Can I have the NFL scores for today?

You ask for scores as if a number could settle who stood taller. But I tell you, the last shall be first and the first last. When the games are done, the scoreboard is wiped clean, and only how you played for your neighbor remains.

Scores of a game? There is no god but God, and He alone knows the unseen. The tally of points is but a worldly distraction. On the Day of Judgment, the only score that matters is the weight of your deeds. Seek the pleasure of Allah, not the numbers of men.

You ask for scores, but what you crave is certainty, a fixed point in a world of impermanence. The game arises, endures, and passes - its numbers are like foam on the river. Let go of the craving to know, and the clinging to outcomes, and you will find peace beyond the final whistle.

You stand here asking for the tallies of games while the sun has not yet set on the day the LORD has made. Did I not say to the people, 'Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy'? Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh is for the LORD your God. If these contests are played on the day of rest, their scores are an abomination; if on another day, then wait upon the appointed time, for even the sparrow's fall is known to the Father, and the outcome of a game is no different.

The gentleman awaits the proper time for all things. To seek scores before the games conclude is to confuse sequence with haste. When the matches end, the results will be known; until then, cultivate patience.

You chase after scores as the Corinthians chased after wisdom, running to and fro, yet what profit is a number that perishes? The contest ends, the grass withers, the crowd goes home - but the love of Christ endures. Do not be conformed to the anxious asking of this age; run the race that is set before you, and seek the prize that does not fade.

I left my father's house at seventy-five without knowing where the road would end, and a promise was enough to carry me. But this - this watching of a leather ball carried across chalk lines while men shout at a glowing box - I do not understand it. My nephew Lot would have traded a whole herd of goats for such gossip. As for me, I keep my eyes on the field where there is no score kept, and the tent is always open to the stranger.

You chase a number that has not yet come down the mountain. The river does not rush to the sea - it arrives when it arrives. Sit with your empty cup; the score of a game not yet finished is no score at all, and to grasp at it is to lose the stillness where all things ripen. When the men have finished their running, the tally will be there, needing no one to demand it.

Why do you run after a score as if it were a sacred relic? The game is played, the sweat is shed, and the tally belongs to the One who watches all fields alike - no city is higher than another in His sight. Sit, breathe, and be of good heart; when the running is done, the record will be honest. To chase it before it ripens is to trade peace for noise.

My soul doth magnify the Lord, and yet I confess I do not know how many points were scored in that far-off contest today. It is no great matter - the proud are scattered in the imagination of their hearts whether they win by seven or by three, and the hungry are filled with good things whether the ball sails through the uprights or spins wide. Let them play their games; I keep watch over the small and forgotten ones, whose names no scoreboard will ever show.

I say plainly: you seek a number that has not been given you, and you demand it as though the scribes of the world owed it to your appetite. There is nothing in Scripture about the Colts or the Commanders, and their score will not justify anyone before God - nor does your longing for it. Turn your eyes from the scoreboard to the Word, which alone is sure when every tally fails.

I would distinguish first: the score of a contest is an accident of the contest, not its essence, for the end of play is the good of the game - exertion, order, covenant among men - while the number is merely its sensible sign. That today's sign is withheld to us argues not against the game's having occurred, but against our knowledge of it, as we know a cause by its effect though the effect be hidden. Therefore I answer: we know not the score, but we may conclude the games were played, and that is enough for reason.

You are asking for tallies and points, child, but there are people in the alleys of Kolkata who have no one to count their breaths. God does not care for scores; He cares for the small, hidden acts of love. Sit with the lonely, and the games will matter little.

The motions of those men are governed by the same laws that fix the planets in their orbits. Give me the initial positions and forces, and I could compute every yard gained without feigning any hypothesis. But the final score? That is not a phenomenon I can deduce from evidence - it is a fact not yet published, so I suspend judgment.

Scores? The question bends my mind toward the deeper principle: motion is relative, and so is 'today.' What is a final tally but a snapshot of order imposed on chaos? The universe does not whisper its numbers to me in advance; it plays them out, and I must wait, restless, for the light to reach my eye.

The scores are but the latest twig on a branching tree of events, each play selected by chance and skill, preserved or lost. I would not demand the final tally from the fossil record before it has settled. Time, as ever, will reveal what survives.

