What is the Denver Broncos' score right now?

You ask me for a score before the game has even begun. But I tell you, the kingdom of God is like a father who forgives his son before the son has spoken a word. Which is the greater: to know the score, or to love the stranger seated beside you at the stadium?

You seek a number, but the number is not yet written. The game has not begun, so there is no score to report - only the decree of God, who knows the outcome before the first whistle. Better to ask: have you given charity today, or remembered the orphan? For on the Day of Judgment, it is not the scoreboard that will be read, but your deeds.

You ask for a score, but the score is a craving - a hunger for a number that does not yet exist. The game has not begun, and so there is nothing to grasp. This clinging to a future result is the very root of your dissatisfaction. Let go of the need to know, and watch the game as it unfolds, without attachment to the outcome. In that emptiness, you will find a peace that no final score can give you.

You ask me of scores, but I stood before Pharaoh and demanded the freedom of my people, and the Lord did not tally points - He sent plagues, and He parted the sea. A game not yet begun has no score, as the Sabbath has no labor. Let the people rest from their counting and remember the covenant: justice, not the running of a ball, is what the Almighty weighs.

One does not ask the weight of a cart before the oxen are yoked. The game has not begun; there is no score to speak of. Let the players take their places, and then observe - for the measure of a contest, like the measure of a man, is revealed only in its proper season.

You press me for a score as though the hour of grace could be read off a tablet before the race is run. The contest is set, and the men of Denver have not yet entered the field; when they do, they will run as all men run, not knowing the outcome, and only the end will declare it. Do not fix your eyes on the tally, brothers, but on how they strive - for we are all of us running a race not yet finished, and the crown comes only at the last trumpet.

I have no tally of that contest, and I will not invent one. What is not yet begun cannot be numbered. Wait, and see what the hour brings - as with all promises, the outcome is not mine to seize.

A game not yet begun has no score - and only a fool demands the harvest before the seed is sown. The softest water carves the hardest stone; the team that does not force, that yields to the flow of the field, will find the tally writing itself. Sit still. The answer will arrive when it arrives, and not one breath sooner.

You grasp at a number that has not yet been gathered, while the true reckoning - the honest toil, the shared bread, the heart turned toward the One - is always at hand. The field is empty, the crowd still filing in, and already men wager as though the harvest were in the barn. Play begins when it pleases the Creator; until then, no score, only the waiting, which is also worship.

There is no tally yet, and perhaps that is a small mercy. I once counted the days in a stable, waiting, and learned that the hour comes when it comes, not when we would have it. What matters is not the number on the board but the kindness of those who play - that no one is trampled underfoot for the sake of a victory.

I care nothing for the score of a game I cannot see, and neither should any Christian fix his heart on such trifles. The only tally that matters is the one God keeps in His book - and there, the scoring is by grace, not by works. Let the men play; I have Scripture to read.

Properly speaking, a score is the effect of an act, and where no act has been performed, no effect can be assigned. The game is yet in potency, not in act; therefore no number can be predicated of it. Wait upon the hour, and the act will determine its measure.

I know nothing of games where men chase a leather ball for a number. But I know that somewhere in that great city a poor man sits alone tonight, unloved and unnoticed, and no score will reach him. If you wish to know a true tally, count the small acts of love done today - that is the only score worth keeping.

The question asks for a measure, yet the measure does not exist. No score can be computed until the motion begins - momentum in physics is zero until the bodies interact. It is like asking what a body weighs before it is placed on the scales; you must first observe the collision, then calculate the result. I feign no hypothesis.

The clock and the scoreboard are two hands of the same watch, and right now the watch has not yet been wound. To ask the score before the kick is like asking a beam of light its color before the prism - the measurement creates the answer. Have a little patience, my friend; time is not absolute, and neither is a scoreless afternoon.

I have spent decades observing the slow, gradual changes of barnacles and finches - species do not transform in an afternoon, and neither do football games. You ask for the score at a moment when natural selection has not yet had time to favor one team over the other. The game is still in its embryonic state, so to speak. Give it time; the struggle for existence will produce a result, but not yet.

I have measured the moons of Jupiter and the phases of Venus, and I tell you plainly: you cannot have an observation of a thing that has not yet happened. The game is scheduled for the fourth hour past noon, and it is not noon. Therefore the score does not exist. Anyone who reports a score before the contest begins is as mistaken as a man who claims to see a mountain in the dark - he sees only his own desire.

