unbridled adrenalin: why people break shit when their team wins.

Game four, fourth quarter, one minute on the clock, Pistons have an eight-point lead, cameramen zoom on traces of tear collecting in a single Karl-Mallone-eye, and my housemate John Blasioli and I—Sheed lovers til death do us part—get emo in the ’04 sense of the word:
Me: “I feel like I could go start a fight right now.”
John B.: “I have testosterone coming out my eyeballs.”
Baby Billups, where you at?