Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray to the football Gods my golden arm to keep. If I shall die before I wake… No, I can’t die before the world gets a gander at the greatest quarterback who has ever graced the gridiron. It would be a tragedy of epic proportions. No, my prayers are directed toward the Gridiron God who has given me the talent to be one of the most sought-after recruits in the country, but it’s not good enough. I want more… I mean, a lot more.
With the Super Bowl fast approaching, I started to think really hard about my future. No, I’m not talking about competing in the big game; I’m talking about the fame and fortune that goes with a Super Bowl victory. Seriously, winning the game and the MVP trophy is a mere formality, a given, so why should I even dream about that. I want to dream about going to Disney World and riding down Main Street with Mickey, Snow White, and the Seven Dwarfs. I gotta tell you… I always had a thing for fairytale princesses and Snow White was the shit. Okay, Armando, regain your train of thought and think of all the late night talk show hosts clamoring for a shot to hear from you. Imagine going on Ellen and sitting down with Oprah. Damn, I will get a personal invite from Trump to play golf down in Mar-a-Lago and I can advise him on domestic affairs, or a barber to pluck his rooster feather.
Afterwards, when the dust has settled, I will sit down with my agent and my team and we’ll negotiate the biggest contract in the history of man. I can see a seven, followed by eight zeroes. That’s 700 million if you can’t add it up. Will I deserve a contract that big? Actually, I’m cutting my team a break because I think I’m worth a lot more, but with the countless endorsements, movie roles and personal appearances I can see my earnings cracking the billion-dollar mark in my first year, and then we’ll see if I can get a raise in my second year. Hey, a man is nothing if he doesn’t have any dreams, and I’m not fooling around.
