Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Big Ben in Big Trouble
The accusations are piling up against Steelers quarterback Ben Roethlisberger, but the claim that he sexually assaulted a college student in Georgia might not be as hard to defend as the attacks on his integrity.
Since the nightclub incident became public, talk-radio phones have been ringing off the hook. Die-hard black and gold supporters are chomping at the bit to call out their disgraced quarterback.
Allegations flooded the airwaves on KDKA, a Pittsburgh area radio station: “Ben left me a small tip… Ben demanded a free meal… Ben talked down to me... Ben refused to give an autograph….”
The same Pittsburghers who once adored him, buying up his jersey in every color (black, white, and pink), are now eager to take the witness stand to provide key testimony in the court of public opinion.
At least in the sexual assault case Roethlisberger can stand behind high-powered lawyers and the “innocent until proven guilty” refrain. Additionally, no charges have been filed as of Friday. The people don’t wait for a plea to find him guilty on several counts: narcissism, immaturity, selfishness, hypocrisy, and fistful of expletives you can’t say on the radio.
Ben unknowingly entered his plea. Callers relayed that in each case Roethlisberger looked for preferential treatment saying, “Don’t you know who I am?”
Perhaps that’s the biggest problem in Pittsburgh. Roethlisberger has shown the public two conflicting versions of who “Ben Roethlisberger” is—the public Ben and the unfiltered personal Ben.
In the spotlight, Roethlisberger paints himself as a different breed of athlete, a gentleman with a team first attitude. He signs autographs at training camp long after the others have retreated to the locker room, kissing babies and shaking hands like a politician.
One the other hand he signs them only the way he wants to— only on his own jersey, his own picture, or a football. A kid’s notebook, a Steelers roster, or even the sacred terrible town aren’t worthy of Big Ben’s John Hancock.
He scribbles PFJ (play for Jesus) on his cleats and points to the heavens after each touchdown pass.
The sexual assault allegations—even if he’s innocent and the acts were consensual—show that Ben has done some things that Jesus would certainly not do. And that’s putting it mildly.
He appears at public fundraisers and generously donated a police dog to the Cleveland’s canine unit.
One of the KDKA calls was from a topless dancer who claimed that Roethlisberger refused to tip her. Several waitresses also claimed to have been stiffed by Ben (Not like that you pervert.)
As the years have worn on Ben’s act has worn out. The personal Ben, the brash and egotistical one, has come to the public’s attention. The guy that seemed to be doing all the right things—signing autographs and giving credit to the linemen—seemed to be doing it for all the wrong reasons.
The claims only continue to build against Roethlisberger. And maybe time is running out for Big Ben in Pittsburgh.
It’s going to take one of Big Ben’s legendary last minute comebacks if he hopes to save face in Pittsburgh.
Since the nightclub incident became public, talk-radio phones have been ringing off the hook. Die-hard black and gold supporters are chomping at the bit to call out their disgraced quarterback.
Allegations flooded the airwaves on KDKA, a Pittsburgh area radio station: “Ben left me a small tip… Ben demanded a free meal… Ben talked down to me... Ben refused to give an autograph….”
The same Pittsburghers who once adored him, buying up his jersey in every color (black, white, and pink), are now eager to take the witness stand to provide key testimony in the court of public opinion.
At least in the sexual assault case Roethlisberger can stand behind high-powered lawyers and the “innocent until proven guilty” refrain. Additionally, no charges have been filed as of Friday. The people don’t wait for a plea to find him guilty on several counts: narcissism, immaturity, selfishness, hypocrisy, and fistful of expletives you can’t say on the radio.
Ben unknowingly entered his plea. Callers relayed that in each case Roethlisberger looked for preferential treatment saying, “Don’t you know who I am?”
Perhaps that’s the biggest problem in Pittsburgh. Roethlisberger has shown the public two conflicting versions of who “Ben Roethlisberger” is—the public Ben and the unfiltered personal Ben.
In the spotlight, Roethlisberger paints himself as a different breed of athlete, a gentleman with a team first attitude. He signs autographs at training camp long after the others have retreated to the locker room, kissing babies and shaking hands like a politician.
One the other hand he signs them only the way he wants to— only on his own jersey, his own picture, or a football. A kid’s notebook, a Steelers roster, or even the sacred terrible town aren’t worthy of Big Ben’s John Hancock.
