Saturday, January 28

The one-eyed undertaker blows a futile horn

I was so in the red zone last night. I was going to score. There was no doubt. I was Tom Brady in a playoff game. I had the calm eyes. It was first and goal! I had taken a bubble bath. I was reading a book and kept nodding off. Clearly, I was going to fall asleep and sleep the sleep of angels and babies and other things that sleep really long and really well. Perhaps I was too cocky, because as soon as I set aside my book (Insomnia, if you can believe it) and turned the light off, the sleepiness? Gone. Like it had never been.

I was Tom Brady in the Denver game. I was intercepted moments from a touchdown and returned with a spirit- and soul-crushing sprint down the sidelines, which involved no rest for the weary. (And in case you're wondering, I am the weary.)

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