I had a bad feeling that Travis, or FedUpField as he prefers to be called would need a cooling off period after Monday night's self-torture and strenuous exercise.
The Gibbs carries a mighty weight, too much for us mere mortals to bear. We live and die with the Gibbs, through the Gibbs. So it was palpable, the weight of expectation, and the scent of myth and ancient tilts from the time before hung heavy in the air.
Gibbs. And Parcells--the nemesis, the devourer of worlds and despoiler of win-loss credentials. Now the nemesis had teamed up with the Cowboys. Cosmic entities. Opponent with a capital O.
These are the games that must be gotten up for. And yet, Laverneous Coles, with the dropsies. The Offensive Line, calling to mind a row of timid, balsa wood folding chairs. The defensive line, seven Mississippi-eight Mississippi...Pinterian gaps of time for Vincent Testeverde to assault our senses with the sight of him entering the Rejuvenation Machine, like Warner did come before him. Why does the Rejuvenation Machine travel in our wake, benefitting the opposition, as if it were winched to the Bandwagon of yesteryear.
And Richie Anderson...selling that southpaw fake. Terry Glenn, once called a woman by Parcells, redeeming himself with a catch of ballerina-esque beauty.
And to be sure: pass interference call, bogus. A fumble, rightfully ours. An illicit grab in our own end zone, depriving us of a critical TD. All played a part. All hidden indicators. Sure, we can say we were robbed.
But quoth the Washington Post: "21-18." The truth makes a mockery of itself.
One and two. But we ask of the Gibbs. Carry us down the road. Do not abandon us here. The Gibbs only knows what the future holds. Brace yourself: Cleveland upcoming.