It can’t be good for my red raw nerve endings to experience the roller coaster ride of emotions they did on Monday morning.
Super Bowl 49, or XLIX for hardcore Romans, was approaching the final minutes of the fourth quarter.
We’d already seen lead changes, comebacks from both teams, no name players rising (literally in the case of Seattle Seahawk’s receiver Chris Matthews) to the occasion, dancing sharks and Katy Pepsi strapped to a sparkler-tastic 1930s Buster Crabbe rocketship.
When the Seahawks battled back to take a 24-14 lead I punched the air and, trying not to wake the rest of the house, silently mouthed off at New England Patriots’ headcoach Bill “Bellicheat”.
However, the Pats have a quarterback called Tom Brady who can turn lost causes into chunky rings and shiny silver trophies and the 37-year-old earned my silent curses as he willed his team back into the match.
While opposing QB Russell Wilson zipped around as if everyone else was stuck in slow mo, old Tom moved like continental drift and relied on the quick release style of Dan Marino to avoid the tsunami Seattle pass rush to complete a Super Bowl record 37 passes for four touchdowns and retake the lead.
The Seahawks still had one last chance to win it all though and I stopped my descent into coma long enough to see Russell and the lads march down the field as seconds ticked away.
When the Gridiron Gods smiled on receiver Jermaine Kerse, allowing him to pull off a juggling catch while moving around on the ground like he was playing an imaginary game of Twister, I thought, this is it, the Patriots are going down.
It almost made staying up to 2.58 a.m. worth it.
If only Seattle had kept handing the ball to mighty Marshawn Lynch they would have won their second straight Super Bowl.
Unfortunately they decided to throw the bloody thing and it was intercepted.
Inspired by Jermaine Kerse and Chris Matthew’s acrobatics, I grabbed the remote, turned the telly off, spun around and head butted the pillow all in one movement.