He scribbles PFJ (play for Jesus) on his cleats and points to the heavens after each touchdown pass.
The sexual assault allegations—even if he’s innocent and the acts were consensual—show that Ben has done some things that Jesus would certainly not do. And that’s putting it mildly.
He appears at public fundraisers and generously donated a police dog to the Cleveland’s canine unit.
One of the KDKA calls was from a topless dancer who claimed that Roethlisberger refused to tip her. Several waitresses also claimed to have been stiffed by Ben (Not like that you pervert.)
As the years have worn on Ben’s act has worn out. The personal Ben, the brash and egotistical one, has come to the public’s attention. The guy that seemed to be doing all the right things—signing autographs and giving credit to the linemen—seemed to be doing it for all the wrong reasons.
The claims only continue to build against Roethlisberger. And maybe time is running out for Big Ben in Pittsburgh.
It’s going to take one of Big Ben’s legendary last minute comebacks if he hopes to save face in Pittsburgh.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Miller Time: Bode's Olympic Redemption
US skiing maverick Bode Miller finished his final run in Vancouver in much the same way as he did the 2006 Olympics, throwing his hands up in defeat after missing a gate. His overall Olympic performance; however, couldn’t be more different than in Torino.
Back in 2006, Miller was supposed to be America’s golden boy. He arrived at the games brandishing two silver medals from the 2002 Salt Lake City Olympics and was the defending world champion. Miller’s face and the expectations were equally well known thanks to ubiquitous advertising campaigns and magazine covers. "Five medals, preferably all gold," Uncle Sam demanded like the over-involved Little League parent.
Instead, the 28-year-old Bode responded like a rebellious boy. He skied five uninspired races and came up empty in each one. By the end of the games it became a joke-- how will Bode screw this one up?
Americans scratched their heads and pointed their fingers, sometimes not the index, at what was supposed to be a national icon. Reports suggested that alcohol contributed to his apathetic alpine performance. He spotted in bars nights before races and admitted himself in a highly publicized 60 Minutes interview that his escapades had sometimes interfered with competition.
Bob Costas summed up American's reactions pretty concisely.
Bode Miller was like Bob Dylan on skies. Like the musician he refused to be the poster boy, preferring to be the party boy instead. He blew off the media, hopping the out of bounds ropes and skiing alone to his RV to avoid the swarms of rabid reporters. Worst of all he said he didn’t care about success or winning medals. Such a treasonous comment made him unworthy to wear the stars and stripes that he was supposed to be representing.
And he showed no remorse. Bode would ski the way Bode wanted to ski.
“Part of me didn't even want to go to the Olympics in '06. Part of me wanted to go because I knew the possibilities of going,” Bode wrote in his Universal Sports blog. “But part of me didn't want to because I didn't like where the whole thing was pointed. I didn't like being the poster boy and I didn't like a lot of the stuff that was surrounding it.”
Picking up the pieces-- and the beer cans they tossed at their TV set-- Americans asked, “Should we blame ourselves.” Maybe we had unrealistic expectations for the young star, as parents living vicariously through children sometimes do. Perhaps all those flash bulbs and spotlights burnt out budding Bode.
By the conclusion of the 2006 games, the Olympic torch was extinguished, and the general consensus was so too had Miller’s fame and Olympic potential.
Four years later in Vancouver, the hype and hope rested on another American skier, Lindsey Vonn, and her ailing appendage. Miller’s appearance on the hill was expected to be nothing more than unpleasant reminder of what could have been four years earlier.
Post Torino, Miller a modicum of success (2008 World Cup overall title), but more disappointment. In the 2009 season leading up to the Olympics, Miller had the worst season of his career. Add to that a couple injuries and a knee surgery, and Miller was expected to hang it up once and for all.
Sports fan know by now what happens when they expect something from Miller. Four years older, a little wiser, and hopefully more responsible with a two-year-old daughter at home, Bode returned to his prime. True to his unpredictable nature, the maverick Miller emerged to capture three medals, tying him for a U.S. record among Alpine skiers: silver in the Super- G, bronze in the Downhill, and Olympic gold in the Combined.
In doing so Miller rekindled the Olympic spirit and renewed the nation’s love affair with its misunderstood star. “The energy I felt during that race,” Miller wrote in his Universal Sports blog, “that's what the Olympics are about.”