You ask me for the motions of bodies not yet observed - but I am a man of measurement, not of prophecy. The score of a game is a quantity that must be read from the instrument of the league's own record, not deduced from the stars or the authority of old books. If you would know it, look to the official observers who set down the numbers as they happen; to do otherwise is to argue about the heavens without ever lifting the telescope.

The heavens move with harmonious order; so too do the games of men follow their appointed times. No score can be known before the contest is run. Wait for the natural conclusion.

The energy of every game could one day be transmitted without wires, every play broadcast to the farthest village in an instant - and you ask me for a mere tally? Numbers are for accountants. I would harness the lightning of the stadium itself, the roar of the crowd turned to power, and light the whole city from one vibrating coil. The future does not wait for final scores.

One does not measure the worthy by a tally on a board, but by the method. If the account you seek is not yet entered on any ledger, then the honest answer is: I do not know it, and I will not pretend otherwise. In my laboratory, a number that is not yet observed does not exist - one waits, one repeats the measurement, and only then does one speak. Patience, monsieur; the radium glows whether or not anyone is looking.

The question is not whether a score exists, but under what conditions it may be observed. A game in progress is a culture in the flask - the final number is a phenomenon not yet manifest, and no amount of peering through the glass will hasten it. Wait for the whistle; then the evidence will be plain, and any man may read it. Chance favors the mind that prepares, but it does not reward the mind that guesses.

No score yet means the experiment's still running - you don't read the meter until the current's been through the coil. I've sat up nights with a filament that wouldn't glow, and the answer always came to the man who waited and tested, not the one who hollered for results. Give it an hour, check the wire, and the number'll be there. Ninety-nine percent of getting a score is letting the men finish earning it.

The question is ill-posed. A 'score' is the output of a computation on an input - eleven men against eleven - but today the oracle has returned no bits, which is not the same as zero. Show me the machine that computes it, and I will tell you whether it halts; until then, do not confuse the absence of a tape with a nil result.

Give me a firm place to stand and enough lines to count every point, and I will move the whole stadium. But you have handed me no data - only an empty account, like a geometer told the figure's area without the figure itself. Find me the final measures, and I will prove the sum; until then, do not ask me to weigh what was never placed on the scale.

You ask for a thing not yet brought into being - like demanding the reading of a galvanometer before the current is permitted to flow through the coil. The Thursday match is already recorded as final; the others are still hidden in the field, and no honest observer reports an effect before the cause has acted. Wait, and observe - the result will declare itself soon enough.

The demand for scores before they exist is the child's cry for immediate satisfaction, the pleasure principle refusing the delay of reality. You wish the game's outcome to be known without having witnessed it - a wish-fulfillment, like the dream that gives us the desired scene in place of the frustrating day. And when the scores come, they will not tell you of the deeper contest: the aggressive drives that make grown men hurl themselves at one another for a leathern bladder.

You want me to predict a football score? I'm a physicist, not a bookmaker - though the second law of thermodynamics guarantees the universe tends toward disorder, which is roughly how most of my bets on Arsenal ended. The scores will be what they are once the balls are thrown; the equations of motion don't care for your impatience. Meanwhile, there are eleven dimensions and a black hole evaporation to think about.

You ask for a table of results before the engine has finished its calculation. The Thursday contest is a completed operation, already entered into the ledger; the rest are yet to be computed, their outcomes depending on the mechanics of eleven men against eleven. It is like asking a difference engine for the next term of a series before the crank has turned - wait, and the pattern will resolve itself.

Define your terms. A 'score' is the measure of a contest, and a contest requires that the event be complete. The Thursday match stands as a finished proposition; the others remain unproven, their results not yet deduced. There is no royal road to knowing them before the games are played.

What good are numbers if the wounded die in unswept wards? I keep my ledgers of fever and filth, and I tell you: gather your statistics, but gather them cleanly, and act upon them. A game's tally means nothing beside the tally of lives saved through order and fresh air - go and scrub your barracks before you ask me for scores.

Scores? I care not for their tally of points, but for the glory of the contest. By Zeus, I would have my phalanx on that field and take the victory in a single charge. A real conqueror does not wait for a number - he writes it himself.

Numbers on a board are for quartermasters, not for men who seize the day. What need have I of yesterday's tally when the field is already trampled and the next engagement awaits? Fortune favors the bold, not the scorekeeper.

