesson is this: You can get help for being 22 years old.
Near as I can figures that's essentially what Manziel, the Cleveland Browns livin'-a-little-too-large quarterback, is entering rehab for, as announced yesterday by Manziel's "spokesperson." (And when did backup quarterbacks start employing "spokespersons," anyway?). Johnny Football is going to become Johnny Therapy, not for any disclosed substance abuse, but in order to "figure out his value system."
And here I thought people went to church for that.
Johnny, though, is entering rehab for it, which suggests that either he was smart enough to figure out that his life was about to spin completely out of control, or someone close to him was smart enough to figure it out for him. Somehow I think it's the latter, and somehow I think that someone was his employer.
This frankly has the Browns' fingerprints all over it, and further suggests that at some point there was a come-to-Jesus meeting between Manziel and management. And if there was, I imagine the gist of it was that Johnny Football needed to rein in Johnny Good Times, or Johnny would be playing his Football in Saskatchewan or some similar outpost.
So, he's off to rehab himself from ... what, exactly? Being too willing to have a good time? Being not enough like Tom Brady or Peyton Manning? Being Johnny?
Maybe this isn't at all unusual (I'm guessingit probably isn't), but it sure seems unusual. And maybe later we'll find out that Manziel was, in fact, spiraling out of control with drugs or booze or gambling or some other recognized vice.
Right now, though, he's the only high-profile athlete of whom I've heard who entered rehab to stop being 22. And it's a fascinating window into the mentality of the NFL, which values image above all else, particularly as it applies to high profile positions such as quarterback.
I haven't, for instance, heard anything about Rob Gronkowski, the Patriots' equally good-timin' tight end, entering rehab to figure out his value system. But, then he's just a tight end, not the de facto CEO on the field the quarterback position has become in the NFL.
And so, off to rehab Johnny Therapy will go. And if this was truly all his own doing, good on him. It's a rare human who recognizes he's headed down the wrong path before he's gone too far down it. Nothing in Manziel's public persona suggests he is that rare human -- so far he's more personified the genus Goofius Kidius -- but if so, there's far more depth to him than any of us suspected.
And that's a good thing.
Monday, February 2, 2015
Patriot Day
So much of this ends differently, if Pete Carroll doesn’t
make that call.
Tom Brady likely becomes a three-time Super Bowl loser
instead of Joe Montana 8.0.
Russell Wilson likely becomes the guy who beat Peyton
Manning and Brady in back-to-back Super Bowls instead of the guy who almost
did.
And America is not subjected to a lot of sanctimonious
jaw-flapping about answering their critics from the New England Patriots, a
shady lot who have fully earned the criticism.
Instead … well, instead, Pete Carroll made The Call.
And, no, not the slant down on the goal line with the clock
inside a minute, the ball inside the 2 and Marshawn Lynch waiting to take three
more cracks at the end zone.
That call cost the Seahawks the Super Bowl, and it was
inexplicable only outside the context of the Other Call. That would be the
gamble Carroll pulled off in the first half, with the Seahawks inside the 10
and six seconds left until Katy Perry and her dancing sharks.
Logic says you take the three points there and go to
halftime down 14-10. Instead, Carroll played to the inside straight, opting to
squeeze in one more shot at the end zone without time enough to kick the field
goal if it missed.
It didn’t.
Wilson found Chris Matthews for six, and the Seahawks went in tied
at 14-14 after being dominated for the entire half. And the table was set, not
to say the mindset, for what happened at the end.
You can’t definitively say pulling off the riverboat turn
once influenced Carroll to try it again with the game on his racquet. But it
for sure didn’t influence him not to
try it.
In retrospect, of course, it was the dumbest play call in
Super Bowl history, considering what was riding on it. When you have three
tries from the 2 with the guy who runs at the goal line better than anyone in
football, you run him at the goal line. Duh.
But, no. Wilson threw the slant, Malcolm Butler read it perfectly,
and a magnificent football game would forever be known for the magnificence of
Brady, who engineered two fourth-quarter drives that, as this is written,
already are being bronzed in Canton.
Down ten to the best defense in football, he took the
Patriots home not once but twice to deliver the Lombardi Trophy -- and, yes, it
really did remind you of how cold-blooded Montana was in the final drive
against the Bengals in his first Super Bowl. Now, like Montana, Brady belongs
to the ages, and to inarguable numbers.
Four Super Bowl
rings, same as Joe. Thirty-eight completions, a Super Bowl record. Twelve
career touchdown passes in a Super Bowl, another record. Greatest playoff
quarterback in NFL history, case closed.