So let confetti flow, holler in the streets, slaughter the fatted calf. The prodigal son has returned and it’s time to celebrate.
Congrats old Bode. You’ve completed the transformation from goat to hero, and you stand atop the podium and in our hearts as a decorated American Olympian.
Go ahead and have a beer. You deserve it.
Back in 2006, Miller was supposed to be America’s golden boy. He arrived at the games brandishing two silver medals from the 2002 Salt Lake City Olympics and was the defending world champion. Miller’s face and the expectations were equally well known thanks to ubiquitous advertising campaigns and magazine covers. "Five medals, preferably all gold," Uncle Sam demanded like the over-involved Little League parent.
Instead, the 28-year-old Bode responded like a rebellious boy. He skied five uninspired races and came up empty in each one. By the end of the games it became a joke-- how will Bode screw this one up?
Americans scratched their heads and pointed their fingers, sometimes not the index, at what was supposed to be a national icon. Reports suggested that alcohol contributed to his apathetic alpine performance. He spotted in bars nights before races and admitted himself in a highly publicized 60 Minutes interview that his escapades had sometimes interfered with competition.
Bob Costas summed up American's reactions pretty concisely.
Bode Miller was like Bob Dylan on skies. Like the musician he refused to be the poster boy, preferring to be the party boy instead. He blew off the media, hopping the out of bounds ropes and skiing alone to his RV to avoid the swarms of rabid reporters. Worst of all he said he didn’t care about success or winning medals. Such a treasonous comment made him unworthy to wear the stars and stripes that he was supposed to be representing.
And he showed no remorse. Bode would ski the way Bode wanted to ski.
“Part of me didn't even want to go to the Olympics in '06. Part of me wanted to go because I knew the possibilities of going,” Bode wrote in his Universal Sports blog. “But part of me didn't want to because I didn't like where the whole thing was pointed. I didn't like being the poster boy and I didn't like a lot of the stuff that was surrounding it.”
Picking up the pieces-- and the beer cans they tossed at their TV set-- Americans asked, “Should we blame ourselves.” Maybe we had unrealistic expectations for the young star, as parents living vicariously through children sometimes do. Perhaps all those flash bulbs and spotlights burnt out budding Bode.
By the conclusion of the 2006 games, the Olympic torch was extinguished, and the general consensus was so too had Miller’s fame and Olympic potential.
Four years later in Vancouver, the hype and hope rested on another American skier, Lindsey Vonn, and her ailing appendage. Miller’s appearance on the hill was expected to be nothing more than unpleasant reminder of what could have been four years earlier.
Post Torino, Miller a modicum of success (2008 World Cup overall title), but more disappointment. In the 2009 season leading up to the Olympics, Miller had the worst season of his career. Add to that a couple injuries and a knee surgery, and Miller was expected to hang it up once and for all.
Sports fan know by now what happens when they expect something from Miller. Four years older, a little wiser, and hopefully more responsible with a two-year-old daughter at home, Bode returned to his prime. True to his unpredictable nature, the maverick Miller emerged to capture three medals, tying him for a U.S. record among Alpine skiers: silver in the Super- G, bronze in the Downhill, and Olympic gold in the Combined.
In doing so Miller rekindled the Olympic spirit and renewed the nation’s love affair with its misunderstood star. “The energy I felt during that race,” Miller wrote in his Universal Sports blog, “that's what the Olympics are about.”
So let confetti flow, holler in the streets, slaughter the fatted calf. The prodigal son has returned and it’s time to celebrate.
Congrats old Bode. You’ve completed the transformation from goat to hero, and you stand atop the podium and in our hearts as a decorated American Olympian.
Go ahead and have a beer. You deserve it.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Manning Up at the Super Bowl
The quarterback takes the snap under the glow of streetlights. The young play-caller rolls out of imaginary arm tackles and stiff arms make-believe pass rushers. Looking deep into the end zone, marked by tin cans and t-shirts, he hurls the squishy Nerf football for the game tying strike. “It’s all tied up! The Super Bowl is all tied up!”
Kids in backyards and back allies have played out the fantasy finish to the Big Game for generations. But Sunday in Miami, Peyton Manning was living the childhood dream, as the Indianapolis Colts trailed the New Orleans Saints 24-17 in Super Bowl XLIV in front of the biggest TV audience in history.
