Took in Sunday's affair with stunned, subdued appreciation. A professional football effort. It really mirrored a professional tackle football team, until Tommy Gehrardt fumbled three times in four carries near game's end. And only now I brace myself and clench my abs for that fateful and/or inevitable punch to the stomach, for my curiousity is peaked and my optimism swelled, although only slightly, with the hope that maybe, just maybe, last Sunday's professional tackle football effort was more trend than mirage, and maybe, just maybe, all that cool, calm collected talk about watching films and correcting for 16-weeks that progress might be at hand. But I will not force myself blue in the face holding my breaths, but rather go on with my mundane existence with that sliver of hope and optimism folded neatly in the corner of my skull. I will get it out only at kickoff, and even then I'll keep it in my pocket, for the landing at Disappointment is so much softer when the cabin is lined with purple pillows.