In his fourth win, Brady went after the Seahawks a nick at
a time, throwing a lot and mostly underneath. The dink-and-dunk chewed up yards
and clock and prevented the Seahawks from getting to him even when they had a
clear shot. He got hit, but, in most cases, the ball was gone by the time he
did.
And then Pete Carroll handed him his legacy on a silver
platter, after Wilson led a valiant drive in the last two minutes that was
highlighted by yet another Roman Numeral Miracle – Jermaine Kearse catching a
bomb from Wilson while lying flat on his back.
It was David Tyree’s helmet catch all over again for the
Patriots, and then it was not. Brady had
his legacy, Bill Belichick tied Chuck Noll with four Super Bowl wins, and the
Patriots were almost certainly off the hook for Deflategate, because the NFL is
not going to do anything to mess with such historic business.
Expect Roger Goodell to eventually issue some fine
commissioner-speak about the Shield not finding anything “conclusive,” and
let’s move on, folks. Hey, how about that Tom Brady?
Well … yes.
How about him?
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Lay down your money
We're only six hours or so now from opening kickoff for Super Bowl XLIX, which means if you haven't gotten your bets down, you'd best get crackin'.
(The Blob, without any confidence whatsoever, is picking the Seahawks. Place your wagers accordingly).
There is, of course, a lot to bet on. Prop bets have become almost as much a Super Bowl meme as Super Bowl commercials, and there are a million of them. I mean, almost literally a million.
Want to know if Marshawn Lynch will grab his crotch again? You can bet on that.
Want to know if Bill Belichick will smile on camera? You can bet on that, too.
Who will the Super Bowl MVP mention first (teammates are at 3-2, God at 2-1). What color will the Gatorade be that gets dumped on the winning coach's head (orange goes off at 3-2). What will Belichick's reaction be if it's him ("Snarls 'Get that bleep away from me'" is the 3-2 favorite).
OK. So I made up that last one.
The others, though, are legit, plus many more. But just to prove you can never beat a good thing into the ground, the Blob has come up with a few others ...
1. When will Ben makes his first daylight raid on the queso? ("Noon" is the 2-1 favorite).
2. How many times will Ben's wife, Julie, say, "Who's Russell Wilson again?" ("More than four" is the leader in the clubhouse at 3-1).
3. Will Ben recognize anything Katy Perry sings at halftime? ("No" is 2-1. "Hell, no" is 5-4).
4. What are the odds Ben gets up during a break to retrieve another beer, and misses the best Super Bowl commercial? ("Really good" comes in at 3-2. "Of course he will" is 4-1).
5. Will there be a Super Bowl commercial better than the Snickers ad starring Danny Trejo as Marcia Brady and Steve Buscemi as Jan? ("Not bloody likely" is 4-5).
And last but not least ...
6. What will Ben's reaction be after he falls asleep in the middle of third quarter and then wakes up in time to see Belichick raise the Lombardi Trophy? ("This is a hell of a nightmare I'm having" is your 2-1 favorite).
(The Blob, without any confidence whatsoever, is picking the Seahawks. Place your wagers accordingly).
There is, of course, a lot to bet on. Prop bets have become almost as much a Super Bowl meme as Super Bowl commercials, and there are a million of them. I mean, almost literally a million.
Want to know if Marshawn Lynch will grab his crotch again? You can bet on that.
Want to know if Bill Belichick will smile on camera? You can bet on that, too.
Who will the Super Bowl MVP mention first (teammates are at 3-2, God at 2-1). What color will the Gatorade be that gets dumped on the winning coach's head (orange goes off at 3-2). What will Belichick's reaction be if it's him ("Snarls 'Get that bleep away from me'" is the 3-2 favorite).
OK. So I made up that last one.
The others, though, are legit, plus many more. But just to prove you can never beat a good thing into the ground, the Blob has come up with a few others ...
1. When will Ben makes his first daylight raid on the queso? ("Noon" is the 2-1 favorite).
2. How many times will Ben's wife, Julie, say, "Who's Russell Wilson again?" ("More than four" is the leader in the clubhouse at 3-1).
3. Will Ben recognize anything Katy Perry sings at halftime? ("No" is 2-1. "Hell, no" is 5-4).
4. What are the odds Ben gets up during a break to retrieve another beer, and misses the best Super Bowl commercial? ("Really good" comes in at 3-2. "Of course he will" is 4-1).
5. Will there be a Super Bowl commercial better than the Snickers ad starring Danny Trejo as Marcia Brady and Steve Buscemi as Jan? ("Not bloody likely" is 4-5).
And last but not least ...
6. What will Ben's reaction be after he falls asleep in the middle of third quarter and then wakes up in time to see Belichick raise the Lombardi Trophy? ("This is a hell of a nightmare I'm having" is your 2-1 favorite).
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