It seemed almost inevitable; Peyton was going to tie it up en route to the signature Super Bowl comeback. The fantasy was coming to life with each first down, and it seemed like the only question was whether Manning would ride the Tea Cups or Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride first in Disney World.
But instead of a touchdown pass, the previously flawless Manning threw a pick right into Tracy Porter’s arms. Kids at home begged for a redo. The dream had turned into a nightmare as they watched Porter prance 73-yards for the score.
Down 31-17, even backyard quarterbacks know hope is dim. And the desperation drive proved futile for the Colts when Manning’s pass to Reggie Wayne fell to the ground. Peyton put his head down and walked into the locker room like a poor sport.
Quarterback Drew Brees genuflected three times to run out the clock. Several players baptized coach Sean Payton in an orange Gatorade bath. And the Saints climbed the steps to receive the coveted Lombardi trophy, completing their ascension into football immortality.
But the story for Manning— as well as for the national media— was the interception.
Colt tragedy rather than triumph marked front-pages and homepages. And images of the interception said it all for The New York Times and Espn.com.
For Manning, the loss will resonate long after the newsprint has faded. Not only the game and the season were on the line for Manning but also his legacy. “TV experts” and the average football-buff at a bar judge QB’s not by passer-ratings and stats, but by Super Bowl rings.
For them, the standards are higher and the criticism is harsher. At the Super Bowl, a play-caller must step under center and under scrutiny. Every first down, as well as every errant throw is magnified, relived on highlight reels and documented in record books.
With a “W” on Sunday, the Colt would have taken one step closer to the ranks of Joe Montana and Terry Bradshaw, each with Four Superbowl Rings. Instead, by dropping the ball, he dropped one notch closer to Jim Kelly, the QB who lost the big game three times.
But for the boy on the playground, the game is the same with only one minor revision. This time in the backyard Super Bowl the boy announces, “Drew Brees throws it deep!”
Kids in backyards and back allies have played out the fantasy finish to the Big Game for generations. But Sunday in Miami, Peyton Manning was living the childhood dream, as the Indianapolis Colts trailed the New Orleans Saints 24-17 in Super Bowl XLIV in front of the biggest TV audience in history.
It seemed almost inevitable; Peyton was going to tie it up en route to the signature Super Bowl comeback. The fantasy was coming to life with each first down, and it seemed like the only question was whether Manning would ride the Tea Cups or Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride first in Disney World.
But instead of a touchdown pass, the previously flawless Manning threw a pick right into Tracy Porter’s arms. Kids at home begged for a redo. The dream had turned into a nightmare as they watched Porter prance 73-yards for the score.
Down 31-17, even backyard quarterbacks know hope is dim. And the desperation drive proved futile for the Colts when Manning’s pass to Reggie Wayne fell to the ground. Peyton put his head down and walked into the locker room like a poor sport.
Quarterback Drew Brees genuflected three times to run out the clock. Several players baptized coach Sean Payton in an orange Gatorade bath. And the Saints climbed the steps to receive the coveted Lombardi trophy, completing their ascension into football immortality.
But the story for Manning— as well as for the national media— was the interception.
Colt tragedy rather than triumph marked front-pages and homepages. And images of the interception said it all for The New York Times and Espn.com.
For Manning, the loss will resonate long after the newsprint has faded. Not only the game and the season were on the line for Manning but also his legacy. “TV experts” and the average football-buff at a bar judge QB’s not by passer-ratings and stats, but by Super Bowl rings.
For them, the standards are higher and the criticism is harsher. At the Super Bowl, a play-caller must step under center and under scrutiny. Every first down, as well as every errant throw is magnified, relived on highlight reels and documented in record books.
With a “W” on Sunday, the Colt would have taken one step closer to the ranks of Joe Montana and Terry Bradshaw, each with Four Superbowl Rings. Instead, by dropping the ball, he dropped one notch closer to Jim Kelly, the QB who lost the big game three times.
But for the boy on the playground, the game is the same with only one minor revision. This time in the backyard Super Bowl the boy announces, “Drew Brees throws it deep!”
Friday, February 5, 2010
Pro Bored
If you didn’t catch Sunday’s Pro Bowl in Miami here’s what you missed:
One of the leagues best quarterbacks, Aaron Rodgers, hit Steve Smith and DeSean Jackson for touchdown strikes. Division rivals James Harrison and Ray Lewis put aside their differences and converged on tackles. And the NFL’s best linemen, whoever they may be, did their thing, whatever that is.
