There are seekers out there, climbing their own mountains, adhering to their own rituals, listening to their own muses. Their goal is preposterous, arrogant, even delusional in its epic sweep. They want to be perfect.

And you know the craziest part? It might be possible. Even with the constraints of the salary cap and the dilution caused by expansion, it could happen again, maybe this year. Football (see: Dolphins, '72) is the only pro sport that can curl a beckoning finger in the direction of perfection. The '98 Yankees, as near-perfect as they were, still lost 48 regular-season games on their way to winning the World Series. MJ's Bulls dropped 10 games during their stampede for rings in '95-96, and one of those was a flat-out embarrassing blowout. But the Broncos nearly saw perfection last season, and Minnesota's regular season came tantalizingly close. Nineteen-and-oh dangles out there, only slightly beyond reach, inviting the obsession that comes with the quest.

This is what the obsession does: Less than a week after the Vikings lost to the Falcons in the NFC Championship Game last January, head coach Dennis Green passed out a schedule to his assistants. It dictated what they would do every single day until training camp opened seven months later. They devoted weeks to special teams, weeks to the draft and weeks to viewing video on each of their 1999 opponents. They cleared away one week to dissect video of every game from 1998, figuring out what worked, what didn't and why.

The idea is to be detached and analytical, to create an academic mood for serious study. Yeah, sure. "We say that going in," Green says, "but my secretary can tell you how much screaming and hollering she hears outside that door."

The Vikings are in a position to see the possibilities. They treat hope like a muscle that demands constant exercise. They still feel the dull throb of bitterness and frustration, and they remember the depression that comes with almost. At some point, though, the frustration becomes a call to action. It causes Green to obsess over details. It causes Cris Carter to convene his group of workout fanatics (including Jake Reed and Randy Moss) at his preseason "camp" in Boca Raton, Fla.

The Vikings and other seekers operate under a common theory: Do it better, because doing it better often enough can become doing it best. The pursuit of overall perfection can be broken down into increments. It might manifest itself in a coach calling the perfect play in the perfect situation, or a receiver making a perfect read and running a perfect route, or a linebacker with a hunch shooting the perfect gap at the perfect time. An entire world exists in the details.

Now comes the perfect test for Mike Shanahan and the Broncos: Second-year QB Brian Griese steps in for John Elway. And even though perfection is unlikely, Elway's retirement might clear the way for a full appreciation of Shanahan's perfect system.

The seekers see things others don't. Vinny Testaverde, highly imperfect for all those teams over all those years, proved perfect for Bill Parcells. Randall Cunningham wasn't perfect until he met Green and Moss and was reunited with Carter. And surely, Dan Reeves' blueprint for the perfect back would look a lot like Jamal Anderson.

The quest brings more questions than answers. Are Chris Palmer and Tim Couch perfect for Cleveland? Will Ricky Williams really be perfect for Mike Ditka? Can Vinny and the Jets be perfect now that everybody expects it?

The NFL is an equal-but-opposite world where one player's perfection can be canceled out by his perfect opposite across the line. For every receiver like Joey Galloway (Seattle), there is a cornerback like Charles Woodson (Oakland). For every Anderson, there is a linebacker like Ray Lewis (Baltimore). Arizona's Jake Plummer isn't perfect, but he's brash, fearless and fun to watch -- perfect for a franchise with perpetual expectations of losing.

And perfection isn't only about wins and losses. The Vikings learned this last January, when Gary Anderson -- a perfect field goal kicker for 17 games -- missed the one he absolutely had to have. It might be cruel to say it, but how perfect was that?

In fate's other hand, of course, was Elway. Feeling the ache and creak of mortality -- the pains of imperfection -- he decided to walk off after two Super Bowl wins. The master of comebacks knew a perfect ending when he saw one.

This article appears in the September 20, 1999 issue of ESPN The Magazine.