I have reached a new phase of fandom, one that concerns me greatly, and makes me wish bad juju on anyone who talks about quarterbacks right now*. I am a thirsty man, parched to the extreme as I trundle the Quarterback Desert, and everybody is talking about water. Cool, refreshing water, the kind that condenses on the outside of a beer bottle on a hot humid day, then runs down the arm of curvaceous bikini bomb as she holds her beverage high, and y'all are making me hate water! I don't want to hate water.
*I'm not talking about quarterbacks.
I'm talking about not talking about quarterbacks.
More commonly known as bitching.
I went to the gym on Super Bowl Sunday when the Hype Machine was churning out ol' number Forty Six, and not because I knew the place would be empty and I wouldn't have to wipe down a single piece of equipment. (It wasn't. It was full of football widows, and having one myself I know the pure power of their dirty looks, so I did clean up. They are awful friendly this time of year to fellas they think don't like football. Judge if you want to.) I put the game to the minion that is my DVR, and kept my buds in my ears just so I could get home without knowing the score.
All so I could fast forward, not through the commercials, but the between-snap commentary. The sound of lips being planted on the respective Brady/Manning posteriors was just too much for my blue and green desert-burnt ears. I spent the whole two weeks avoiding all news football like it was a case of the clap, and I wasn't going to be subjected to more slurping sounds from the NBC crew.
I know most of you are right about the team's need for a franchise tosser. I just didn't need to hear Al Michaels talk about Ely Mandy's inseam to know you are right. Amazingly, the nimble-lipped trifecta NBC had calling the game were adept enough to keep their lips planted on the elite duo's glutei maximi even during plays. (My English teacher just cried a little.) "Effusive in their praise" doesn't even begin to cover the collective drool pool that just had to be humidifying the broadcast booth.
It isn't NBC's fault. They are just doing what Hype Machines do, churning out what the inmates chow on. I found myself cringing every time I mistimed the play button, lest I hear the bobble heads talk tirelessly. And you know what? It was nice. Not as nice as if Super Bowls were played by 19th century rules, but nice nonetheless. The final score was downright Seahawkish, not at all reflective of the more than 10,000 yards of regular season passing on the field. I found myself smiling at the thought that Vegas was going to clean up on all the people who think franchise quarterbacks equal copious touchdowns. Take that, you now penniless paupers!
I am just so sick of hearing about how much the Seahawks need one of these guys. Even though it is pretty much true. Add to that the feeling I am getting that Seattle will not be real players at the QB position on draft day or in free agency, and you begin to understand what a hopeless haze I am in right now.
I'm lost in the desert, peoples. I'm in a bad place. Try to point me to some water, and I'll sit down and mutter mirage. Try to recommend some rookie you fancy, and I will watch him make one simple mistake, hiss out "he reminds me of Tarvaris Jackson", and then my inside voice will chime in with "he is a guaranteed Hall of Famer if he goes anywhere but here." The desert sucks.
I don't want to be this way, folks. I don't want to feel like if my team is behind with 5 minutes left, I might as well get an early jump on kicking the kittens. I don't like wondering if my front office is staffed by idiot savants whose one gift is building teams at 21 starting positions but don't seem to be aware that current rules have made getting very good quarterbacks a vital part of sustained success. I know, deep down that they have not made any huge mistakes at that position, but that knowledge isn't making the desert any wetter.
Help me Pete. Give me some water.