I’m sorry to say, those of you who did tune in for the game actually missed more.
For starters—well, there were none. Thirteen of the original starters were replaced due to injuries or the Superbowl. The AFC had a harder time finding a quarterback than I have finding readers of Quick Slants. Payton Manning sat out since he is slated to win the Superbowl on Sunday and Tom Brady begged off to lick his wounds. That left Matt Schaub to call plays for his fellow over paid, under enthused B-listers.
In total, 32 players sat out (17 for injuries, 14 for the Superbowl.) Sticklers for statistics might notice that my numbers don’t add up, 17 + 14 = 31. That’s because there was also the case of the missing tackle. NFC coaches thought they part of a new reality TV version of CSI Miami when Bryant McKinnie was a no-show at two team practices. Clues to the case of the missing meat-head turned up on offensive tackle’s Twitter account, which alluded to partying instead of practicing and lead the team to dismiss McKinnie.
The result was no better from the stars that did suit up.
Foreign offensive and defensive schemes forced players out of position. Steeler’s linebacker LaMaar Woodley earned his ticket to Miami with 13.5 sacks and 62 tackles in the regular season. But the 3-4 AFC defense forced Woodley into coverage, something he rarely does in Pittsburgh, and the NFL exploited him repeatedly on a second quarter scoring drive.
Unfamiliar terminology and play calling confused offensive players as well. Quarterbacks were mic’d up for the game, so fans got to hear the offensive calls followed by receivers asking the QB to put the complicated number system into words they could understand. “Quick out!” the play-caller’s directed.
General lack of effort, pathetic tackling and receivers racing for the sideline to avoid contact made for a long night of television viewing. Fans reaching for the remote turned the channel to something a little more exciting like American Idol reruns or the Hallmark Channel.
The Pro Bowl should match up the best players in the league and should be sweeter than a bowl of Lucky Charms with only the marshmallows. You know, none of those bland X’s and O’s But this game was harder to get through than a bowl of yesterday’s oatmeal.
The NFL should know that we football fans like our games the way we like our breakfast. We don’t care about sweets and gimmicks; we need something satisfying that we can sink our teeth into, something with some meat and grits. And maybe some Flutie flakes on the side.
One of the leagues best quarterbacks, Aaron Rodgers, hit Steve Smith and DeSean Jackson for touchdown strikes. Division rivals James Harrison and Ray Lewis put aside their differences and converged on tackles. And the NFL’s best linemen, whoever they may be, did their thing, whatever that is.
I’m sorry to say, those of you who did tune in for the game actually missed more.
For starters—well, there were none. Thirteen of the original starters were replaced due to injuries or the Superbowl. The AFC had a harder time finding a quarterback than I have finding readers of Quick Slants. Payton Manning sat out since he is slated to win the Superbowl on Sunday and Tom Brady begged off to lick his wounds. That left Matt Schaub to call plays for his fellow over paid, under enthused B-listers.
In total, 32 players sat out (17 for injuries, 14 for the Superbowl.) Sticklers for statistics might notice that my numbers don’t add up, 17 + 14 = 31. That’s because there was also the case of the missing tackle. NFC coaches thought they part of a new reality TV version of CSI Miami when Bryant McKinnie was a no-show at two team practices. Clues to the case of the missing meat-head turned up on offensive tackle’s Twitter account, which alluded to partying instead of practicing and lead the team to dismiss McKinnie.
The result was no better from the stars that did suit up.
Foreign offensive and defensive schemes forced players out of position. Steeler’s linebacker LaMaar Woodley earned his ticket to Miami with 13.5 sacks and 62 tackles in the regular season. But the 3-4 AFC defense forced Woodley into coverage, something he rarely does in Pittsburgh, and the NFL exploited him repeatedly on a second quarter scoring drive.
Unfamiliar terminology and play calling confused offensive players as well. Quarterbacks were mic’d up for the game, so fans got to hear the offensive calls followed by receivers asking the QB to put the complicated number system into words they could understand. “Quick out!” the play-caller’s directed.
