Competition, competition, competition, I muttered in sleep last night. Competition, competition, competition, a loop of consciousness buzzing in my head as I mowed my own yard for the first time. Competition, competition, competition, I saw the photos of Nick Caserio throwing the pigskin around, something corny even if it was John Elway doing the same, and Jack Easterby lining up as a three technique—men wishing they didn’t occupy the skin they did, wishing they were someone else, and finding it at the expense of our favorite football team.
The off-season is normally a time of undying optimism, crazy, Pollyanna like hope for the coming season.