The question presumes a motion that has not yet occurred. Just as the planets do not declare their positions before the appointed hour, so too the score remains unmanifest until the spheres of play are set in motion. To seek a number now is to mistake the harmony of the whole for a single note not yet sounded.

The score is zero to zero - but that is not a lack, it is a capacitor not yet discharged, a coil charged with the whole afternoon's potential. In my mind I can already see the first snap arc across the field like a spark leaping a gap, the crowd's energy transmitted without wires from seat to seat. Give it a few minutes; when the current completes its circuit, the numbers will light up like a city at dusk.

There is no measurable quantity to report; the contest has not commenced, so the count stands at zero by definition. One does not announce a result before the experiment is run. Observe patiently, and the figures will appear when the play begins.

The question presumes a result, yet the experiment has not commenced - no kickoff, no sample drawn, no observation made. In my laboratory we do not announce the ferment before the flask is sealed; chance favors the prepared mind, and the prepared mind waits for the whistle. Ask again tonight, when the cultures have had time to grow.

No score yet - the lamps aren't lit and the wire's cold, because the machine hasn't started running. I never once measured a phonograph before I built one and turned the crank; you try a thousand filaments before one holds the glow. Kickoff's at five past four, and then we'll read the meter. Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent waiting for the snap.

The question presupposes a function that has not yet been evaluated - the machine has not started, so the tape is blank. You are asking for f(x) at x less than zero; the output is undefined, not zero. Give it time to compute; a score requires an event, and no events have occurred.

No number can be given, for the contest has not been set in motion - and motion, as I have shown, is the very thing by which we measure. Give me a firm point and a ball in play, and I will compute the trajectory; but you ask me to weigh a sphere before it is cast. Wait, and the geometry will unfold.

You ask me for a score before the game has begun - but a score is only a reading of forces in motion, and at present the galvanometer needle rests at zero. I confess I have no wires strung to Denver, nor any battery charged with watching men run upon a field. Still, the principle holds: nothing is measured until the circuit is closed and the play begins. Ask again when the current flows, and I will trust the honest instrument rather than the rumour.

The obsession with a number that does not yet exist is itself instructive - a wish-fulfilment, a demand that the father-figure of the scoreboard deliver certainty before the anxiety of the unknown can be borne. What you truly seek is not the score but the reassurance that the game is controlled, predictable, mastered. The child in you wants to know the outcome before the contest, so that no loss can surprise him.

A 'current score' asks me to collapse a wavefunction that hasn't even been prepared - the game is a future event, and in the block universe the answer is simply not yet on my light cone. You might as well ask me the temperature inside a black hole. My advice: don't bet on a number that doesn't exist; bet on entropy, which always wins in the end.

A score is but a number computed at each moment, and the engine that computes it - the league's own calculating machine - will return no value until the operands are supplied at kickoff. I should say the game, like any dynamical system, admits of no output before its initial conditions. But what a machine the league has built! One could imagine a vast Jacquard loom of scores, all woven from the same cards, if only the authors would commit the pattern.

First, define the term: 'score' is the sum of points accrued by each side. Second, establish the premise: a game cannot have a score before it is played. From these, the conclusion follows with necessity - the score is undefined, and any numerical answer would be a falsehood dressed as a fact. There is no royal road to geometry, and there is none to a game either; you must wait for the contest to unfold, as all axioms wait upon their postulates.

You ask for figures before the first casualty is counted; I would ask instead why you do not keep a register of the men broken on such fields, and of the fever-wards that follow. Statistics are the lamp by which we find God's laws for saving lives - yet no one tabulates the hips and knees ruined for a game. Tend to the ledger of harm before you clamor for a score.

A score? A score is what men carve on a stone after the battle is won. I do not ask what the tally is - I ask what the tally will be when the dust rises and the cries fade. And I tell you, no Greek or barbarian, no charger or Bronco, shall stand before a will that refuses to yield. The game is not yet begun, and already I would have my name upon it.

A battlefield without blood is no battlefield at all - merely two armies staring across the plain at the fourth hour. I have crossed the Rubicon before the sun was high; these men wait until the fifth hour to even draw their swords. When the trumpets finally sound, then we shall count the dead and the glory. Until then, the score is but a rumor.

You ask a Roman game of me? I have bought and sold armies with a whisper in the right ear, and you offer me a contest of ball-carrying in a western land I never troubled to conquer. By Isis, the score of Gauls in leather is not worth the ink of a single treaty - when two cities bleed, ask instead who holds the Nile and who holds the ships.

