He climbed up the stairs of Invesco Field. Popcorn clutched in his left hand, a game program and beer balanced in his right, he walked to the top of section 508; the upper deck. He looked at his ticket and sat down in row U seat 37. The man, dressed in a white and blue jersey stamped with the number twelve, looked down towards the field. There the players stood like ants warming up, throwing the ball and running through drills in preparation for the battle which was about to occur. Marred in a sea of navy and orange, the man sat alone. He wasn’t used to being so far from the action. The past four weeks he had stood on the sideline with the players who now donned navy and orange. Other spectators murmured in anticipation of kickoff. They talked of the miracle man, Number 15. He had done the impossible the past four weeks, but the fans called out, beckoning him to do the impossible once more. The man stared in wonder as the players converged towards their respective sideline. There, Number 15 knelt in silence praying to his savior asking for his will to be done. The clock hit zero as the captains ran onto the field for the coin toss. The crowd erupted into excitement. The game was set to begin. The man smiled and thought to himself. Those who wanted to believe would believe. One more win wouldn't convert the skeptics. The people's savior was about to take the field. Number 15 got up off the bench and looked at the man in Section 508, row U, seat 37. The man looked back at Number 15. They both knew that there would be no miracle today.