This is the last thing we will write about the game on Saturday night: you think you’d be at least composed by now, but on Saturday night when Florida blitzed two and forced an early incompletion and three and out from John Parker Wilson, I shat on the altar of the press box.

I let out a “WOOOO!” A loud, redneck “WOOOO!” to my ears, but one that another writer described as “a bit ladylike, actually.” This writer was a lady, so we take her opinion as an authoritative one.

Thereafter, after being semi-restrained and cautioned by the writers around us–we were over on the far right side of the pressbox, and thus missed getting garbage thrown at us by the majority of the press corps–we actually sat on our hands when typing wasn’t necessary. We are not lying: we sat on our hands for most of the fourth quarter, and rocked back and forth at the worst moments.

This should get easier. When Louis Murphy sticks out his hands and the ball taps down like an F-14 making a pinpoint carrier landing into his hands, we shouldn’t actually conjure up the word “sublimity.” We shouldn’t get teary. You should get teary over the things people normally get over, like puppies, and new babies, and the sun coming out after three months of rain and death and Adagio when they play it in movies, even though playing Barber over your film’s tragic scene is a dick move but you cry anyway because it is designed to break your heart and be sad.

Shoulds keep failing us here. It was beautiful. In the moment we were the home-schooled kid lacking the basic social skills to keep from screaming out EUONYM and leaping up and down in an ill-fitting shirt. The 8 bit emotional motor in our head still can’t handle the full glory of this game at its worst; at its best, it crashes the system, and no amount of press box cookies and grub can help that.