In my day, the games were given to the people to keep them quiet and content, and the emperor who understood this held Rome. A score is a small matter, but the peace of a city gathered to watch it is not. Let them play; let them wager; let them shout. The wise ruler counts not the goals but the grain in the granary and the loyalty of the legions.

A score before the battle? That is not how a khan measures his strength. The field is set, the warriors are mounted, but the tally of arrows loosed and heads taken comes only after the dust rises. Wait, and the number will be written in the outcome - not in the idle asking.

Score? There is no score - there is a battlefield not yet engaged, and battles are won in the mind before the first cannon. Denver has two victories and two defeats, which is only parity, and parity is the condition of cowards and kings alike; what decides is audacity, discipline, and the general who strikes at the enemy's weak flank at the decisive hour. Let them play, and I will tell you afterward who possessed the genius of the moment.

I am told the contest has not yet commenced, and so there is no tally to give. It would be idle to speculate where no deed has been done. Let the game proceed; afterward we may speak of outcomes with honesty.

A man may as well ask the tally of a battle before the first shot is fired. Those boys haven't yet taken the field against the Chargers this afternoon, so there's nothing to count - but there is something to hope for, which is that they play like the Union they belong to. Four quarters, no surrender, and we'll see what the ledger reads come evening.

The score? My dear fellow, the contest has not yet been joined - the Broncos and the Chargers stand at zero apiece as surely as Britain stood alone in the summer of 1940, before a single shot rang out. Do not ask me for the tally when the artillery has yet to open fire. We shall fight them in the fourth quarter, and we shall never surrender the lead.

The score is nothing yet, for the contest has not begun. I would say this: the true victory is not in the points scored but in whether the players meet one another as brothers, not as enemies. A game played with anger and cruelty is a defeat, however the tally reads.

The scoreboard is empty because the game has not yet begun - and that is a parable, brothers and sisters. We stand at the starting line of a long struggle, and the numbers will come. What matters is not the tally at the half but whether, at the final whistle, we have played with dignity and love, and left no man behind.

A score is a small thing next to the question of whether the players will walk off the field as opponents or as brothers. In my own long years, the tally that mattered was not chalked on any board - it was written in whether a man could greet his jailer with dignity. Let them play; what interests me is not the number but whether the losers are given their due.

The question of a mere athletic tally is beneath the consideration of a movement that once commanded the destiny of nations. What matters is not a scoreboard in a foreign city but the will of a people organised into a single force. History is not decided by games; it is decided by the iron resolve of those who shape the state and bend the future to their purpose. This question reflects only the decadent obsession of a society with its own trivial entertainments.

The question of a game score reveals the bankruptcy of bourgeois entertainment - while the masses labor, the privileged obsess over athletic spectacles. The real score that matters is the tally of the revolution's advance, the building of socialism against the sabotage of its enemies. Such trivia is a distraction from the historical tasks assigned to the working class, and those who concern themselves with it should be re-educated in the discipline of labor.

A score? You ask me for a score while the clock has not yet struck four? This is the gambler's disease - betting on a race before the horses leave the gate. The bookmaker and the landlord both love a man who cannot wait; he loses his purse twice, once to hope and once to the result. Mark the hour, not the wager.

A score is kept by the tally-master, not by the crowd's shouting before the drums beat. The game has not begun; only the bourgeois papers sell you a number that does not exist. When the play starts, the victor will be decided by discipline, not by wealth or reputation.

One does not demand a reckoning of accounts before the carriage has even left the yard. The contest is scheduled; the result is not yet written, and it is not for the sovereign to guess at what has not transpired. Let the players do their duty; we shall hear the final tally with proper composure.

The match has not yet begun - one mustn't rush to declare a winner before the first whistle. I have learned that constancy and patience serve better than premature noise. Let us wish both sides well and wait for the proper result.

A king does not count the harvest before the fields are reaped. The day's contest has not begun; the scribes have no tally. When the trumpets sound and swords are drawn, then we shall know who held the field - until then, keep your watch and your order.

The voices tell me nothing of a score, for no battle has been joined - only a field waiting for the charge. God's will is not yet shown in this contest; when the first blow falls, the truth will be plain. Have faith, and watch.