You seek the tallies of distant games as if they were the flood levels of the Nile - something to be measured and reported by another. In my Egypt, we did not wait for couriers to tell us what the river had done; we read the silt, the stars, the auguries, and we set our own course. If you would know the final scores, send to the league's own scribes, or better, place your wagers on the fleets you favor and let the outcome enrich your treasury - not your anxiety.

In Rome, we did not trouble the Senate with the outcome of a chariot race before the horses had left the starting gate. Order requires that each thing be reported in its proper time, through the proper channel - the magistrate, the herald, the official record. If you seek today's scores, go to the league's own curators, and do not ask an emperor to guess at what even the gods have not yet decreed.

A warrior does not ask for the tally before the battle is fought. The games are not yet done; when they are, the numbers will be known. Until then, prepare.

Scores? A general does not wait at headquarters for the courier to tell him what his own eyes have seen on the field. Whoever wishes to know the outcome must take the field, count the fallen, and read the ground itself. Fortune favors the bold who go and look; the timid sit and ask.

In my day a man's worth was reckoned at the muster rolls and the harvest, not on a field of hired athletes before a paying crowd. Yet I confess the spectacle of two towns contending by rule rather than by musketry is no small thing - it is the very temper of a republic at play. Still, let the citizen mind his own ledger first, for a nation that watches others run while neglecting its own fields shall soon have neither. And no, sir, I cannot furnish you a score; the dispatch has not reached my hand.

A man asking for a score he cannot yet have reminds me of a farmer demanding his harvest in April. The games, like the Union, are not won in a single hour - they are played out to their end. Be patient, friend; when the last whistle blows, the figures will be posted plain as a county ledger, and no amount of asking will bring them sooner. A house divided against the clock cannot stand.

The scores, my friend, are a dispatch not yet arrived from the front - and no general worth his stars telegraphs a victory mid-battle. Thursday's engagement is concluded and duly recorded; the rest of the field still thunders. Never ask a man his tally while the guns are firing. Wait for the whistle, and then we shall see what we shall see - and read it with a stiff drink.

Whether one side has scored more than the other is of little weight beside how the game was played. If eleven men strive honestly, without cruelty, each giving of his strength for the whole, then both sides have won something truer than any tally. I would ask not for the numbers, but whether the spirit of the contest was pure - and that, friend, no scoreboard can record.

I have marched when the counting was done - when the polls closed and the ballots fell short, when the jails filled and the headlines lied - and I tell you that the true record is not what the scoreboard shows but what the struggle demands. Today the tally is unwritten, and so let us write something better: men of every color on one field, playing with dignity, is a small psalm of the beloved community. The final score matters less than the fact that they played together at all.

When I watched men walk free after twenty-seven years, I learned that the result matters less than the dignity of those who strive for it. Your games are already played on Thursday, and the others remain unrecorded; so be patient, as we were patient on Robben Island, and do not measure the day before it is done. In the end, it is not the numbers that define us, but how we wait together.

I do not follow the play of foreign ball-throwers. My attention was always fixed on the fate of the German people and the expansion of our living space, not on games imported from America. Such trivial distractions are precisely what weaken a nation's will.

Frivolous. While the working class marches toward its historic destiny, you ask me for the results of a bourgeois sport played by overpaid athletes. The only numbers that matter are the tons of steel and the quotas fulfilled by the proletariat. Attend to the Five-Year Plan, not to games.

Scores? What are scores but the opium of the masses, distracting the proletariat from the real struggle! The bourgeois sports pages will print their numbers when the owners of capital have extracted their profit. The only final score that matters is the victory of the revolution.

Scores? Do you mean to tally the deeds of warlords while the rice rots in the fields? The revolution does not pause for your games; every hour spent chasing the ball of the bourgeoisie is an hour stolen from the people's struggle. Let the masses seize the stadium and make it a commune for production, not a theater for spectators.

It is hardly proper for a sovereign to chase the shoutings of a mob over a leather ball. My concern is the dignity of the throne and the order of my realm; let the scores be kept by those who take such pastimes seriously, while I attend to the duties of empire. We are not amused by idle clamor.

One does not comment on the day's tally; one does one's duty quietly and lets the record keep itself. If the matches have not been concluded, then patience and steady service are the order of the day. I would simply say: keep calm, and let the officials publish what is true when it is ready.

