Opening Of The Flood Gates, Part IV

For Part I of 2009/10 Upper Deck Greats of the Game pack opening, click here.

Ahh the good old days when NBA players didn't go to the same ten schools. Southern University and A&M sounds like a made up school. It is a historically black college in Louisiana with 7300 students, and most definitely not a made up school. Thanks to Avery Johnson, I will always remember Southern University and A&M.

Iconic Nicknames: Dr. Dunkenstein, The Golden Griff. Smooth and effortless dunker. He was one of those rare players who could make announcers excitable in anticipation of what he would do on the fast break. In 1980 this wasn't easy to do. Here's Darrell embarrassing the 1985 Bulls. "In Yo Face, Mama!"

Poor Mateen. I know this set is meant to highlight the collegiate "Greats of the Game," but Cleaves is the only player of the ten to make no impact at the pro level.

I love that (H)Akeem smoothly transitioned from the Houston Cougars to the Houston Rockets. The two teams even wear the same colors. You're set for a stable career when the most significant change you undergo from college to pro is a name change.

The two best Grateful Dead albums -- Workingman's Dead and American Beauty -- were released within five months of each other. That was just unfair to every musician. Almost as unfair as UCLA losing Lou Alcindor and landing Bill Walton two years later.

Opening Of The Flood Gates, Part III

Around this time last year, I affectionately dubbed A Pack To Be Named Later the "Best Blog Ever." I've come to realize this proclamation was a bit hasty. In the last year, I've come across many blogs I would consider better. So in the spirit of highlighting a really great blog -- and jacking their idea a second time -- I'd like to crown "A Pack..." as the "Best Blog You've Probably Never Heard Of." Their mission is simple: purchase a pack of sports cards, open said pack of sports cards, the scan and post the cards for their readers to see. Anyone who loved cards as a kid (or still does) could easily lose themselves for an hour on this site.

I bought two packs of the 2009/10 Upper Deck Greats of the Game series -- a set dedicated to the greats of the college game. I bought them at a Dollar Store. Don't laugh. The Dollar Store is an untapped gold mine for card collecting. Firstly, there is no purchasing competition because no one knows they can buy basketball cards at the Dollar Store. Second, $1 for a pack of relatively new cards is cheaper than anywhere else. The big drawback, of course, is selection. What's there is there and sometimes what's there sucks.

Not the case this time, as the Greats of the Game set is a pretty good one. I looked up the set's details when I got home and am kicking myself now. The retail price for a box of these cards is $65 and contains 16 packs of 8 cards (128 cards). Each box contains TWO AUTOGRAPHS and ONE MEMORABILIA card (jersey swatches, etc). Each pack at the Dollar Store contained only five cards, so I could have bought 26 packs (130 cards) and ended up with the equivalent of a box. It would have been $39!!! cheaper and the odds say I would have driven home with three (sentimentally) valuable cards. Oh well. Here were the ten cards I pulled. No autographs, no memorabilia, just some damn good basketball players.

   

We'll never even see a middling NBA player from the Naval Academy in today's game, let alone a player as talented as Robinson.

Here's something fun to do in college: drunkenly argue with your roommate about whether Magic Johnson or Oscar Robertson is the greatest NBA point guard. You both will inevitably agree on one of them -- then some one at the party neither of you know will throw John Stockton's name into the ring.

Pulling a Michael Jordan from the pack is and always will be a big deal to me. He is incapable of taking a bad action photo.

And to follow Jordan up with Rose, almost too good to be true! Not much to say except I still can't believe he plays for the Bulls, I still can't believe he's one of the League's best players, and I still can't believe he's going to get better. Rose's career thus far is like going from 0 to 60 mph in 0.7 seconds.

George Gervin was listed at 6'7 and 180 lbs. in his playing days. He looks even skinnier than that in every picture I've seen of him. Think Kevin Durant but two inches shorter, 30 pounds lighter and less range. I would love to see if he could score on today's bigger, stronger players. Also: the American flag in the background is the stuff of legends. What a shot!


For Part II of the 2009/10 Upper Deck Greats of the Game pack opening, click here.

A Special Christmas Gift

CALEB HANIE is seated in a dimly lit room. He is dejected, head buried in his hands and runs his fingers through his hair. JAY CUTLER overlooks him and rummages behind a mini refrigerator. The room smells like a mixture of gasoline and cleaning solvent. Both men are keenly aware of this, though neither seems to mind. CUTLER finds what he is looking for -- a bottle of Old Grand-Dad, 114 Barrel Proof. CUTLER produces two whiskey tumblers with ice. He pours the drinks.


CUTLER: Here, drink this.


HANIE: I really shouldn't.


CUTLER: DRINK.


HANIE: If you say so.


CUTLER: It will help you deal with that prick Shane Day.


HANIE: [Finishes glass, Cutler fills him up] I hate that prick. Did you know he wasn't even a quarterback in college. He was a fucking wide receiver. How is he qualified to be a quarterbacks coach?

CUTLER: I did know that. Believe me -- I do my homework. I remind the weasel of his past everyday. I also put Super Glue on the temple covers of his glasses.

HANIE: I feel like I cost us the game.

CUTLER: You did cost us the game. But it's OK. The important thing is to never admit you cost your team the game. Talk about how Oakland is a hostile environment and you can't help but feel dragged down by the protests and year-long Halloween parties. Talk about how you and your receivers are not yet on the same page. Mention how Johnny Knox seems to be playing on a fucking Slip-N-Slide every week. It's not hard, Caleb. It really isn't think. Think of what they want you to say and then say the opposite. Or rely on the one-word response. Whichever.

HANIE: I've placed so much pressure on myself. I just....

