#IBelieve

Belief.

It’s what makes you put on that shirt in the morning.

And wear that lucky sock. And paint your face. And drink your coffee out of your lucky mug.

Belief is what makes you get there hours before the gates open.

It is what makes you sing. It is what makes you stand. It is what makes you chant.

Belief is standing in the rain. Belief is standing in the heat. Belief is standing when no one else does.

But belief is not hope. Belief is not faith. Belief is not optimism.

It is knowing. It is understanding. It is certain.

And that is what makes belief the cruelest of mistresses.

I’ve seen what belief does when it fails you.

It’s punch to the gut. It’s a soul crusher. It’s a heart breaker.

I believed when I was eight and too ignorant to know better. And then I—like my team—was crushed by five Super Bowl rings.

I believed in 1998, after the top of the fifth inning, after a so-called “pure-hitter” crushed a ball into the upper deck. Two innings later, my heart was broken by a bad call and one swing.

I believed in 2004 and 2006 and 2007. But a slip in the end zone, a toe-out-of-bounds and quarterback with no timeouts ended my belief then.

And I knew belief last week, which was silenced in 30 seconds. And I saw belief Sunday, until a cracker of a goal and a bad foul made the room quiet.

But belief when it is true to you is pure ecstasy.

It’s a stadium, 72,000 strong drowning out the critics.

It’s an invasion, when the away team that is a program with no history defeats the program of history.

It’s storming the field, the court, the pitch whenever No. 1 goes down.

Belief is four seconds left, with an entire football field and marching band in your way.

Belief is a goal-line stand that sends you to the Super Bowl.

Belief is winning the division on the final day of the regular season.

Belief is a game-winning goal that saves your life in the World Cup.

Belief can be magic. Belief can be cruel.

And it is why I still believe.