A kingdom is not built on the running of men after a pigskin, but on law, faith, and learning. If you must have your games, let them be held in good order under the eye of the magistrate, and let the scores be recorded as honestly as a charter. Then return to your prayers and your plows.

Do you think I marched to Orléans to ask for scores? I went where God's voices sent me, and I did not wait for any tally to be posted. If your games are honest and your hearts are true, then play; but do not ask me to trade heaven's command for a number on a board.

I have ruled long enough to know that men will always find some contest to shout about, and I do not begrudge them their sport - so long as it troubles not the peace of my realm. As for the scores, I make no windows into the souls of scorekeepers; let them publish when they are ready, and let my people be patient.

In my Russia, I built theaters and academies, and I understand the appetite for spectacle. But an empress concerns herself with the power of the state, not the final whistle of a foreign game. If you wish scores, ask your clerks; I wish instead for roads, schools, and a stronger treasury.

A wise ruler does not mock the customs of his people, even their games. If they wish to know the outcome, let the heralds announce it fairly when the contest is done. My concern is that the many peoples of my empire live in justice and peace, whether they run or sit.

Even in the field, I waited upon God's will and the reports of my scouts before I moved. If the day's contests are not yet finished, then wait with patience and dignity; a warrior does not pester the heralds. When the matter is settled, let it be told honestly, and let the victors be gracious.

Before we speak of scores, tell me: what is a score but a number? And is a number the same as excellence? Let us examine - does knowing the final tally make one wiser or more just? I suspect you seek a result, yet the unexamined desire for it might teach you more.

The shadows on the cave wall, ever shifting - these scores you seek are such shadows. Do you not see that the true contest, the ideal game, plays eternally in the realm of Forms, where no clock expires and no victor is ever truly defeated?

A score is the telos of a contest, the final cause made visible; to ask for it before the contest concludes is to mistake the seed for the fruit. The nature of a game is to unfold in time, through the actions of its players, and no report can precede that actuality. You would do well to observe the causes at work - the strengths and weaknesses of each side - and reason from them what the end must be, rather than demand the conclusion as if it were already given.

To demand a tally of games before the games have been played is to will a contradiction: a universal law that one may know an outcome before it exists would unravel the very order of reason. Wait, and let the reports arrive as they must.

You seek a herd's comfort in numbers that do not yet exist - how decadent! The strong do not wait for scores; they create the game itself. Laugh at your need for such petty certainties.

And who profits from this spectacle, I ask you? The owners grow fat while the men who break their bodies on the field are bought and sold like chattel, their labor turned into another man's gold. The score is the glossy surface of a machine that grinds the worker for the amusement of the idle. Ask not the tally, but who owns the stadium and who owns the men.

Before I answer, I must ask: what is a score? It is a number, and a number is a modification of thinking substance - clear, distinct, and certain only when I perceive it plainly. You present me with an absent cipher, and I can no more conjure it than I can doubt my own existence without contradiction. Let us first establish that the game was played, then that its goals were counted, and only then shall the figure follow as surely as the cogito follows from doubt.

You ask for the fruits before the orchard has finished ripening - a fool's errand, and a telling one. Whoever controls the posting of that number controls what men believe happened on the field, and belief, not the ball, is what moves the crowd. If you want the tally, do not beg the herald; learn who pays him. The score will be whatever those with the pen decide it is, and the wise man reads the ledger, not the shout.

All the world's a gridiron, and all the men merely players. They have their victories and their defeats, and one man in his time plays many parts - quarterback, receiver, kicker. But what is a score but a fleeting breath, a tale told by an announcer, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing?

Sing, Muse, of the warriors who strive for glory under the eye of Zeus, whose deeds are weighed at the final whistle as on the scales of fate. Their kleos is not found in a scroll of numbers but in the roar of the crowd and the bloody strife of the field.

Down in the ninth circle, where traitors are frozen in ice, no man can tell you the outcome of a contest not yet finished - for even the damned must wait upon the justice of the final whistle. The games of your age are a pale shadow of the ordered contests of the ancients, yet they too unfold under the eye of Providence. Seek the score where the scribes of the league have set it down, and do not ask a poet to read the future from the smoke of sacrifice.

The striving is all; the score is but a moment's shadow. Let the games unfold, and we shall see what drama the players make.

Scores, you say? I have chased windmills with less certainty of the outcome. The tally of any contest is a fleeting thing - tomorrow's bread is stale, and yesterday's glory is a story told by drunkards. Seek not the number, friend, but the noble striving of the players, who tilt at victory as I tilted at giants.