CUTLER: I understand. Your family, your beautiful wife, were in attendance. You embarrassed them. They were too afraid to even show up in Bears gear. You dad wanted desperately to cheer when we got back within 5 and he couldn't. He knew you weren't driving the team down the field to win the game.

HANIE: [tears forming] I just wanted to prove....to prove to everyone I could play quarterback in this league. My whole life....I've waited....for this moment. And I couldn't come through.

CUTLER: You can't be so hard on yourself. You'll never succeed in this league with that kind of mentality. Putting all this pressure on yourself -- it's leads to some crazy things. Do you want multiple neck surgeries? Do you want to knock up two women concurrently? Take a look in the mirror. This is where your life is heading.

HANIE: [sobbing loudly now] I've always been....I've always been taught....that winning....winning is everything. You should....you should always do your best....but sometimes your best is not good enough. And then....then it's OK to hate yourself.

CUTLER: CHRIST ALMIGHTY! It's a football game. I emphasize the "game" part for a reason. Play them. Not just on the field, but off. Blame Martz. He didn't put you in position to succeed. End of the second quarter, 2nd and 1 on Oakland's 7-yard line, and what does the asshole do? He calls a misdirection pass across the field. That was one of the STUPIDEST FUCKING THINGS I've seen in my life. Pound the rock, goddamnit....

HANIE: But if I would have made a better throw....

CUTLER: Bullshit! That's the type of play where you call timeout and tell Martz to "Fuck Off." I'm serious. If he pulls that shit next week, I expect you to call timeout and tell him to "Fuck Off." Make sure to tell Shane Day to fuck off too, for good measure.

HANIE: What about when I overshot Forte by a good 10 yards?

CUTLER: [fills Hanie's glass back up] It was you FIRST CAREER START. These things happen. Remember your first fuck? We've all fucked a kneecap for a couple minutes before realizing....

HANIE: I just want it to get better. I want my teammates to look me in the eye and say....

CUTLER: You NEVER want your teammates looking you in the eye -- for any reason. Take my word. Let them do their jobs and yours if need be. Our defense is fucking maniacal. You were giving Oakland plenty of good starting field and the D was just clamping the fuck down. That's what they do. They like the challenge. They're used to having to win games by themselves. Let them do it. If an alcoholic wants a drink, the best thing you can do is give him one.

HANIE: So you're saying....what are you saying?

CUTLER: I'm saying that you don't have to live within your means. Look -- you're never going to have my talent. The throws I make look easy -- you can't make those throws. But that shouldn't stop you from trying. You have people you can blame and other people to bail you out when you fuck up. Use them. Play each game like it's your last. This will be your only chance to ever start in the NFL. Don't let your inhibitions hold you back. 'Let It Fly' -- this is my motto, and a damn good one to live by.

HANIE puts his face down to the table. He remains silent, struggling between CUTLER's advice, and his own, which demands perfection and accountability. He's torn. He feels like vomiting and even dry heaves multiple times. CUTLER notices and feels now is a better time than ever.


CUTLER: Hey Caleb -- I know you've had a really rough go of it lately. So -- well -- I wanted to get you a little something. Just to let you know I'm in your corner.


HANIE: [taken aback] A gift? You didn't have to do that.


CUTLER: I know, but it's Christmas time, and well, here.


CUTLER hands HANIE a greeting card, sealed in a navy blue envelope. HANIE pulls out the card and three Trojan Large condoms.


CUTLER: Ahh, shit. Those weren't supposed to be in there.


HANIE hands CUTLER the condoms and takes the card out of the envelope. On the front is a picture of a smiling Jay Cutler with the heading, 'Who Treats his Back-Up Well?' The inside says, '#CuttyDoesIt.' Suddenly the card begins to play music. The tune is one HANIE recognizes but cannot place. This is the jingle.

HANIE: [Begins to recognize where he has heard this music before] Whaaa.......Whaaa........You didn't?!?!

CUTLER: [laughing] Let's head out to the parking lot.

HANIE: [screams and jumps into CUTLER's arms] I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I FEEL LIKE I'M ON OPRAH!!!!!!!!

CUTLER: That's right, baby! Jay Cutty's coming back Christmas Day to beat those Green Bay faggots. MERRY MOTHER FUCKIN' CHRISTMAS.

Caleb Hanie drives home in his new Lexus with a beaming smile on his face. He leaves the bow on top. He jams to America's greatest hits and thinks to himself, 'Cutty will win us a Super Bowl one day!'

Inside The Mind Of Kyle Orton

Sunday, November 20th. 8:21 PM. Kyle Orton watches the ESPN ticker. Jay Cutler suffers broken thumb, likely out for 6-8 weeks. Two days later, Orton calls his agent David Dunn.

ORTON: Double-Deez, have you seen the ESPN ticker?

DUNN: Of course I have. I get all the up to date information because I am a real agent.

ORTON: I think I can cut it as the Chicago Bears quarterback. Round Two, baby. I need you you to convince the Broncos to waive me.

DUNN: I thought you were talking about the Sandusky news. Hey-O [slaps self on the head]. Wake up Dunnster. Well geez, Kyle it's not that easy. Back-up quarterbacks superior to the the starter are at a premium in today's market. I'll give them a call, but I think they're going to want to hang on to ya.

[Two minutes and 13 seconds later]

DUNN: You have been waived by the Denver Broncos.

Wednesday, November 23rd. 6:04 PM. Kyle Orton hears the Chiefs have placed a waiver claim on him. He takes a much needed second to himself to reflect on his life.

