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There’s something about that green glow. You can’t quite put your finger on it. You don’t care to, anyway. You stare at the illumination on your dashboard. The green glow above your CD player displays the numbers 9 – 2 – 1. Generally, these glowing digits are a messenger of time — the secretary for the supernatural force that runs so much of your life.

But tonight, they’re just a green glow.

You drive down an unfamiliar country road. The snow that has turned such pathways into slippery death traps the past few weeks has been shoveled to the shoulders. A small part of you believes this was done special for you.

There are valuable acres of Idaho farmland on both sides of you. Behind the farms, rolling hills. Then, majestic, jagged mountains. It would be beautiful, except it is pitch black. Which is why the green glow is so poignant.

Or, perhaps the glow is so poignant because you’re not thinking about it. You’re merely conscious of it. And perhaps the serenity you feel from driving down an abandoned country road — one so “abandoned” that somebody went to the trouble of shoveling every seemingly infinite mile of it — is a product of you not thinking or caring about your surroundings.

You see a luminous farmhouse off in the distance. It gives you a peaceful sense of comfort, even though you’re little more than a ghost drifting by in the gales of a four-door passenger car.

Your head is spinning with thoughts, and the mystique of the moment — the tranquility of aimless travel — only causes it to spin deeper. So, you’re drilling. When you strike your unknown target, you become even more conscious of the green glow. It seems to tell you everything you’d ever need to know in that moment: the speed you are traveling; the distance you have traveled; the time of your travel; your RPM at that moment of travel. And that you’ll need to change your oil soon after your travel.

But what it doesn’t tell you is the reason you are traveling.

Your stomach has gone to the trouble of making a pit, a pit that serves as a messenger of affliction. Something’s not right. Your heart has gained weight in an effort to emit an aura of despondency — despondency that your mind usually sorts out. But not tonight.

So you keep driving.

 

*   *   *   *

 

A little over an hour ago that night you were immersed in one of the greatest football games of all time. You were surrounded by the iridescent glow of a 57-inch flat screen television. Your stomach housed phantom butterflies and your weightless heart raced at a rate that no four-door could ever reach. You were alone — you’ve always loved watching football alone — but nearly 100 million other Americans were experiencing the same drama you were. You had never felt more connected.

But something changed when Plaxico Burress caught that pass in the end zone.

 

*   *   *   *

 

The green glow says 9 – 3 – 5. Finally, it’s trying to tell you something. Three, five. You faintly shake your head in tacit disbelief. Thirty five. That’s how many seconds had been left when Burress’s 13-yard TD crashed football’s house of cards.

Growing up, you rooted for the Dallas Cowboys. To this day you carry a vivid recollection of the entire 1994 NFC Championship game, which took place on January 15, 1995 at Candlestick Park. The two-time defending champions lost that day. Had you been old enough to drive, you and the green glow would have burned out of gas somewhere between Sun Valley and Salt Lake.

That dreadful day gave you your first true taste of defeat. What a terrible feeling it had been. Again, you shake your head. Tonight’s feeling isn’t of that ilk. And, thankfully, it’s certainly not as bad. But, for some reason, you feel like you have more to sort out. Your attention is jolted when the green glow flickers. 9 – 3 – 8. Eight. You think back to June.

 

*   *   *   *

 

Predictions had always bothered you. For one, they’re damn near impossible to make in the NFL. So impossible, in fact, that often times, the people who make them correctly are the ones who don’t know anything about football to begin with. Since the NFL re-aligned in 2002, 18 of 32 division winners had failed to repeat their first-place finish the following season.

You had been writing NFL preview books since fourth grade. Now in your 11th year, you understood this unpredictability (which is to say, you accepted it). You had seen Michael Vick ruin your Super Bowl pick in 2003 when he broke his leg in the preseason. You saw Terrell Owens crush your Super Bowl pick a few years later during that infamous 2005 season, when the initials T.O. took on a whole new meaning, and super agent Drew Rosenhaus presented a whole new personification of the shark archetype. Hell, you saw your pick ruined a few months ago, when Peyton Manning woke up one day and suddenly knew how to beat the powerhouse Patriots in the postseason (from 18 points down, no less).

Were these outcomes foreseeable? Perhaps….in October. But definitely not in May — not if history was relevant. And, thanks to the timing of the sports media industry, that’s when you were forced to make your predictions. What would ranking the teams prove about your knowledge? Not an ounce worth of what your myriad pages of commentary and analysis did. But what would people most likely remember? Those damn predictions.

