They named the prize Lombardi.

A seemingly unreachable reminder of treasure not discovered and glory achieved so often in a nearby kingdom.

Oh, to win it all.

To see Soldier Field’s anguished sod coated with confetti not earned on a different highway in another part of town.

To hear echoes of Hallelujah dance off frozen slabs of concrete.

To see the memory of former fame politely shuffled further back in the stacks.

I remember being trapped in a New York City elevator, caught between the first and second floors because I was too lazy to take the stairs.

Six hours before the Super Bowl.

I’ll never get out of here.

I’m going to miss it.

Panic.

Sweat.

Oh, to feel that way again.

The complete misery of everything on the line.