Well, it looks like it's going to be Kansas City. Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck. I shouldn't complain though. It's a job. People are having a rough time finding those, I'm told. I like that Jamaaaaal Charles kid. LOL. How many A's does it take these days? The kid has some talent. Nice speed, shifty runner, and nice head of hair. He keeps those braids nice and clean. I'd buy life insurance from him. I wouldn't buy life insurance from Chris Johnson. Oh shit, I just realized Jamaaaaaaal is out for the year. He was on my fantasy team. Totally fucked up my season. John Fox made it even worse when he benched me. I should have listened to Chris Johnson when he told me never to draft yourself in fantasy football. 'One day you're going to get paid,' he said. 'Then there are going to be some days you just don't give a fuck. Like, you'd rather do anything than play football. Fly fishing, white water rafting, you name it.' I don't even think Chris knows what fly fishing is. He just threw it out there to make the point he would rather take part in an unfamiliar activity than go to work that day. I like the kid though, crazy gold teeth. Hehe. I'm going to be him for Halloween next year but I won't paint myself black because I could get in a lot of trouble. Good guy, that Chris. Hopefully Tennessee will release him and he can get back to caring about football.

Kansas City is supposed to have good BBQ -- huge plus. I can put up with the drowsiest of cities as long as I have the right food. Like, none of this McRib bullshit they have in Denver. What's that thing even made of? Does anyone know? Does anyone want to? Life's quandaries, I tell ya. I stumbled upon an article about Kansas City a few years ago -- I think it was a most desirable places to live or something -- and I was surprised to find out Kansas City isn't in the state of Kansas -- huge plus. Imagine ol' Ort out in the Bible-thumpin' state of Kansas. Some of those places wouldn't take too kindly to a man who knows how to enjoy a good drink on a Sunday morning. I'd get thrown in one of their two-bit jails the minute I stepped foot into the saloon. I seem to remember an old Western --what the hell was the name of it? Something or other and it took place in Kansas. All the guys drank and dressed like they got by on $1.25 a week and they probably did. Some scruffy mother fuckers too. Well I'll be damned! For once the NECKBEARD will fit right in. No more anonymous gift boxes filled with razors, no more 'Well you better buy me drinks all night,' no more 'Use TWO condoms,' and no more '1968 called....' jokes. 

People are always asking me about Tim Tebow. Tebow this -- Jesus Christ that -- Tebowing -- and TeBLOWing. Everyone seems to assume I hate the little prick. Not true. Timmy loves the cameras. He loves Jesus Christ. He loves answering questions about his religion, and he loves gently forcing his religious beliefs upon those living in impoverished areas of the world. He hasn't really fucked with me, so I don't have a problem with him. People always say, 'Well Kyle, he did take your job. Isn't that kind of fucking with you?' HELL NO. I'm still getting paid, aren't I? He's playing like a fucking idiot, isn't he? Eventually the Broncos are going to realize they made a mistake and put me back in. Heh heh heh. I just thought about what I just thought about. They're NEVER going to realize it.

I've had some good and some bad times in my career. Chicago, despite all of my wins, was not the greatest time. I wish those pictures never hit the net. Now everyone thinks I have no standards. That I'll shack up with the first pair of tits that pop out during Thirsty Thursday. They think I can't dance and I drink alone. I don't even like the taste of whiskey. It's rotten and deceptive. It doesn't love me like I thought. No one loves me like I thought. Except Brady. That's right, Brady Quinn. I can say without hesitation, we are bros. I'll never forget the day he came to Denver. He was trying to make nice with me, and I think -- quite possibly -- trying to ruin my chances of winning the starting quarterback job. He invited me to a party being held by a friend of a friend of a friend's dad. You know those frat-types. Everyone knows someone who knows someone.

So I get to the party and it's taking place on a deck. This is not an ordinary deck, as seen in Indiana. This is a fucking huge two-story deck. The place was already packed with people, mostly shirtless guys and scantily-clad females. I'm a shy person by nature, which has its advantages, but doesn't afford me the luxury of meeting many beautiful women. I took this as a great opportunity to stand near the keg and hold the front of my hand out -- waiting for a girl's ass to brush against it if they passed by me too close. I'm delighted to say this maneuver worked two times before the third girl slapped me. I admit to being a little too forward with the third girl -- I used the palm of my hand this time and offered a playful squeeze. My face stung and I high-tailed it out of there down to the first floor, worrying the entire time my NECKBEARD would make me easily recognizable into the night. 

Brady was on the first floor playing beer pong with three girls. I'd been drinking Jack all car ride and was pretty drunk when I showed up. Brady saw me first, 'Hey, Ort-MAN. You're on my team. MY TEAM. THE FUCKIN BRONCOS AND WE'RE GONNA SLAY THE SHIT OUT OF THESE TWO GIRLS!!!' It took me a second to realize he was referring to the game of beer pong. By that time, I had already decided my inappropriate squeezing of the girl's buttocks was Brady's fault. He'd invited me to the party and my brain processes determined this was justification enough to blame him for the incident upstairs. So I said, 'What is that shit you're drinking in those cups? I bet that shit is Bud Light.' He just kinda stared at me and didn't say anything. He was trying to be my bro and I was hostile. 'You want to play a real game of beer pong? Fill the fucking cups with Jack. I have a handle right here.' I pulled out the handle from underneath my shirt and one of the girls seemed to be impressed with that. I think she thought I magically summoned it. So I gave her ass a playful squeeze, realizing it was OK this time, and saddled up next to Brady.

'Let's just play with Bud Light, bro,' Brady said. 'We're gonna get way too fucked up with the Jack.' 

'Getting too fucked up off the Jack is how we do it here in Denver. Are you not man enough to play in Denver?'