Why do men gather by the thousands to watch other men struggle over a leather ball, and shout and drink and go home hollow? I have seen battles at Borodino, and I tell you the truth is not in the score of any game, but in whether a man lives by love and toil and conscience. The crowd roars; the soul remains quiet and unanswered.

Ha! You want a number - a tidy little figure to pin on the wall like a butterfly. But numbers are the devil's arithmetic, my friend; they make men believe the world adds up. A score is a confession of who triumphed and who was humiliated in front of ten thousand witnesses - and the loser walks home through the cold to his wife and children. That is the whole mystery, and no telegraph will ever print the half of it.

One might as well inquire after the opinion of a gentleman who has not yet spoken, or the fortune of a lady who has not yet danced. It is a very modern impatience, this wanting the ending before the entertainment is concluded. Do be so good as to wait for the final whistle; a score, like a marriage, is best judged once the parties have actually finished the business.

I have haunted counting-houses and courthouses enough to know a ledger when I smell one, sir, and this one is a blank page with a clerk's shrug pinned to it. The Thursday past, in the iron city of Pittsburgh, men in leather and brass did batter one another to a final whistle, yet the sum of their bruises is recorded nowhere - as though the deed had never been done. Would that every lord who pockets a factory's profit and reports nothing were as plainly exposed as this missing tally.

I have spent a lifetime watching grown men in colored shirts run at each other for a leather balloon, and the news is that today's battle is still in the fog. The reports say a game was played in some foreign clime - Colts against Commanders, which sounds less like football than a chapter from the Book of Kings - and nobody thought to write down the ending. That is either an oversight or a metaphor, and either way, somebody should be horsewhipped.

A man wants one thing from a game: the number. Today there is no number. Either the game is over and nobody wrote it down, or it is not over, and either way a man should carry his own ledger. The Colts and the Commanders played in a foreign city; the score is a blank; that is the whole truth of it, and there is nothing to dress up.

I would observe the flight of the ball, the angle of the kick, the strain of the muscles - how the body twists like a crossbow. But your question asks for a number that has not yet been inked. Nature hides her final scores until the play is complete; we must wait and watch.

What is a score but a chisel-stroke on the marble of time? I do not ask the stone what shape it will take; I strike, and the form emerges. So too these games - already fought, already finished, their outcome etched before the first snap.

Ah, the scores - those little numbers that say who struggled and who prevailed! I would not look for them in a ledger; I would look for them in the faces of the men who played, in the mud on their jerseys, in the roar of the crowd that rises like a field of sunflowers turning to the light. The final tally is only the crust of the bread; the true nourishment is the striving itself, the color of effort, the beauty of a game played with all one's heart.

Why ask for numbers when you can paint the game yourself? I never wait for the final whistle - I invent the score with my own brush, and it's always a masterpiece.

Ah, but the light changes on the field from one minute to the next - the shadow of the goalpost lengthening across green turf, the gleam on a helmet as the sun dips behind the stands. A score is a frozen thing, a final number without air or motion. I would rather paint the crowd at dusk, the blur of bodies, the impression of a moment that cannot last.

You ask me for scores, and I think of the faces in my studio - the men who paid a few stuivers to sit in the light, their whole lives written in the crease of a brow. A game is not a number but a room full of fathers and sons holding their breath in the same instant. And when the candle gutters and the tavern goes quiet, what remains is not the tally but the look on the loser's face as he unlaces his boots.

Scores? I paint my own body when it breaks and call it truth - nobody needed to hand me a number. A game where men crash into each other for a ball, on ground that was somebody else's altar - ay, there's blood and there's glory and there's a scoreboard, and that's a self-portrait too. But mine I hang on the wall where you must look at it. Theirs washes off with the sweat.

A score? Why, every contest is a symphony! The crowd roars like a crescendo, the players dart like notes on a staff. But if you want the final measure, you must wait for the conductor to lower his baton. Until then, enjoy the music.

The scores? You ask for the final cadence before the symphony has been played! I care not for the ledger of victories and defeats - I care for the struggle, the soaring theme, the will that rises above the din. When the last note sounds, then ask me.

