Editor's Note

Ross had basically been content to define himself in opposition to the Denver Broncos’ ubiquitous white evangelical Christian starting quarterback. To be, in the parlance of pop culture’s staler elements (like Stephen A. Smith), a “hater.”

Because, despite all the zig-zagging, contradictory associations that made up the identity politics of his particular set, Tim Tebow seemed like a slam-dunk: a graduate of one of college football’s most deplorable factories, responsible for one of the internet’s more unfortunate memes (“Tebowing,” he thought, “I don’t get it.”), a relentlessly chipper, good-looking red state icon who had, in fact, whipped the whole red state set into such a frenzy that his name was verbalized only in passionate, tremulous whispers or shrieks of ecstasy. Plus, there was the whole God thing, which Ross himself wasn’t so sure about, but which Tebow sure was sure about (and made sure that others were aware of how sure he was about the whole thing, viz. the ongoing abstinence of America’s most eligible bachelor, and “Tebowing”).

Worse, really, than the quarterback himself was the reaction he inspired amongst the vocal professionals charged with narrating the Denver Broncos’ football games, or with analyzing, ex post, the quarterback’s remarkable fourth-quarter efficacy, especially given his demonstrated difficulty in completing over 50 percent of his forward passes. That (the reaction) was something like reverence mixed with sarcasm mixed with whatever makes people talk really loudly; if there were a temple of Tebow, these various commentators and pundits would be genuflecting ironically before it and emitting high-pitched proselytizing screams at horrified passersby.

Tebow, Ross thought to himself, must be too good to be true, and the hosannah-singing masses must be too dumb to realize that he was too good to be true. The snippets of on-field helmet-attached-microphone-captured dialogue that painted Tebow as an unusually graceful competitor; the soft-lit human interest segments on 24/7 sports television channels chronicling the quarterback’s genuinely heartwarming interactions with terminally or at least debilitatingly ill children; the impossible positivity the quarterback maintained in the face of witheringly skeptical beat reporters during a three-game streak of Broncos losses so futile they prompted some critical re-evaluation of the notion that the team’s quarterback was divinely inspired, even among the hosannah-singing masses: there must be a crack somewhere in the façade, Ross thought to himself.

He tuned in absentmindedly to the Denver Broncos’ playoff contest against the heavily favored Pittsburgh Steelers. His initial annoyance at the high quality of Tebow’s play gave way to confusion: here a drive-sustaining first-down run, there a deep touchdown pass, always, kneeling, always, praise belonging to God. Then, suddenly, in sudden death, the white evangelical Christian quarterback dropped back and saw man-to-man press coverage, and a downfield receiver getting inside of his mark on a post route, and the Steelers’ strong safety drifting just a bit too far from the play. The quarterback’s unorthodox delivery was true; his receiver was fast. Fragments of triumphant phrases pushed their way through the din: “Thomas stiff-arms Taylor—turns the corner—a race to the pylon—touchdown!—victory, victory, victory!”

Ross gazed up at the quarterback’s face (which was itself gazing up at its Great Enabler). Four years it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the visor-equipped facemask. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He loved Tim Tebow.