I realized that night questioning Brady's manhood was a surefire way to get him to do anything. I filled our cups all the way up with the Jack and the girl's cups with the piss. Brady and I were on the same team, but we taunted each other as if we were competing. He would miss a shot and I'd tell him he had a small penis. I'd miss a shot and he'd tell me I was a lame. The girls were dominating and we both became frustrated missing shot after shot. Then I said something I shouldn't have.

'You're missing cups from a few feet away. How the hell do you plan on completing a pass to a receiver?'

This pushed him over the edge. I also learned that night very little was off limits with Brady. He was generally good-natured except if you questioned his on-field performance. He was very sensitive when it came to his inability to play quarterback at the professional level. Some of the guys in the locker room would compare him to Jimmy Clausen. This hurt him deeply.

'THAT'S IT,' Brady screamed. He told me later he contemplated flipping the table but thought better of it. 'YOU VERSUS ME. THROW-OFF."

I had no idea what a throw-off was. Brady enlisted a couple of his bros to bring the tables into the yard. They counted off and placed the tables 25 yards apart. Brady and I and close to one hundred bros met in the middle of the tables. Brady explained we'd be throwing the ping-pong balls 25 yards now. This was supposed to prove who the better NFL quarterback was. As I said, I was already drunk, and welcomed the challenge. There was no light in the yard, however, which proved to be a problem. 

We threw the ping-pong balls up and into the dark night. Playing quarterback for the Broncos was not all too different from our throw-off. Neither of us could hit anything, but we bonded over our lack of success. The last thing I remember from that night was taking off my shirt and offering body shots. I woke up the next morning still shirtless and face-down on the lawn with my pants around my ankles. I drove home drunk from the night before and laughed it off. I hadn't experienced a night like that since college. I owed it all to Brady. So when people ask me about being replaced as a starter, it's not so much I'm disappointed about being replaced. I just wish it were by Brady. He deserves the promotion.

Sunday, November 27th. 7:48 PM.   

Mom never trusts me. She made the goddamn cranberry sauce out of the can for Thanksgiving again. I hate the fucking cranberry sauce out of the can. 'But it's so affordable,' she says. 'Mom,' I tell her. 'I'm rich. If you're worried about money, I can pay for the dinner. I'd gladly pay for the dinner if it means you're making homemade cranberry sauce.' She doesn't think I'm rich. She thinks if you don't start in the NFL you don't get paid. She doesn't even believe I've been claimed by the Chiefs. She's referred me to the Wanted ads at least three times today. I'm sick of this shit. I just want to enjoy a homemade meal, watch a little football, and fall asleep. Why is that so much to ask?

Orton is crunched in between James Harrison and LaMarr Woodley. This following a first down run for no gain and a throw to the sideline as his receiver breaks in on second down. Todd Haley is irate on the sideline.

HALEY: What the fuck is numb nuts thinking about out there, Thanksgiving dinner?                 

#CuttyDoesIt: A Non-Comprehensive List

Up close look at the thumb in question.

Sunday night was supposed to be a time of relaxation. A time to enjoy the Bears victory and laugh at the plight of the Eagles. The Eagles won in spectacularly boring fashion, the real interruption, however, was the news of Cutler's broken thumb. The reactions were swift and ranging. Everything from "The season is over," to "Their remaining schedule is pretty soft, the Bears should be able to survive and make the playoffs." The Bears this season, especially during the current five game winning streak, have looked more in-sync on offense than they have since the first half of 2006, and before that --what -- the mid-1990s? Cutler, now surrounded by a competent offensive line and a rejuvenated defense, appears worthy of the hype surrounding his acquisition three years ago. Fans who didn't see him play in Denver were probably wondering how and why that hype originated.

Cutler's on-field exploits -- extending plays with his legs, the accurate, zip-line throws into tight windows, and propensity to throw on the run -- seemed to be a matter of "if" rather than "when." He justifiably lacked confidence in his offensive line. He forced throws when he knew he wouldn't be afforded enough time to throw down the field again for the remainder of the drive. His body language was bad. Too much was made of this, particularly in connection to buzzwords like "leadership ability" that are more literary crutch than beneficial discussion point. There was and is something to body language, though. Cutler approached every game as if he was preparing for a 10-hour warehouse shift. This applied to all phases, on the field, at the podium, etc. Playing football wasn't about fun or winning. It was some shit he had to do to survive.

Soldier Field erupted when Cutler took the ball over the pile for a one-yard score in the second quarter. The Bears would not relinquish the lead for the rest of the game. It's plays like these Bears fans love because they can say, "Look how tough he is." When news came out Cutler finished the game with a broken thumb, I could envision the prideful smug-faced Bears fans everywhere. When a slew of players, NFL fans and writers (all OUTSIDERS oooh oooh), criticized Cutler for not returning to last year's NFC Championship game, almost all Bears fan -- even those who didn't like Cutler -- rallied defensively around him. He was like the younger brother they could slap, push down the stairs, and tackle in the mud, but the minute someone else did it, they're dead. Basically, we don't need someone outside our family telling us how to be an older sibling, or how to raise kids, whichever. He's leaving us now, for  6-8 weeks, and it's created a void in our sporting lives.

The team has won the last two years and Bears fans have an excuse to permeate the "Us Against the World" mentality with Cutler front and center. Spawned from this new relationship is a funnier, more entertaining and relateable Jay Cutler. He's actually interacting with fans on Twitter and joking about giving Philip Rivers a call. He can tell his offensive coordinator to "Fuck Off," and everyone laughs it off. He's embraced the #CuttyDoesIt hashtag and is using it to promote his foundation. I love #CuttyDoesIt because it's all-encompassing. What can't Cutty do? He can do the mundane, the supernatural, the sexual conquistador -- whatever you want. And the best part is he embraces this fluidity. Two years ago he would have shrugged it off.

