I. Congratulations, Champion. Yes. Champion.
II. You'll hug your family. But this time, 800 million people will be watching you. Try to remember to fix your hair.
III. You might think back 30 years, when your gofer job entailed picking up Raiders or Oilers game film at the airport at 1 a.m., and then smile because you're at work and there's confetti stuck to your face.
IV. You'll fly home to fans lining the highways and overpasses to greet your team buses.
V. You'll have a downtown parade. It might be raining; you won't notice.
VI. You'll chat with a governor, hear a mayor, dine with the speaker of the house.
VII. Motivational-speaking agencies will guarantee you corporate gigs every week until training camp.
VIII. Maybe the people from the Eclipse Awards (horse racing's Oscars) will invite you to be a presenter.
IX. You'll go through a typical interview, but this time it'll be on the lawn at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. (I hope the president will remember your name, though.)
X. Maybe you'll be the second man in N.F.L. history to coach a long snapper to celebrity status.
XI. Would you do the previously unthinkable and leave Nantucket to spend two days in transit for one night at the ESPY awards in Los Angeles?
XII. You'll get your shot on radio, doing half an inning for the A's or Devil Rays (mine came at Fenway).
XIII. They'll give you the highest honor possible for alumni at your alma mater.
XIV. Maybe you too will hear from your fourth-grade teacher and so many other old friends reminding you of special times.
XV. Then you'll wonder how you could have forgotten the names of so many others who claim to be old friends.
XVI. You're the best, and few can ever say that. Wait until you see the ring! You can count on one hand the moments that top putting that baby on.
Then, suddenly . . .
XVII. You'll try and fail to convince yourself that the work you usually do in late January and February isn't that important.
XVIII. Several of your players (and their agents) will come looking for a little extra at contract time. After all, didn't they make Fantasyland possible? Of course they did. Be ready.
XIX. You'll tiptoe on the line between helping your players forget that they're the champions and helping them remember why they're the champions.
XX. You'll drink your last Hurricane (or whatever they serve in San Diego bars), go to sleep, wake up and find yourself in training camp, consoling a weeping veteran player who, the night before, decided to retire.
XXI. You'll start to worry about your depth at guard, your sixth cornerback, your backup swing tackle.
XXII. You'll stand in front of your team and talk about how different it is being champs, even though you can't truly know the difference yourself yet.
XXIII. Two words, Champ: Last. Year. Get used to them. You may hear them after wins, but you'll be able to set your watch to them after losses.
XXIV. You'll notice that all your opponents know your team a little better than they did this season: they'll hit you a little harder and play a little better when you show up. Deal with it.
XXV. Your players will stick together, sacrifice, do everything you could ask, and your assistant coaches and scouts will work as hard as they did on the way to Fantasyland.
XXVI. But, impossible as it may seem right now, there could be a time when that's not good enough. No really, it's true.
XXII. Then again, maybe it is good enough. Maybe you're even better than everyone thinks right now and you'll do it again. In Fantasyland II, they'll put you up there with Lombardi, maybe even Einstein.
XXVIII. But maybe not. Maybe next season you'll finish tied for first place in the division, but you'll go home anyway because you lost the third tie-breaker.
XXIX. Don't kid yourself, though. That third tie-breaker is a poor excuse.
XXX. Your own shortcomings are real. Red zone problems against Denver. Can't run at Miami. Penalties versus Green Bay. Forget that tie-breaker.
XXXI. You'll hear that the mayor, governor and speaker of the house are all out of office now. You'll think about that reporter, the one who covered your team, when you sit in the sixth row at his funeral. You'll realize how fleeting Fantasyland can be.
XXXII. Remember, the Smart Coach/Moron Coach Meter, which is currently way off the charts in the right direction, can be very moody.
XXXIII. Enjoy the ride, Champ. You're a coach, which means you're incapable of straying too far from the VCR. You're not a Fantasyland guy anyway, so you'll do pretty much what you did when you were 5-11.
XXXIV. You'll do your job because you know in about five minutes you're right back in the pack with the other 31 of us.
XXXV. We're envious, but not of Fantasyland. We're envious because we lost, and you can count on one hand all the things worse than losing.
XXXVI. So, Champ, congratulations.
XXXVII. Now, good luck.