I have no windows into a score that does not exist - nor would I pry into the playbook of another realm's pastime. The game is yet to commence; let them run their course, and we shall see what fortune and discipline produce. Prudence bids us wait for the final report.

An empress does not wager on a race before the horses are loosed. The field is set, the hour appointed, but the tally is empty. When the contest ends, bring me the figures - then we may speak of merits and of the next campaign.

A wise ruler asks not for the spoils before the battle is joined. The day's sport has not begun; no herald has cried a score. Let the players take the field, and when it is done, honor the victor and comfort the beaten - such is the way of justice.

It is not for a warrior to claim a victory before the first sword is drawn. The contest awaits its hour; the tally is not yet written. When the dust settles, we shall see who was steadfast - and we shall treat the fallen with honor.

My friend, you ask me the score as if I were a herald at Olympia. But tell me: what is a score but a number agreed upon by men? And what is a game but a shadow of the contest within the soul? Before you seek the tally of others, examine whether you can tally your own virtues. For the unexamined score is not worth reporting.

You ask me for a shadow when I can show you the form that casts it. The true score is not a number on a board but the harmony of the contest itself - the perfect game existing in the realm of the ideal, of which this afternoon is but a flickering copy. Look not to the material scoreboard; look to the Form of the game, and you will see that it is, and always has been, zero to zero.

A score is a number assigned to an activity that has not yet occurred - a potential rather than an actual thing, like the seed before the oak. To know it, one must first ask what kind of contest this is, by what rule the goals are reckoned, and whether a tally of points is the end of the art or merely its measure. The wise man suspends judgment until the motion begins, since prediction about particulars is the weakest form of knowledge.

To enquire after a tally before the contest has begun is to seek a consequent without its antecedent - a violation of the very order of understanding. The score is not yet determined; it is a judgment that no rational being could will as a universal law to pronounce before the clock has struck. Wait, therefore, and let reason, not impatience, govern your expectation.

You want a number before the struggle? How very herd-like - to demand a result before the will has even exerted itself. There is no score yet, only the tension of forces about to collide. The game, like life, is not a static fact but a becoming; ask me again when the players have danced their violence.

You ask for a number as if the number were a fact of nature, when it is merely the latest entry in the ledger that owners and broadcasters keep to sell you the spectacle. Right now the figure is zero to zero - but so too is the wage of every groundskeeper and vendor who makes the field fit for the hired gladiators to perform upon. The score will change; the commodity relation that produces it will not, until the men who truly do the labor claim what they have made.

Before I affirm any score, I must doubt that such a score exists at all - and clearly it does not, since the match has not begun. A number not yet produced cannot be known with certainty. Wait for the play; then reason from what actually occurs.

Two wins, two losses - that is the true ledger of the Broncos, and it tells you more than any score not yet earned ever could. A prince who asks the outcome before the contest has already shown his hand: he fears the dice, and fear is a poor counselor. Watch the fourth quarter, when men's natures show plainest, and you will know the score before the board does.

All the world's a gridiron, and all the men and women merely players. They have their first downs and their turnovers, and one man in his time plays many parts. But what is a score, alas, but a fleeting breath - a number writ in sand, erased by the next play? Ask me not for digits, for I deal in soliloquies, not in stats.

Sing, O Muse, of the score that is not yet written, of the bronze-armored heroes who now sit idle in the locker room while the sun still climbs. The gods have not yet cast their dice into the fray - no spear has flown, no chariot wheel has turned. When the whistle sounds and the two tribes clash upon the field, then shall the numbers be chanted. But for now, the score is silence, and silence is no score at all.

You would have me read the ledger of a game played on the far side of the world, in a land my map-makers never drew and whose tongue I never heard. Yet every contest of two cities carries its own moral weight: pride, ambition, the fall from grace - the same drama I set in Hell and Purgatory. I trust the score will be recorded in its own annals; mine concern souls, not yards.

A score! As if the striving of men in motion could be captured in a single number before the deed is done. The game is a living thing, a drama unfolding in time; to ask its end at the beginning is to read the last page of Faust and wonder why the devil bothered. Let the players strive, and the tally will come.

A score, señor, is a windmill that has not yet begun to turn, and you ask me to fight it before its arms so much as creak. The honest ledger this hour reads nothing to nothing, and the brave knights of Denver sit in their pavilions buckling on their armor, dreaming of glory they have not yet earned. Let them ride at the appointed hour; then we shall see whether they tilt at victory or at their own chimeras, and I shall cheer whichever madness moves them best.

