I decided I had to make a call.
"Did you see that stiff arm?"
"I'm sorry, I don't follow. Who are you trying to reach?"
"What about the double move against Taylor earlier? Did ya see that?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about. I think you may have the wrong number."
"Are you alive? Are you breathing!?!"
"Um, yes of course."
I hung up. I had done all I could for him. I tried another number.
"Radio Cab- Where ya headed?"
"Um, okay. Where are you calling from?"
"Sir, please, we are quite busy. Do you need a cab?"
"All I need is for you to get on that there CB of yours and yell, at the top of your lungs, from the bottom of your soul, ‘Broncoooooooossss!!!' Cool?"
Not cool. She hung up.
The phone was not having the desired effect.
So I ripped off my pants.
And I charged out back in my nothings. And I jumped the neighbor's fence and crashed through their bushes clear into their front yard and onto Belmont street, screaming, "Broncoooooossss!!!"
A woman heading into the credit union cowered around her 7 year old, shielding him from my shame, gasping with wide (and maybe just slightly intrigued) eyes.
A monocaled top-hatted gentleman let out an "I say!"
A chimpanzee dangling from Mai Thai oohh-oohh eee-eeed in a knowing way, with a sly wink and a wry smile, clearly understanding that nothing was going to get in the way of my joy, as the joy was coming from within.
As I ran up Belmont Street I spied a lone rubbish bin, innocently awaiting collection. I trucked it clean, just the way Ayers took one game to truck any previous bouts of frustration and disappointment over the last couple of years. I stripped it of it's lid like a pair of Doom fingertips, and charged up the street, wielding it wildly, my shield from Denverfell.
Running past Stumptown I pulled some hipster's fatty glasses off his face and put them on so I could feel Von's power.
"Hey! Those are my hipster glasses!" he yelled.
"Are you yelling?" I yelled back.
"Yes, cause you took my glasses!" he yelled again.
"Try yelling ‘Broncoooosss!!!'" I countered.
"Just TRY it!" I yelled again.
"Broncoooooosss!!!" sallied forth from his hipster mouth, an unbridled banshee call into an unsuspecting world - the untethered hipster free to express joy unironically, purely. A lone tear fell from his eye, an eye now looking inside to his own soul at the peace bequeathed by one unimaginable Bronco moment.
"Keep the glasses."
Across the street at the bodega I picked up the cigarette sandwich board and threw it over my body to hide my bits and pieces. The lady came out of the store.
"You can't have that."
"I'm sorry, did you just say ‘Broncoooooooosss!!!'?"
"No I said, ‘You can't have that.'"
I bolted, DT style. I thought about stiff arming her, but it seemed unnecessary. So I just yelled, "Broncooooooosss!!!"
Back down Belmont Street I charged with my Denverfell shield, my Von Power glasses, and my sandwich board. All I needed, besides my immortal Bronco shout, was a weapon to pierce the souls of the enemies. Just then a polka-dot unicorn flew down from on high and landed right in front of me, bowing low. An offering.
I ripped off his horn. It broke free like the two foot icicles that form off of Matt Prater's body whenever he cuts himself, his ice blood flowing in slow motion. Fear not animal lovers, another horn sprang right back, growing as big as the smile on The Duke's postgame face. I leaped onto the unicorn's back, covering it with my sandwich board, Champ style.
The unicorn leaped silently into the air. We glided over the city for a bit until he turned to me and said, "Ya know buddy, the Patriots is gonna be sumptin' tuff."
"Looky here unicorn," says I. "Life is made up of little moments. Most we skip over, some we burn, and some we stick in our back pockets, just so. I will never not have those eleven seconds in my back pocket. Never. Later foes and games yet to be played be damned. Prior defeats and travesties ignored. Those are our eleven seconds."