General lack of effort, pathetic tackling and receivers racing for the sideline to avoid contact made for a long night of television viewing. Fans reaching for the remote turned the channel to something a little more exciting like American Idol reruns or the Hallmark Channel.
The Pro Bowl should match up the best players in the league and should be sweeter than a bowl of Lucky Charms with only the marshmallows. You know, none of those bland X’s and O’s But this game was harder to get through than a bowl of yesterday’s oatmeal.
The NFL should know that we football fans like our games the way we like our breakfast. We don’t care about sweets and gimmicks; we need something satisfying that we can sink our teeth into, something with some meat and grits. And maybe some Flutie flakes on the side.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Adventures of the Boy: Volume One
The boy made up his mind when he was 7-yeard old. “When I grow up, I’m going to be a ballplayer,” he told his parents. He spent hours on the diamond, the back of his neck burning under the summer sun and his knees skinned from stretching a single into a double. The boy begged Dad for one more catch and fell asleep each night to the familiar voice of the home team announcer crackling through the radio.
He loved baseball, and he wasn’t alone. Aside from the dozen football players and the handful of astronauts the entire first grade class wanted to go pro. But the puberty hormones the nurse warned about in fifth grade must have done something terrible to the boys. As the kids grew up, their aspirations changed. They started playing Sega instead of stickball and chasing girls rather than fly balls. And it only got worse.
Each year, the class lost a couple right fielders to the real world, as pitchers decided they would be policemen and first basemen switched to firemen. By high school, the boys had turned into young men. The lineup— now filled with doctors and lawyers and teachers— dwindled to one.
The boy tried to fight it and hold onto his childhood dream. “I’ll be the one who makes it,” he told himself between reps in the weight room and between cuts off the tee. “I just have to work harder.” He was constantly refining his swing, calling everyone in his phone book to play. When no one agreed, he cleaned his sister’s room so she would throw him batting practice.
Finally, when he started looking at colleges, the scrappy second baseman had to grow up…but only a little. Sure the boy’s dreams have changed but his passion for sport has not faltered.
With the same zeal, the boy hones his writing as he did his swing. English classes are his new batting practice; the professors are his new coaches. And the boy pushes himself just as hard.
In terms of the big leagues, he may have struck out swinging but it will take more than that to get him out of the game. Today the boy tells his family, “Someday, I’m going to be a sportswriter.”
He loved baseball, and he wasn’t alone. Aside from the dozen football players and the handful of astronauts the entire first grade class wanted to go pro. But the puberty hormones the nurse warned about in fifth grade must have done something terrible to the boys. As the kids grew up, their aspirations changed. They started playing Sega instead of stickball and chasing girls rather than fly balls. And it only got worse.
Each year, the class lost a couple right fielders to the real world, as pitchers decided they would be policemen and first basemen switched to firemen. By high school, the boys had turned into young men. The lineup— now filled with doctors and lawyers and teachers— dwindled to one.
The boy tried to fight it and hold onto his childhood dream. “I’ll be the one who makes it,” he told himself between reps in the weight room and between cuts off the tee. “I just have to work harder.” He was constantly refining his swing, calling everyone in his phone book to play. When no one agreed, he cleaned his sister’s room so she would throw him batting practice.
Finally, when he started looking at colleges, the scrappy second baseman had to grow up…but only a little. Sure the boy’s dreams have changed but his passion for sport has not faltered.
With the same zeal, the boy hones his writing as he did his swing. English classes are his new batting practice; the professors are his new coaches. And the boy pushes himself just as hard.
In terms of the big leagues, he may have struck out swinging but it will take more than that to get him out of the game. Today the boy tells his family, “Someday, I’m going to be a sportswriter.”
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Brett Favre 2009: The Season of Treason
With less than two minutes left in Sunday’s NFC divisional playoff game and the Minnesota Vikings commanding a 27-3 lead over the Dallas Cowboys, head coach Brad Childress decided to go for it on 4th and 3, deep in Dallas territory. It seemed like a logical decision: the Vikings had already put the game away and didn’t need another three points. So you figure they keep the kicker on the sideline and hand the ball to Adrian Peterson. With a 3-yard run, the Vikings get the first down, take a couple knees, and call it a game.
But in a move that defied football logic and spit in the face of good sportsmanship, Brett Favre slung an 11-yard touchdown pass to Visante Shiancoe. The pass screamed to the football world, “The old man still got it!” Silver-haired Favre celebrated his fourth touchdown pass of the game, chest bumping lineman and slapping coach Childress five.