So you ranked the NFC East, arguably the most competitive of all the divisions. You liked the high-powered offense of the Cowboys, who were led by their new star quarterback, Tony Romo. Figuring that Wade Phillips’s arrival would re-energize the team, you decided to rank them first.

Philadelphia had reached the postseason the year before and, under Andy Reid, they’d almost always been repeat customers in January. If Donovan McNabb proved healthy, they were probably the best team in the NFC East. But his surgically repaired right knee was still of some concern, which is why you ranked them second.

That left Washington and New York. It was hard to imagine a Joe Gibbs-led team finishing dead last in its division two consecutive years. And besides, with the Giants, all you could think about was that number. Eight. That’s how many games they had won the previous season before being trounced early in the playoffs for a second year in a row.

And what had they just done over the offseason? Well, they retained the crotchety head coach that everyone seemed to hate. They said goodbye to their most dynamic offensive weapon, Tiki Barber. They decided that guard David Diehl could continue to fill in at the all-important left tackle position, protecting the blind side of that inconsistent quarterback with the freakishly consistent older brother. And, they signed only one semi-significant free agent (linebacker Kawika Mitchell).

Your job was to tell your readers how each team looked heading into the 2007 season. Few teams looked as discombobulated as the New York Giants. You hated to put them dead last in their division — it seemed a little harsh — but you felt you had no choice. It was reassuring when you considered that the G-Men had always faded down the stretch. Even if they pulled a shockingly successful season out of their hats, recent history all but guaranteed they wouldn’t make a deep postseason run and embarrass you. So, you put it in writing: New York Giants — 4th, NFC East.

 

*   *   *   *

 

The glow’s still strong. 9 – 3 – 8. You can’t help but think about it. Eight; eight wins a year ago. And now, an improbable Super Bowl victory.

You also can’t stop thinking how nice that feather in your cap would look, you know, the one you would have had if your preseason Super Bowl pick — the New England Patriots — had finished the job. But it’s a moot point now (the potent hollowness that invaded your interior torso when Eli Manning kneeled on the ball earlier that night still serves as a reminder).

Part of you feels like you should dwell on what your failed prediction means. But a bigger part of you knows that the people you’re trying to impress with your work —- the NFL media personalities, the publishers and editors, agents and investors — won’t care. They’ll only focus on the writing and your testimonials from some of those sports media icons.

Still, you’re unsatisfied. So you continue your directionless journey. Just you and the dark country road. And the glow, of course. It would actually be a lot of fun if you weren’t so damn melancholy. Or even if you could only figure out why you are so melancholy.

The road straightens and you instinctively press down on the gas just a bit. You’re totally ignorant of the speed limit, but you trust that you’re traveling at a licit rate. You check the green glow directly in front of you. A little stick falls just under 50 on one of the enigmatic circles. Once again, the glow is communicating something to you.

 

*   *   *   *

 

Forty eight — the number of points the Patriots had dropped on an NFC-leading Dallas Cowboys team back in Week 6. Customarily, a Dallas loss would have bothered you (some parts of your childhood never leave), but on that afternoon, you watched with a wry smile because you believed you were witnessing the greatest single season team of all time. Any good Republican or Democrat will tell you that they’re an American first and a party-liner second. As a Cowboys fan that afternoon you smiled because, before all, you were a fan of football. And what the Patriots were doing was great for football.

New England continued to annihilate meeker teams in the early and middle parts of the season. Talking heads accused them of running up the score — a criticism you thought you’d never hear in professional football. The television ratings were astronomical, which was wonderful for you because, considering your career was based on writing about the NFL, the more fans/readers out there, the better.

As the weeks went by, the regular season had never seemed so important. You were thrilled because you knew that one day you would be able to tell your grandkids that you, and millions from your generation, followed the greatest team in football history through its remarkable run. You had always heard conversations about the 1972 Miami Dolphins, but being just 21 years of age, you were too young to have experienced them firsthand. All you really knew about that team was that they won a lot of games with their backup quarterback and that you couldn’t stand their current mouthpiece, running back Mercury Morris. Subtly, your limited relevance in the Dolphin discussions bothered you.

But the Patriots would change all of that. And the NFL, which indirectly meant you, would reap the benefits.

 

*   *   *   *

 

As your thoughts flow in, your speed wanes. You know that, right now, most of America is giddy with joy. Tomorrow, everyone will be calling it the greatest upset in Super Bowl history. NFL neophytes will celebrate the demise of the evil Patriots regime. After all, karma has served those arrogant, no good cheating bastards.

What you know that those people don’t is that what happened an hour ago may not be good for football in the long run.