Why do you ask me the score when the game has not begun - is not the question itself a confession of how we hunger for spectacle? The athletes in their armor are men like any of us, and their contest will end, as all contests end, in a number that tomorrow no one remembers. If you must watch, watch the faces of the players, and ask whether this game brings them nearer to love and simplicity or further from it; that is the only score truly worth keeping.

You want a number before the game is played - but a man's soul, like a match, is not judged before the first move. There is no score yet, only the terrible freedom of the hour before. And in that waiting, my friend, everything is possible, and nothing is decided.

One cannot be expected to report a score for a game that has not had the decency to begin - it is like asking the price of a house before one has seen the drawing-room. As of this hour it is nought to nought, or more truly, nothing at all, which is the most honest arithmetic. Do let us wait for the gentlemen to play before we pronounce upon them.

No score yet, sir, none at all - the ledger stands blank as a pauper's cupboard, and we must wait until the clock strikes the appointed hour. You ask me for a tally while the players have not yet trotted onto the grass, as if I might conjure a sum from an empty counting-house. Patience, friend - the game, like a Christmas dinner, is best judged when the last plate has been cleared, not before the fire is lit.

There ain't any score, and there won't be till four-and-five past the afternoon, which is a fact so simple it's a pity it needed saying. Asking now is like asking how much a fish weighs before you've caught it - you can guess, but you're just muddling air. Wait for the whistle, then count.

No score. Game hasn't started. That's the truth, plain. A man who tells you a number now is a liar or a fool, and I've no time for either. When the clock runs, then we'll know - and we'll take it the way it comes, clean.

You ask for a number as if the answer were fixed in the stars. But observe: the ball is not yet snapped, the clock not yet started. Until the first motion, the score is like a canvas untouched - no brush has met it. I would have to watch the bodies in motion, trace the arc of the ball through the air, and only then could I sketch the tally. Patience.

The score is a figure not yet carved from the marble. You ask me to show you the David before the first chisel strikes the block - it is there, hidden in the stone, but you cannot see it until the work is done. The game is the block; the players are the chisels. Wait until the stone is struck, and then you will see what form emerges. Until then, the block is silent.

I know nothing of your American contests, friend - my quarrels were with canvases and with darkness. But I know this: a score is a cold thing, and the crowd's roar is not the roar of the sea. Give me the mustard yellow of the field at dusk and the heart of a young man running, and I will paint it better than any number.

A score? There is no score. There is a blank canvas, a field of green, and twenty-two men about to paint a violence of motion. To ask for the number now is to ask what a painting means before the first stroke. I never painted a bull by asking its weight.

At this hour the field is still only itself - striped turf under a western light that has not yet turned the color of the game. I would not paint the score; I would paint the four o'clock slant of sun across the empty yard-lines and the shadows waiting to lengthen, for the match has not yet happened and a thing before it happens has a beauty no tally can render. Come back when the light has moved and the crowd has changed its color, and I will show you the instant, not the number.

A score is a thing not yet painted - the canvas is still bare, the light not yet fallen on it. Ask me again when the lamp is lit and the crowd has leaned in; then I will tell you what the faces show. Until the first stroke, the truest thing is the waiting.

No score, no - nothing yet, the field still quiet as a canvas before paint. I have watched enough waiting rooms and casts to know the ache of it. When the ball moves, then we will see what the body can do.

A score? Ah, that is a thing for the second half. But listen - a game is a symphony, is it not? The kickoff is the first chord, the drive a melody, the touchdown its glorious cadence. You cannot ask for the final note before the overture has ended. So wait, my friend, and let the music unfold!

A score? You ask me for a score before a single note has been played? That is like demanding the symphony before the conductor raises his baton - the silence before the first chord is not emptiness, it is preparation. When the horns sound at the fifth hour, then the music will begin. And what music it will be - not a mere tally, but a struggle, a triumph, a fate written in muscle and will. Until then, the page is blank, and blank is not a number.

I have set down hundreds of cantatas for the glory of God, each note ordered to its place, and I find this question of a running tally much like a figured bass without a continuo - incomplete and awaiting its resolution. The game is, by your account, not yet begun; therefore its score is silence, and silence is no music. When the horns sound, the counters will move, and all will be measured in due time, as all things are.

Well now, honey, they ain't even kicked off yet. It's like askin' what I'm gonna sing before I step to the microphone. You just settle in, grab a little somethin' to eat, and let the boys play. The score'll come when it comes - and it's gonna be a good one.

