on witnessing a team that remains from my childhood comeback from 18 points to defeat my fears

Let's imagine I'm a leather ball, laced together but on all accounts bursting apart. I was thrown from endzone to endzone on Sunday, and I won. I won. I finally won.

And, I repeat to myself, "one more game," because hopes are wound up in a leather ball. I admit, I believe I could conquer the lot of my problems if and only if the Colts could win a Super Bowl. What a silly thought to have, to wrap one's hopes into a game--were it so easy. That one team could score more points than another and my disposition could be improved. Wouldn't that be a feat? Sport transcending sport and becoming a raison d'être.

No. --So foolish, I say.

--Matters of one's disposition are best rooted in the things one can control, the appropriate response would be.

--Right, right, I agree. --Best to restrain my own well-being. Reign it in and grow it so that I can harvest it on command. Best not to let it compete with something else. Best to hide it away from the vicious world of shoulder pads and cleats.

--I see where you're taking this, the appropriate responder anticipates.

--Best to hide my spirits away, I ignore the caveat and continue. --Best to bury it instead of running it up the middle on third down and two on the four-yard line, on the off-chance that the offensive line will read the defensive scheme exactly, perfectly even, and the hole will expand and I will enter the endzone unscathed, untouched, blameless.

Best to control things myself.