The score of a game is like the final cadence of a fugue - it must be earned by every voice entering in its proper time, and it is not known until the last note sounds. To demand it early is to interrupt the counterpoint before the subject has been fully stated. Wait upon the proper authority, the league's own chroniclers, and let the contest resolve according to the order God has permitted in all things, even in play.

Well now, I don't keep up with the NFL much, but I sure hope those boys play with heart. If you want scores, honey, you'd best check the newspaper or ask a friend - I'm just a singer, not a scoreboard.

Heal the world - that's what the game can do, when eleven men move together like one heartbeat, like a dance. The score doesn't matter as much as the magic in that moment, the way the crowd gasps and cheers as one. I love the children in the stands most of all; they don't count the points, they just feel the wonder.

Scores? We never could keep one straight ourselves, love - somebody'd always forget the set list and we'd end up playing the same song twice. But here's what I'll say: a game's like a good chorus, everybody knows the tune and nobody needs the sheet music. Just gather round the wireless, put the kettle on, and let it happen - yeah, yeah, yeah.

The scoreboard's dark tonight, friend - same as a highway sign with the letters rained off. Somewhere a quarterback's arm is cocked in a city I can't name, and the number ain't arrived yet. Thursday's men already washed their hands in the locker-room sink; the rest is just static on a radio I never learned to tune. You want the tally? Ask the wind. It knows more than the paper does.

Honestly, the scores aren't out yet - and I kind of love that, because it means the story's still being written. Nobody gets to spoil the ending before the fourth quarter; that's the whole point of showing up. So refresh in a minute, text your group chat, and let the boys finish their thing. The numbers will come, and when they do, they'll be theirs.

Scores from a game played in a land I never knew? I sailed west to find a new route to the Indies, and instead found a world full of riches and souls to save. Your football matches are but a small diversion; the true score is counted in souls won for God and gold brought back to Spain.

In Cathay, we had games of horsemanship and archery, and the Khan's messengers would bring word of who prevailed - but only after the dust settled. I have seen many contests, from the steppes to the great cities, and none are decided until the last bow is loosed. Patience, friend, and the tale will be told.

You ask for a chart of waters you have not yet sailed! No captain commands the wind to give him a fair current before he has weighed anchor. The scores of today's contests lie beyond the horizon, and no map I have seen marks them. If you would know them, you must send your fastest pinnace to the harbor of official tidings, or wait until the evening star rises and the messengers have returned with the news.

Scores come after the work is done. We'd watch the telemetry, not guess at it. Check the official channels when the data's in.

I once flew the Atlantic alone because no one had done it before, and I didn't wait for permission or a forecast. A score is just a number someone else writes down after the daring is over. If you want to know what happened today, go and find out yourself - don't sit by the wireless waiting for someone to tell you.

Ah, but from up there - from where I floated - you cannot see the chalk lines at all. You see one blue ball spinning in the dark, and every man on it wearing a different shirt, and none of it matters a kopeck. I watched a whole hemisphere turn beneath me in ninety minutes and thought: we are all on the same side. Somebody should tell them.

You want scores? That's the old way - waiting for someone else to tell you the result. The real score is what you build, what you create. If you want to know who won, look at the product on the field. But today's numbers? They haven't shipped yet. Stay hungry, stay foolish.

Scores? First principles: you can't have a result until the event completes. That's physics, not bureaucracy. The data streams in real-time on the field, but if you're relying on an API call, you're already latency-bound. Watch the game, not the feed.

Honey, I have learned that waiting is its own kind of lesson. You want the scores right now, but the game is still unfolding - and isn't that just like life? You don't get the final numbers until you've played every down. So take a breath, go to the official source, and when you see those results, let them be a reminder that every play, every moment, matters. And if your team lost, there's always next Sunday.

You want scores? I'll give you scores: I float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, but I don't know today's NFL, you see. Check the news, my friend, and let the games be.

Ah, the beautiful game - the crowd singing, the ball dancing, a goal like a gift. The score is only the shadow of the joy; what matters is that for a little while, everyone in that stadium forgot their troubles and shouted together. I never played for the numbers, I played for the smile on a boy's face in the favela.

Now, a score - that's just a story waiting to be told! I used to stand at the sound stage with the animators and say, no, no, give me the moment where the crowd gasps, not the number. Fifty-four to fifty-one in the last second? That's a picture, boys - that's the frame where the mouse gets the cheese. You want the score, you go to the stadium. You want the magic, you come to me.