There was something in each and every person watching Sunday Night Football. It varied in strength, appearance and conviction but its existence was undeniable. We all wanted Kyle Orton to win that game. There were certain agendas at play, maybe you were a Cowboys fan and wanted to finally make it to the promise land or you wanted the Shakespearian tragedy that is Tony Romo’s career to mercifully end. For the rest of us, it was because being an NFL quarterback never looked so attainable.

It is likely Orton wore elastic ankle sweats underneath his football pants. An over-embroidered Purdue crew neck sweatshirt under his jersey. His hair still shining from the free product they put in it at Super Cuts days earlier, the dandruff blending in nicely with the white home uniform. His neck beard poorly groomed at best. Belly filled to the brim with Golden Corral. There seemed a steady buzz in his motions, the twelve pack of Coors Original that was drank before the game gave him certain fluidity, unbridled confidence. He made me think “I’ve definitely drank twelve pilsners and thrown a vortex before..playing in the NFL can’t be that much different.”

He looked like a Turkey Bowl legend. The type of guy that would break fingers with lasers to Saturn during the Thanksgiving Day football game, in which there were more blown hammies than touchdowns.

I couldn’t put my finger on it while it was happening, but during the game, closely examining a mediocre looking middle aged man, I kept thinking that maybe…just maybe I still have a shot to make it in the bigs.