But to the Cowboys, what initially appeared to be a classy gesture turned out to be a self-serving ego boost. So what the Vikings didn’t kick the field goal, instead Favre and Childress kicked the Cowboys right in the balls.
Dallas linebacker Keith Brooking barked at Farve as the quarterback trotted to the sideline. Translating the expletives to English, Brooking probably said something along the lines of, “What was that for?”
I find myself asking Favre the same question a lot over the past two seasons—first when he came out of retirement to quarterback the Jets and then again when he signed with the Vikings.
When Favre retired in 2007, he had everything a quarterback could ask for: three MVPs, the all-time record for touchdown passes and passing yards, and a Superbowl ring. Most importantly, Favre had left a legacy. Green Bay was ready to build monuments for its venerated play caller. Men named their first born after him. To be called “the next Brett Favre” was the ultimate term of endearment.
Sports Illustrated named Favre "Sportsman of the Year" and published a cover photo of the teary-eyed quarterback's farewell. Fans were content to see the old gunslinger fade into the sunset as one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time.
Four months later when Favre announced that he was considering coming out of “retirement” to play for another team, sports fans wondered, “What more does Favre want?” Favre’s success over the ensuing two seasons, including the late touchdown strike in Sunday’s game, shows that the old man got his touch back, but is it worth it? Are another two Pro Bowls appearances and another 55 touchdown passes and another 700 completions worth tainting the Green Bay legacy with purple?
Sure he's just two wins away from a second Superbowl ring, but I’m with Brooking on this one. Like he said after the game, “This is the NFL. That’s not what it’s all about.”
I imagine Green Bay is with us too where fans who once marveled over his accuracy now scowl at his treachery. Monument blueprints are in ruins. And in schools across Wisconsin boys named Brett are jammed into lockers. As for the Favre name, let’s just say it doesn’t mean what it used to. When someone calls you a “Brett Favre,” they probably mean some of the four-letter words Brooking screamed at number four.
But in a move that defied football logic and spit in the face of good sportsmanship, Brett Favre slung an 11-yard touchdown pass to Visante Shiancoe. The pass screamed to the football world, “The old man still got it!” Silver-haired Favre celebrated his fourth touchdown pass of the game, chest bumping lineman and slapping coach Childress five.
But to the Cowboys, what initially appeared to be a classy gesture turned out to be a self-serving ego boost. So what the Vikings didn’t kick the field goal, instead Favre and Childress kicked the Cowboys right in the balls.
Dallas linebacker Keith Brooking barked at Farve as the quarterback trotted to the sideline. Translating the expletives to English, Brooking probably said something along the lines of, “What was that for?”
I find myself asking Favre the same question a lot over the past two seasons—first when he came out of retirement to quarterback the Jets and then again when he signed with the Vikings.
When Favre retired in 2007, he had everything a quarterback could ask for: three MVPs, the all-time record for touchdown passes and passing yards, and a Superbowl ring. Most importantly, Favre had left a legacy. Green Bay was ready to build monuments for its venerated play caller. Men named their first born after him. To be called “the next Brett Favre” was the ultimate term of endearment.
Sports Illustrated named Favre "Sportsman of the Year" and published a cover photo of the teary-eyed quarterback's farewell. Fans were content to see the old gunslinger fade into the sunset as one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time.
Four months later when Favre announced that he was considering coming out of “retirement” to play for another team, sports fans wondered, “What more does Favre want?” Favre’s success over the ensuing two seasons, including the late touchdown strike in Sunday’s game, shows that the old man got his touch back, but is it worth it? Are another two Pro Bowls appearances and another 55 touchdown passes and another 700 completions worth tainting the Green Bay legacy with purple?
Sure he's just two wins away from a second Superbowl ring, but I’m with Brooking on this one. Like he said after the game, “This is the NFL. That’s not what it’s all about.”
I imagine Green Bay is with us too where fans who once marveled over his accuracy now scowl at his treachery. Monument blueprints are in ruins. And in schools across Wisconsin boys named Brett are jammed into lockers. As for the Favre name, let’s just say it doesn’t mean what it used to. When someone calls you a “Brett Favre,” they probably mean some of the four-letter words Brooking screamed at number four.
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