As young black boys in Alief, Texas, my friends and I often spent afternoons imagining ourselves scoring the game-winning touchdown at the end of the Super Bowl. Each time we went through it, the final play would become more outlandish.
The quarterback would take the snap, drop back and throw a short pass to the wide receiver or, in my case, the tight end. (I always loved short passes more than Hail Marys, because you could really show off your skills as a runner.) We'd juke three linebackers, break 20 tackles, stiff-arm the strong safety to the ground and hurdle the referee before tiptoeing down the sideline and front-flipping into the end zone.