* * *

Make a list of your own. Here's mine:


Shaves with Ginsu knives. #CuttyDoesIt

Pierces ears, nose, and lip with a blue push-pin. Critics point to the fact push-pin was sterilized beforehand. #CuttyDoesIt

Orders a $3.99 meal from Denny's. Tips 60 cents in nickels and dimes. #CuttyDoesIt

Contacts four different electronic stores in regards to a 60 inch flat screen HDTV. Decides on the one with the most affordable price. #CuttyDoesIt

Has taken to yelling "Go Long!" at the drunken holiday parties. The guests get a kick out of it. #CuttyDoesIt

Notices a beehive has begun to form underneath the gutter. Runs to the store, purchases a can of Raid and sprays the hive for the next three days. Removes nest on the third day with no problem. #CuttyDoesIt

Enters a burning building. Mother screams, "My baby! My baby! Not my baby!" Jets up to the second floor, grabs baby, and throws perfect spiral out the window to Earl Bennett, standing nearby. #CuttyDoesIt

Publicly roots for Vandy, but wouldn't mind seeing Kentucky take the SEC East every year. #CuttyDoesIt

Ponders aloud in the doctor's office the difficulty of jerking off with a thumb cast. #CuttyDoesIt

Throws off back foot to distinguish himself from Aaron Rodgers. #CuttyDoesIt

I have never seen this woman in my life before, officer. #CuttyDoesIt

Publicly denies to the intrusive, no-fun-whatsoever beat reporters his knowledge of the term "cutty" as slang for a "sex act."  Privately knew all along. #CuttyDoesIt

Cutler Finally Picks Up The Phone

JAY CUTLER emerges from his bathroom wearing nothing but an opened bathrobe. The bathrobe -- pink, fuzzy, and clearly fraying is embroidered with #CuttyDoesIt on the ass. Water drips from Cutler's hair on to the carpet but he doesn't seem to notice. En route to the fridge he stops for a second and stares at the telephone. Next to the telephone is a torn off piece of notebook paper with a phone number written on it. Cutler stares at the telephone dismissively, as if the telephone picked him off four times in a game. After much hesitation he picks up the phone and dials the number on the piece of paper.


[Phone rings three times. A woman answers]


WOMAN: Hello. Rivers residence.

CUTLER: The time has come Philip. Do you know who this is?

WOMAN: This is Philip's wife, Tiffany. May I ask who's calling?

CUTLER: Oh, couldn't tell the difference. Umm, this is Jay -- Jay [five second pause] Jay Smith. From work.

TIFFANY: One second, Jay. I'll get him for you.

[Tiffany yells upstairs to Philip that he has a phone call. Rivers plays with his two boys, while his four girls are locked in another room. He is in the middle of explaining how to properly throw a football. He is visibly perturbed. "My kids are retards," he mumbles under his breath. He instructs his boys to practice "The Bible" while he takes this phone call]


RIVERS: Who is it, honey?

TIFFANY: It's a man who calls himself Jay Smith. He says he works with you.

RIVERS: Fuck. I think that's the QB Coach, I better take this. [Tiffany scurries out of the room and up the stairs]

RIVERS: Hello, this is Philip.

CUTLER: Hey there, cockboy.

RIVERS: Now what did I tell you about that dog gone nickname. I didn't intend to stare at Tolbert's dick. It was right there in front of me. I couldn't look anywhere else.

CUTLER: Jesus, you're more pathetic than I remember. Let me give you a little hint as to who this is. 4-1: your record against me. I know you keep track of those meaningless stats.

RIVERS: Well by golly, this isn't Jay Smith at all. This is Jay Cutler, the hot-doggin SUMAVABITCH I've had to answer questions about all week.

CUTLER: Very good, limp dick. Although I probably shouldn't call you that anymore. You have like 17 kids now.

RIVERS: Just had my sixth thank you very much. A beautiful and healthy baby boy. He just made one month. He's ree-tarded. I've tried teaching him to throw a football and he just doesn't get it.

CUTLER: All kids are retarded. They're like women -- and beat reporters -- and football fans.

RIVERS: I've had just about enough of your foul mouth. All these years later and you haven't grown up one bit. I'm a family man and a devout Catholic. I play for a DOG GONE ball club that's lost four in a row. I have better things to do than trade dick jokes with you.

CUTLER: Philip, and I will call you Philip from now on -- dick jokes were not the purpose of my phone call. I have grown up and matured since our little run-ins. I want to make things right. I didn't have to call you this afternoon, but I DID. I care and I want to turn our relationship around. I've been meaning to for a while but I couldn't work up the courage. I knew how little you thought of me. Remember when we met in Denver? You said if I'd write to you you would write back. See, I'm just like you in a way. I never knew my father neither, he always used to cheat on my mom and beat her.

RIVERS: WHAT THE???.......MY FATHER WOULD NEVER.....AHH it appears I've been taken. Here I am, thinking you're trying to mend fences and you're quotin' Satan's music. Well the sun don't shine on the same dog's tail all the time, buddy. Know that.

CUTLER: You strike me as more of a Lynyrd Skynyrd kind of guy.

RIVERS: I'm hanging up now....

CUTLER: WAIT! Philip, I'm sorry. Behind my rough exterior is a sensitive, caring man. I've been battered and bruised on the football field. My reality star girlfriend and I are still putzing around the issue of our relationship. I'm a football player and a FUCKING LEADER. It's true, I've been putting on airs. But it's the only way I know how. Do you have any idea what it's like playing with a shitty team your whole life?

RIVERS: I do Jay, I do. I'm in the middle of that right now. In fact, some would argue I've always played for shitty teams -- just with good records and gaudy numbers.

