He's Burning To Be A Success

" 'Adrian,' he said. 'Adrian.' I didn't answer. 'Adrian.' He got up and began to pace the floor. 'Adrian. Adrian.' He paced back and forth, back and forth. Pretty soon there were guys yelling down the hall for him to shut up. He kept pacing. Then—listen to this—he got up on the dressers that line the wall over there and began pacing again, bending his head to keep from hitting the ceiling. All the time he's saying, 'Adrian. Adrian.' Guys were pounding on the door. I couldn't take it anymore. I said, 'All right, Tim, what the hell do you want?' 'I just wanted you to answer me, Adrian,' he said and got down and crawled into bed. 'Good night, Adrian,' he said. Now I ask you, are those the actions of a sane man?"

Finally, there is the dream.

"I have this dream," Tim Rossovich says. "I've had it more than once. It's always the same."

Yes?

"It's the Super Bowl. We're in it, and the game is almost over. So far I've made every tackle. Every single tackle in the game! Everybody is going crazy. My teammates, the coaches, the fans. So excited. I'm excited."

Yes? Yes?

"We're ahead by a couple of points, but they're down near our goal, and their quarterback rolls out on the last play of the game. I don't know who he is. His face is empty in the helmet. But I get to him just as he nears the goal. We meet head on. The top of my helmet rams into his chin and goes right through his head. His head explodes and comes out the two earholes of his helmet. We both go down—"

He flops down on a couch. Flump!

"—the quarterback dead on the field, me mortally wounded. But I get up and begin to stagger off the field. Millions of people are cheering. 'Rossovich! Rossovich!' It's the greatest game and the greatest crowd ever. Millions of people. I'm reeling as I come off. I give them one last regal wave—"

He waves feebly but regally.