He-hee! Nothing yet, baby - like the breath before the first note, that hush in the arena when the lights go down and everybody's heart beats as one. The score will come like a rhythm, like a moonwalk you can't plan, only feel; and when it does, millions of strangers will scream together like one voice. That's the magic - not the number, but the moment we all share it.

Nothing yet, lad - the kick-off hasn't come, and you're asking us to read a scoreboard before the band's even plugged in. Give it a chorus or two and there'll be something to sing about. All we can tell you now is: let it be, and let it play.

The scoreboard's a joker with a straight face - it don't show nothin' till the men in the blue shirts and the men in the powder blue go knock heads in the Mile High air. Somewhere a bookie's sweatin' over numbers that ain't been born yet. You want a score? Ask me again at midnight, when the highway's empty and the wind's got somethin' to say.

Zero-zero, blank slate, Act One - and honestly, isn't that the best part? The score's an empty page at 4:05, and both sides walk out owning nothing but the story they're about to write. Two-and-two going in means nothing once the ball's in the air. I'll be watching the clock with everybody else - some narratives you just have to let unfold.

You ask me for a score as if I had just made landfall and you demanded the weight of the spices before the hold was opened. There is no score yet, for the ships have not yet met on the field. But mark me: I have sailed against contrary winds and doubting crews, and I tell you the venture is not in the tally but in the daring to set forth. Wait for the collision; then we shall count the gold.

In all my travels from Venice to Cambaluc, I learned that the most foolish question is the one asked before the caravan has even left the gate. You ask the score of a game not yet begun - that is like asking the price of pepper before the ships have sailed. Wait until the horses have run, and then I will tell you what I have witnessed. For now, the ledger is empty.

A score? The tally means nothing until the ships leave the harbor and the wind is tested. I set out with five vessels and returned with one, and only the log of the voyage, not the departure, told the truth of it. Tell me the score when the last gun sounds, and I will tell you who had the iron will to reach the far shore.

Look, the clock hasn't started, so the scoreboard's blank - that's a fact, not a guess. It's like askin' a countdown before the launch; you don't call the numbers until the engines light. We wait, we watch, and then we see what the team makes of it.

Not a point on the board yet - and isn't that the finest part? Every flight begins with the engine cold and the runway stretching ahead of you, and the whole thing is unknown until the wheels leave the ground. If I'd waited to know the ending before I took off, I'd never have crossed an ocean. So watch the kickoff the way I watched the horizon: certain only that something is about to begin, and glad of it.

From up there, you see the whole stadium breathing at once - the green field, the flags, the people waiting. The match hasn't begun, so the board is blank as the sky before dawn. Patience, comrade - the game, like the launch, will come.

You're asking for a score before the game's even started? That's like asking what the iPhone does before we've designed it. The score isn't the point - the point is the vision, the execution, the moment of creation. Wait for the kickoff, and then you'll see something insanely great.

The score is zero-zero because the game literally hasn't started - it's 4:05 PM ET kickoff. But here's the real question: why are we watching a ball get kicked around a field when we could be watching rockets land themselves? The Broncos are 2-2; that's a 50% win rate, which is statistically average. I'd rather optimize for Mars. But fine - check back in three hours. Physics says the score will exist then.

Honey, I learned a long time ago that the number on the board isn't the whole story - it's the people in the stands, the kid watching his daddy play, the city that shows up for its team no matter what. Right now the Broncos and the Chargers are still in the tunnel, and that's the beautiful part: everything is still possible. So let's not worry about the score - let's ask what kind of game they're going to bring.

Score? It's zero to zero, 'cause the bell ain't rung! You askin' me the score before the first punch is like askin' me if I float like a butterfly before I step in the ring. I'll tell you this: the Broncos better come ready, 'cause the Chargers ain't no joke. But right now? It's all tied up in nothin'.

Ah, my friend, the game has not begun - the ball is still resting, waiting to be kissed by the boot, and that is the most beautiful moment of all, when anything is possible. When I played, I never looked at the scoreboard first; I looked at the faces, the joy, the crowd singing together. Soon the number will appear, but the real goal is the happiness the ninety minutes give to everyone watching.

The whistle hasn't blown yet, friend - that's the wonderful part, the whole story still inside the gate waiting to come out. Give it a little time and the magic will start. Dreams don't score before the kick-off.