CUTLER: We're not that different, Philip. The media tries to paint us as a couple of assholes. We ARE a couple of assholes, but there's more to us than that. I know the kind of good work you do, talking to the kids, saving them from getting some pussy and all. And I run my diabetes foundation. We're good guys, but no one ever wants to talk about those things. They just see a couple of guys with bad body language and peculiar facial expressions. That's all we are to them.

RIVERS: You know as well as I do that we're both used to being the biggest asshole on the field. Now it's just human nature or some shit that you never want to give that title up. When you used to grab your crotch and wave off the officials I became jealous. I felt my scowls and sideline tantrums paled in comparison to your performance. Me lashing out at you was a way to cover up the thoughts of inadequacy I was feeling.

CUTLER: It's getting too real right now, bro. I'm glad we've had this talk. But let me make one thing clear: when Sunday comes and it's time for the coin toss, I hate your FUCKING guts. I want nothing to do with you. We're going to go on like we still despise each other.

RIVERS: No doubt. It's good for business. The dumb ass fans need to feel like we still hate each other.

CUTLER: As long as we're being honest, I slipped this video into film study this week:




CUTLER: Virginity is the greatest gift you can give your wife and vice versa? [laughs] I bet you've never had good sex in your life. I bet you've never ventured away from the missionary position --

RIVERS: Enough. Nobody talks about my wife and family like that. I WILL be the bigger asshole on Sunday you can bet on that. I've never been more motivated.

CUTLER: Jay Cutty can do no wrong! I'm winning games. I'm all of a sudden the charming asshole. I'm interacting with fans on Twitter and giving handy J's to my parody account. My popularity is at an all-time high! Charges fans are ready to run your ass out of town. It's a good time to be Jay Cutty.

[Rivers hangs up. He asks his wife if she would consider spicing their relationship up -- maybe some edible panties or party masks. She refuses. "Just for that, no sex for a month." Rivers picks up a Sears catalog, sandwiches it between the playbook and heads down to the basement]


[Cutler drops his robe and exposes himself to the neighbor's daughter. He calls up Greg Olsen and gets his voicemail. He leaves a message, "You're not going to believe who I just talked to. Call me back when you get this. Urgent."] 

It's Never Just Hair Loss

Matt Forte in 2008.

Matt Forte in 2009.

Matt Forte in 2010.

Matt Forte in 2011.

Sweet mother of God! That hairline -- it's -- it's -- pushed back a full inch. A receding hairline comes with age and stress. Stress. Forte was planning a wedding and how to tell his fiance he knocked up his ex-girlfriend when this picture was taken. This was also only a few months removed from the loss to the Packers in the NFC championship game. Stressful things indeed, but let's be honest with ourselves. Forte's hair loss is the result of his contract situation. Everything relates back to his contract because we want to believe there's some justice and distinction in a sport where there is none. It's also less painful to discuss someone else's salary than our own. Alas, Forte showed up to camp looking like Taj Gibson's brother.

   

And cannot be interviewed without a hat for the rest of his life.

When will the madness end? You say Forte shaved his head to conceal his hair loss. I say shaving one's head is an act symbolic of the pain and loss one is feeling. Forte's grown the contract-squabble-beard perfected by Darrelle Revis. Remember when he rejoined his teammates for the taping of Hard Knocks? Dude looked like he hadn't seen bright light in 18 days. Dude most definitely hadn't groomed for at least a month. It was depressing and I wonder if Forte is suffering the same silent anguish. He's almost certainly dipped into the junk food. Once he discovers the delicious combination of pepperoni pizza topped with chocolate syrup and sandwiched in between two Krispy Kreme donuts, those jump cuts aren't going to embarrass defenders anymore.

So as you try to convince your sensible friends Forte deserves a shitload of guaranteed money, don't reference his statistics or big plays. Running backs typically break down after five years -- the ones lucky enough to last that long. Cite the visible damage to his appearance and the inevitable damage to his psyche. These are sane, persuasive arguments. Or just run around in circles, bang your head repeatedly against the wall while chanting "Pay Forte." Your friends will probably say "Fuck it," and agree with you.    

A Most Sincere Appreciation of all Things Packers

I took a trip over to the local library this afternoon to return a book and came across, dare I say, a typical Chicago Bears fan. Like all Bears fans, this one was more concerned with the Packers than his own team. He wore a heavy blue and white flannel shirt, a black knitted cap, and stood, feet firmly planted on the roof. Whether he was up there to fix something or bring home his point I don't know. Another man, bigger, perhaps more rational held the ladder and yelled up to him, "They're all saying Aaron Rodgers is overrated." Keep in mind I approached them mid-conversation so I couldn't tell you how they got to that point. My immediate reaction was, "ALL? Who's saying such a thing? No large, reactionary group of people could possibly be that stupid." The man on the roof yelled down to him, "Aaron Rodgers IS overrated." This was his moment, his statement to end all statements -- a thought more definitive than any he'd conjured up in 35 or so years of living. 

Suddenly, the wind gusts picked up. Blue and white flannel shirt man began to sway -- arms flailing -- at the edge of the roof. "He IS overrated," he continued. "He IS." It became clear to me that he felt the wind was a sign from God. A powerful force meant to smite him and he stood there on the edge of the roof firm in his convictions. The wind continued to howl, and he kept going. "He IS, he IS, he IS..." His upper body now hung over the edge and he looked like he was performing the breaststroke in the swimming pool of his creation. The man on the ground, clearly concerned, mumbled something to the effect of, "You might want to get down from there." But the man on the roof enjoyed this too much. He was getting a kick out of battling his brisk, assuming enemy. He was winning.   

