Down the glide path to LAX it flew, bright, shining, and far beyond any human technology. The Lombardi trophy had arrived for the greatest sporting event in the United States, and this year it would shine in the California sun as well as the adulation of rabid football fans.
This year, in fact, hope hovered in the air under cloudless blue skies, unable to hide in brilliant sunlight. It had been decades since Cincinnati had made it to the Super Bowl, decades since there was anything for fans to celebrate.
The air was thick with disbelief. Each win had felt like an exceptional accident. Palpable excitement and premature celebration surrounded the stadium, shrill laughter and drunken screams of beer-drenched, ragged fandom. Humans draped in black and orange had poured onto planes to pack the stadium parking lots hours before the game, painted in tiger stripes and exclaiming at the unexpected heat.
And through it all, the Lombardi trophy rose in prominence, scintillating with each selfie flash. The trophy gleamed brighter in the excitement, the fear, the anticipation and adrenaline from thousands upon thousands of fans. Yes, this year, it was hopeful.
This year, if Cincinnati managed to win…the starvation diet of once-a-year adulation would finally be at an end. Sluggish calculations showed that the crowd energy from a Bengals win would be finally enough to awaken the trophy from hibernation.
And wouldn’t the fans’ screaming be something to luxuriate in then?
***
This week’s exceptionally short story was inspired by Leigh Kimmel, whose prompt was the opening line of this story. My prompt about an unexpected typo went to Ray Krawczyk. Check it and more out at MOTE – and join the fun if you’re looking for a creative challenge!