You come to nearly a completely stop before gliding around a corner. On a normal night, you would have coasted through the turn eight or nine seconds ago. But the snow shoveled to the side of the road — your road — reminds you that there could be black ice hiding beneath your tread, atop the shimmering, sable asphalt. And, because you’re wiser after five years of driving, you decide to play it safe.

During the elongated turn, your wisdom also poses three rhetorical questions to the universe: Will anyone ever believe in another team making a run at an undefeated record? Will we ever see another team as prolific and as publicized as the ’07 Patriots? And, what is the point of all those October and November games?

Your rhetorical questions are met with rhetorical silence. The wheels in your mind begin to spin as fast as the four you’re sitting on. Thirty five mils per hour. Forty five. Fifty five. Too fast for the serenity of the green glow to warp your mind back into nostalgia. So, you do what you do best. You start searching for answers.

No, you decide, there will never be a run at an undefeated record like this again. There will be other tremendous teams, but none are ever going to dominate opponents like the ’07 Patriots did. And therefore, none are ever going to generate as much buzz. For the foreseeable future, any team even hinting at going undefeated will only provoke the negative “remember the ’07 Patriots” talk. Some people may even go so far as to suggest that it’s harmful for a team to pursue perfection.

You quickly try and erase that last thought. It feels so impure. Teams not trying to win every game? Despicable.

But still, the voice presenting that thought echoes. And it gives you that same uncomfortable feeling you used to get when the voice inside of you would tell you that your girlfriend was too controlling. You hate that voice — mainly because you can’t help but wonder if what it’s saying isn’t true.

You decide it’s a moot point because if this powerhouse New England squad — this one-game-at-a-time, team-first, brilliantly-coached, masterfully-quarterbacked, veteran-led New England squad —- couldn’t finish the job, no team ever will. That’s disappointing. For the ten thousandth time that night, you can only shake your head.

You feel a flicker of hope when you contemplate the possibility of griping about the Wild Card World Champion Giants. (Perhaps you can claim that they’re frauds?) However, it’s only a fleeting flicker of hope when you realize that as sad as the Patriots’ loss is, there is no way to argue against the legitimacy of New York’s title. After all, they went into Arizona and flat-out beat New England. And before that, they had beaten the nine-win Bucs, 13-win Cowboys and 13-win Packers — all on the road, no less. Very impressive. Remarkable, even.

The green glow above your radio looks solid and complete. It says 1-0-0-0. Ten, if you take the colon into account. Apparently, shaking your head slows your mind down enough for you to once again be conscious of the message that the glow is relaying.

 

*   *   *   *

 

Sunday in Week 10 had been one of the most fascinating days in the NFL that season. It was November 25. You had begun to put up your Christmas village between the late afternoon and the NBC primetime feature game (the tree, of course, had gone up yesterday). As you unwrapped the miniature police station and straightened the tiny pine trees, you listened to the smarmy Keith Olberman run through the highlights of the Giants-Vikings game from earlier. Eli Manning had thrown four interceptions in a disastrous 41-17 loss. You figured that New York was priming for another late-season collapse.

A few hours later, you found yourself catching your breath after the untouchable Patriots had narrowly survived a 31-28 thriller against the Eagles.

 

*   *   *   *

 

You try to justify it in your mind, but you just can’t. All your life you’ve been able to tell people how important each and every NFL game is. It’s a skill you developed growing up, thanks to the practice you got in explaining to your family every Monday why you just couldn’t afford to eat dinner with them that night, not with such a critical game on TV.

But tonight, roaming the country roads amidst the green glow, you’ve got nothing. The encumbrance of the unfamiliar emptiness is excruciating. Why was Week 10 important this year? Why was any week important? No answer.

It’s been three years since a team that’s earned a playoff bye week has actually won a Super Bowl. You find this preposterous. You love postseason baseball, but you can’t help but feel sorry for hardcore MLB fans who have to suffer through a system that allows a 162-game season to be washed down the drain in three quick October days. It’s never seemed fair.

Yet, here you are, thinking intently about the integrity of your sport, your beloved NFL, and wondering where the difference lies. Is it really as simple as just getting in the playoffs and then playing well? God you hope not — it just doesn’t seem right. Those 16 games in the fall have to mean something. Winning 16 games has to mean a hell of a lot more than winning only 10, right? Not according to what you just saw.

You turn around and drive back down the same road. You’re going in a new direction but you’d never know it. And even if you did, it’s still unlikely you’d care. After all, the only thing you can really see is that green glow.

 

*   *   *   *

 

Back in March and April you had watched more than six hours of NFL game film each and every day. You saw the same old plays countless times and, yes, it was every bit as boring as you thought it would be. But it was important. In fact, it was vital.