The wind slowly died down and blue and white flannel shirt man took two steps back to gather himself. He surveyed the bikes and cars he was overlooking, and I'd have to assume, felt above it all. "I'm so sick of hearing about the goddamn Packers everywhere I turn." He averted his gaze. "9-0 my ass." This man nearly plummeted to his death, and for what? The current is coming to sweep us all away. It's best to trend in its general direction, lay our heads down, and let it take us where it will.

* * *

Let's clearly establish one thing from the get-go: Aaron Rodgers is the best player in the NFL. This is not debatable. It's bad enough I have to hear about how overrated Rodgers is in real life, but then I have to venture onto some Internet hatespeak platform masquerading as a legitimate website, only to hear that Aaron Rodgers isn't even having the most impressive season from a quarterback in the last five years. These propaganda-flingers will have you believe Tom Gay-dy's 2007 season trumps anything Rodgers will do this year. PUH-LEASE. They'll have you believe the rules are so slanted towards modern day offenses that Rodgers' numbers deserve the Roger Maris asterisk treatment. You want to talk about asterisks? Here's one: Randy Gene Moss. Tom Gay-dy simply threw the ball up and allowed Moss in all his gazelle-footed glory to run out and get it. You've seen some of those catches, no? Underthrown, overthrown, ten yards to the right, ten yards to the left, one hand free, no hands free. It didn't matter. Unless a back physically tackled Moss, there was no way he wasn't coming down with the ball. Wes Welker wasn't going to make those catches, folks. Deion Branch wasn't going to make those catches. And Moss accounted for almost half of Brady's 50 touchdown passes that year. LOL. Take Moss off the team and Gay-dy's numbers are looking mad average. Get that shit outta here, bro.

Now I'm supposed to believe Aaron Rodgers has someone of Moss' caliber in Green Bay. Don't get me wrong, Greg Jennings is the most underappreciated receiver in all of football, but Greg Jennings isn't making those catches. Jordy Nelson is a white guy named Jordy and Rodgers is making him look like a beast out there. Rodgers is placing passes so perfectly in between James Jones' hands that he can't even drop them. Donald Driver is 58-years old. McCarthy and Rodgers are drawing up misdirection shovel passes because they look cool on the whiteboard and they want to throw John Kuhn a bone once in a while. I believe in this defense too. They're going to get better because they have Pro Bowlers and they can't get any worse.

I know what you're thinking, Internet stat-geeks. The Packers couldn't possibly go 19-0. There's too much parity in this league. The pressure is too great. The 2007 Gay-triots had the best chance we'll ever see and that ship has sailed. Now Aaron Rodgers is obviously working with a lot less than Gay-dy had, but this should not sway you. This Packers team is light years ahead of what the rest of the league is doing. Look at their remaining schedule. Who's honestly going to beat them? I see you, Internet word-nerds, moisturizing your delicate hands and circling Week 13 against the Giants. LOL. Have you forgotten dum-dum Eli Manning still quarterbacks these New York football Giants? Have you forgotten the wounded ducks Eli is capable of throwing in adverse New York weather conditions? The Giants are going to punt to Randall Cobb -- this year's DeSean Jackson. Tom Coughlin will be tomato-red in the face five minutes in trying to match wits with McCarthy. The Packers might just line-up Ryan Grant at tight end because you never know, and it would give something for future opponents to think about.

It's time for me to address my fellow Bears fans because, quite frankly, some of you are embarrassing in the alcoholic uncle sort of way. Like, I'm embarrassed to even be associated with some of you. All this picking and prodding and advanced statistics and this "They're weak in the secondary!!" garbage takes you back to square one: 9-0. Kiss the ring, watch the throne, whatever. I know I am. How can you honestly watch a Packers game and not take delight in a guy like James Starks? This is a guy who was given nothing. Watch him truck a defensive back and tell me this guy doesn't run with a purpose. I look at the stat sheet and Starks runs for 60 yards and it feels like 150 because his aura, his entire presence on the football field feels magical in a way that a biased Bears fan couldn't understand. How can you watch Rodgers and Jennings execute a perfect 10-yard slant without your eyes getting a little bit watery? I was in the middle of a momentous cry during last night's second quarter and my girlfriend walked in on me. I had to tell her my best friend from childhood died. Car accident. I don't feel good about that one bit, but if you appreciate good football, the Packers are sure to turn you into one of those Miller Lite pussies. 

It would be irresponsible of me to exit before singling out the exemplary performance from the Packer faithful Monday Night. They're the best and most loyal fan base in all of professional sports for a reason and you saw it yesterday. Jared Allen managed to stumble into a few sacks like he's been doing all season and tried the hog tie routine at Lambeau Field. Know one thing: Packers fans will extend a forgiving hand for many things (addiction to painkillers, sexual assault, drunk driving, lean), but a repetitive, unimaginative celebration that isn't called the Lambeau Leap is not one of them. You tried to get gully in front of the most rapid fan base in all of sports Mr. Allen and you got your ass handed to you. Don't ever try it again. 

Did you even know the city of Green Bay owns the Packers? I didn't until yesterday. Pretty neat fact. And this is what truly separates Green Bay from every other NFL city. It's in the blood. Kids are born and their parents immediately put them on the season-ticket waiting list. Never mind that they don't really like football and would rather play the piano -- they're going to go outdoors in -10 degree weather, grill some brats, drink some beer, and toss around the pigskin until their knuckles crack and bleed. There's no choice in the matter. So while Chicago parents are coddling their children and allowing them to "pursue their interests," Green Bay children are being force-fed a beautiful brand of football. Fandom done right if you ask me. And you wonder why Bears fans can't muster up the slightest hint of excitement when leading the Lions by three scores -- little Johnny is too concerned with watercolors and his biology homework.

