Christian Ponder later kept the ball from #9, the first one he’d ever thrown where a defensive back couldn’t make a play on it. He stays up at night cherishing that ball. Turfy, he calls it, because it fell harmlessly to the ground. “Incomplete, they called you. Well, YOU complete ME,” he says. Then Adrian Peterson comes in and tells him it’s time for bed, and Ponder takes Turfy upstairs with him, and climbs between the sheets of the bed that Peterson has made up for him. And Peterson tells him everything is going to be okay, and not to worry about anything, because he, Peterson, will take care of everything, and tucks Ponder in. Then he pats Ponder on the head, and turns out the lights, and goes downstairs. And then Ponder shits everywhere.