Bye, bye horsey

Hrrr...rmph. So sunk my spirits when the Pittsburgh Steelers nonchalantly marched 80 yards on the first drive today and scored a touchdown. "Oh, no, not again," I groaned internally, "not another game of if's and but's and spoiled dreams." But sure enough, the first half dragged on eerily reminiscent of Colts vs. Patriots in 2005 and 2004. All the potential, all the build-up. All for naught. I began praying for some miraculous turn of events, or, if nothing else, for Eli Lilly to give out large doses of free Prozac samples at halftime. Things looked bleak, the home crowd looked desparate.

By the start of the third quarter, Anna said, "it just seems the Colts suffer from defeatism." Certainly by the look of Peyton Manning's face ... oh, wait, you couldn't see his face what with the flurry of Steelers defenders on the field and Peyton's face buried between his knees off the field.

By the middle of the third quarter Anna had me pegged as well. Defeatism was sitting in our living room. I gave up. I gave the Steelers the win, and I tried to enjoy the final quarters of the Colts season with a little dignity and hopefully some encouragement. Wouldn't you know it, right about then all the forces of football karma started to lean wacky and wonderful. A crazy twist of blind luck brought hope out of the dungeon of despair. The can't miss NFL crew missed a clear interception (what was this, Major League Baseball?). I got giddy again. Then Bettis fumbled. I got ridiculous. But just when my spirits were about to emerge from the slimy confines of lost chances, the worst of all endings occured. Wide right. No, make that VERY wide right. Vanderjagt's field goal went sailing off into the somber arms of Colts fans - strangely capturing the overall impression of the game: should've been a sure thing; never had a chance. Where's that Prozac?

The only other ending that would have been more appropriate: Vanderjagt steps into the kick and "poof" the ball deflates and skids down to the 2 yard line. Then the sound in the air could've mirrored the final sound my spirits made - one final crescendo of ... nothing.

This now puts me in the unenviable position of being 0 for 2 in 2006 in big sports games for "my" teams. I let my hopes soar before Notre Dame left Arizona bruised and beaten by a superior Ohio State team. And today the only thing I have to collect from the Colt's game is a few excuses that I can hand out to coworkers and friends when they glibly ask, "What happened to your Colts?"

If they do ask me what happened to the Colts, I'll be thinking, "Well, let me tell you about when John Elway refused to go to Indianapolis as a rookie; let me tell you about Andre Rison or Eric Dickerson or Jeff George ..." But, seeing this doesn't matter nearly as much to them as it does to me, I'll just have to look them squarely in the eye, take it like a man and tell them, "it was the kicker's fault."

Wes