HC_Chief
09-27-2000, 10:45 AM
By Brian Murphy Special to ESPN.com
I'm fired up, baby. I'm wearing my Terrell Owens No. 81 game jersey, and I just filed a story. What to do now? What else?
Terrell Owens celebrates his second-quarter touchdown against the Cowboys at midfield. I shoot down my hallway, burst out the door, down four flights of stairs, fly through my apartment lobby and run into the middle of the street.
I slam my laptop down on the pavement, on a piece of gum shaped like a star. I stand to face the world. Arms spread wide.
I am Master of the Universe. I have filed my story. I am Terrell Owens, baby.
"Yo, Murphy, why don't you throw on a pair of pants next time?" my neighbor barks out the window.
I glance down, and try to act unembarrassed.
Because I am Terrell Owens.
Sated, I went upstairs where my lovely and talented wife, an accomplished professional, was indulging in her hobby: cooking. She was preparing homemade pizzas. She was wearing her No. 81 Terrell Owens jersey.
The oven buzzer sounded. She checked the pizzas. They looked dynamite.
She took the works of art, and dashed out of the kitchen. She ran through the living room, and into the dining room. She hopped on the dining room table. She slammed the pizzas down on the fine cherry wood, on a star-shaped potholder.
She stood. Arms spread wide. She was Mistress of the Universe. She was Terrell Owens, baby.
"Hey, hon," I said, tentatively. "Your right foot is in the pizza."
Didn't matter.
...to be continued...
I'm fired up, baby. I'm wearing my Terrell Owens No. 81 game jersey, and I just filed a story. What to do now? What else?
Terrell Owens celebrates his second-quarter touchdown against the Cowboys at midfield. I shoot down my hallway, burst out the door, down four flights of stairs, fly through my apartment lobby and run into the middle of the street.
I slam my laptop down on the pavement, on a piece of gum shaped like a star. I stand to face the world. Arms spread wide.
I am Master of the Universe. I have filed my story. I am Terrell Owens, baby.
"Yo, Murphy, why don't you throw on a pair of pants next time?" my neighbor barks out the window.
I glance down, and try to act unembarrassed.
Because I am Terrell Owens.
Sated, I went upstairs where my lovely and talented wife, an accomplished professional, was indulging in her hobby: cooking. She was preparing homemade pizzas. She was wearing her No. 81 Terrell Owens jersey.
The oven buzzer sounded. She checked the pizzas. They looked dynamite.
She took the works of art, and dashed out of the kitchen. She ran through the living room, and into the dining room. She hopped on the dining room table. She slammed the pizzas down on the fine cherry wood, on a star-shaped potholder.
She stood. Arms spread wide. She was Mistress of the Universe. She was Terrell Owens, baby.
"Hey, hon," I said, tentatively. "Your right foot is in the pizza."
Didn't matter.
...to be continued...