You were studying the NFL, learning the players, tracking the teams, and trying to solve the puzzle. And boring as it was, you loved the idea of solving the puzzle, even if it was entirely abstract. You knew that the more pieces to the puzzle you could figure out, the better off you were. You would be able to write more about each player, say more about each team and hypothesize deeper about the sport in general. You were already better at all this than 99 percent of the people in this country, but it was that itchy 1 percent that kept you scratching. Besides, sportswriting career aside, solving the puzzle was still a lot of fun.

 

*   *   *   *

 

Impossible. Hopeless. Pointless. These are the words that come to mind as you think about solving next year’s puzzle. You’re driving away from the dark countryside now. The green glow is still pertinent, but it has lost its majesty. The peacefulness of an aimless drive is gone. You’re in puzzle-solving mode now, which is why you’ve remembered that the glowing numbers listed around the circles in front of you indicate your speed and RPM; the digits above those circles are the miles you’ve put on your car; the change oil light is actually a false warning, because you recall that you just got an oil change three days ago. And the numbers that keep flickering above your radio make up a clock. 1 – 0 – 1 – 5. Ten-fifteen, or, a quarter past ten. Exactly eight hours until you’ll rise and begin what will be another productive Monday. You better get home.

You now know where you are. In fact, you realize that you really knew where you were all along. As you race back to your personal headquarters you continue to think about that puzzle. Quick conclusion: it can never be solved. This pisses you off.

The only thing that slows your momentum is the four-way stop sign that reminds you you’re leaving the tranquility of the country roads and re-entering reality. You wait for a large, bright-red truck stopped on your right to continue on its journey. The boldness of the truck’s red hue jolts your short-term memory (which, tonight, can still be felt in your churning stomach).

 

*   *   *   *

 

Why did he wear a red sweatshirt? Why change it up now? You asked that question just prior to the kickoff of Super Bowl XLII. Bill Belichick had come out of the tunnel a little over an hour ago, donning not his usual grey hoodie, but rather, a noisy, gaudy, fire-engine colored piece of Patriots apparel.

Strange, but no big deal, you figured. You were far too interested in who would win that night’s historic game. It had been two weeks since you’d watched an NFL contest, which is why you almost felt like it was September again. Life without football was worthwhile, but just barely.

When New England’s Stephen Gostkowski kicked off, your heart fluttered for what you knew would be the last time until your senior year of college. The game instantly became worth the wait. And you knew that the next seven months after the game, long as they are, would prove to be a worthy buildup to the 2008 season. You loved this sport. The anticipation. They hype. The excitement. The unpredictability.

 

*   *   *   *

 

As you finally cross the four-way intersection (red truck fading on your left….now fading in your left rearview) you notice the green glow again. Its information has returned to inconsequentiality. Having to regain your speed after enduring a short, but nevertheless complete stop, the visceral driver in you no longer cares about getting home on time. After all, there never really was a set time for this drive in the first place.

But your decelerated pace has done little to prolong your wondrous journey, as up ahead you can see the clubhouse for the golf course next door to your place. All good things must come to an end, you realize. To this, you give a half-hearted, throat-heavy laugh — a short, reflective, snickering hmmm that is the mirthful equivalent of nodding politely to a casual acquaintance.

Two stoplights and one right turn later, you’re back home. You sit idly in your parking space, trying to grasp the idea that this free-floating fun ride is now over. Outside, real life awaits. And inside the building in front of you awaits your bed, television and computer. It’s those last two items that indirectly provoked your spontaneous journey tonight.

You know that your next move will demolish the friendly green glow that has accompanied you for the last however long. So you brace yourself for the cruel reality that your car’s dome light will bring. But before you turn your key left, you lean forward just a bit an stare off one last time into the heart of the glow.

“Gosh, what a game,” you say aloud, to no one except your recently returned fully conscious self. “What a game….”

With that, the glow vanishes, and with it goes the carefree energy. You get out of your car, noticing that the air feels a little crisper than you expected, thanks mainly to your body having adapted to the artificial heat that accompanied you on your directionless mission. You wouldn’t mind taking another fluid after-dark drive like that again sometime. But you know that such wandering journeys cannot be forced. They’re contingent on an unforeseen inspiration; an emotional connection that goes beyond the monotony of every day life, as well as the vibrancy of pursuing success. They’re a spur of the moment thing.

Walking to your front door, you realize that for the next seven months, there will be nothing in your world powerful enough to provoke such a spur of the moment emotional reaction. This, you decide, is why you love football.