The Bears and Packers play on Christmas Day this year. The Packers will be 14-0 and the Bears will hopefully have their heads above water! May I be the first to say it's an honor to play such a distinguished franchise in a historic stadium on the holiest of red-blooded American days. The Packers could really wipe the floor with us, but I don't think they will. They have too much respect for the game and its players. They wouldn't send the Bears home to their families on Christmas Day like that. Honor and integrity are two things they teach in Green Bay, dating back to the days of the great Vince Lombardi who lied on his resume to land the Packers job in 1959. Mike McCarthy may purposely lose a timeout on a dumb challenge or James Jones may inexplicably fumble the ball, no one within ten yards of him -- something to keep the game close.

When this season is over we'll be talking about the 2011 Green Bay Packers as the greatest football team of all-time -- 19-0 and three merciless playoff victories because honor and integrity don't apply in the playoffs. Anything less would be a colossal disappointment. Ask Packer fans, they're as confident as anyone. They know how much your team sucks. Can you feel that? It's the current here to sweep you away, Bears fans. Don't fight it. Drift peacefully in the wind unnoticed as the Packers tussle with the lofty expectations they've established for themselves.

Cheesin' With Arian Foster

Mission Bay High School Class of 2003

NAME: Arian Foster

Voted: Most Likely to Have Already Succeeded

Voted: Best Smile

Profile pictures, those found on Facebook or buried within the depths of yearbooks, define a person. Or at least we've convinced ourselves of this. Who takes a single picture anymore? We must take two or even three -- just in case -- and this in the digital camera age where we can see immediately what the pictures look like. Recall the irreparable scrutiny you've directed at a certain picture, most likely your own. Smile: too big or too small. Eyes: too open or too closed. Hair: too much gel or too little. Glasses, acne, braces -- the list goes on. There always seems to be something preventing a "good" picture. The irony of course being a "good" picture says absolutely nothing about a person. A "good" picture -- perfect smile, hair, and all -- is nothing more than a stoic Sears catalog rip-off meant to mask even the slightest hint of personality or feeling. Arian Foster, in his 2011 NFL profile picture, aimed to be more than a mannequin. He was resoundingly successful.

Heading into the 2010 season, Arian Foster was a relative unknown, existing in the memories of whiskey-soaked Tennesseans living on the outskirts of society, and that's about it. Foster signed with the Texans as an undrafted free agent two years ago and played sparingly his rookie season. He took over as Houston's starter in Week 1 of last season and never relinquished his spot. In fact, he led the league in rushing, became that year's fantasy football savior, and didn't seem to give a damn about any of it. 

Foster isn't cut from the typical athlete's cloth. He writes poetry and majored in philosophy. The meaning of this is unclear, but it's suffice it to say Foster spends more time thinking critically about (I'm not even going to contemplate), than the average player, who finds meaning in a crushing hit or a 25-yard wheel route. It's tough to diagnose whether deep-thinkers are more prone to fail or succeed in the NFL. In one sense, Foster most certainly realizes last week's performance doesn't define him, for better or worse, as a person. This can save him from heaping unnecessary amounts of stress on himself, and allow him to play freer and better. On the flip side, understanding how inherently silly it is to risk life-long injury to advance a ball a couple of feet can prompt one to smoke lots of weed and move to India to teach yoga (see: Williams, Ricky).

In his profile picture, Foster sports the classic half-smile -- non-commitment in its finest form. We should expect nothing less from a man who lives by the Mike Jones axiom, "Back then they didn't want me. Now I'm hot, they all up on me." He's non-committal because he realizes what he's posing for. Foster's picture will be used to define the football player, often confused as the person. He was one of the first to speak out against the fantasy football commodification of human beings, which isn't all that different from the commodification of human beings in real football. What better way to establish himself as more than a fantasy point total than to take a picture like this? Beyond skepticism, I see the cockiness in Foster's half-smile that comes with leading the league in rushing. These are the things I believe he is trying to tell us in this picture:

Arian Foster is a man who just might finish with more receiving yards than rushing yards this year -- because he can.

Arian Foster's poetry is more authentic because it isn't written for mass consumption.

Arian Foster's celebratory bow after every touchdown (a reference to Namaste, a greeting native to India) is a conscious attempt at trying to appear smart.

Arian Foster beds many beautiful women.

Arian Foster visits Twitter just to see how the unenlightened live.

Arian Foster knows you -- "you" encompassing his detractors and supporters -- can't wait to categorize him as a washed-up running back. This motivates him.

It's difficult to stand out in a faceless sport. If a player's hair doesn't fall out of his helmet like Troy Polamalu or Clay Matthews, he can very easily, barring mistakes, dredge through seventeen weeks unnoticed. Speed and jumping ability are other distinguishing characteristics, but these abilities fade. The preseason profile pictures are one of the last ways a player can show any individuality without drawing a 15-yard penalty. It's a shame only Arian Foster and a few others know or take advantage of this.               

Palate Cleanser

I've watched this Hail Mary exactly one hundred times since it happened two weeks ago. I told myself I would stop at one hundred, as the cleansing should be sufficient by then. Watch any video -- spectacular, brutal, harrowing, inspirational -- enough times and it will become ordinary. Desensitization is the name of the game. This Michigan State Hail Mary, as improbable and synchronically beautiful as it once seemed, is just another game-winner to me now, no different than a first down completion or kneel down in the victory formation. But enough about the Michigan State game. This post is about the Ohio State game and the moment of redemption that was set up perfectly for Wisconsin, and never happened.

Unconsciously and sometimes consciously we try to make sense of things through comparison. Much of today's sports writing is is predicated on comparing last night's game to The Wire or The Shawshank Redemption. Or trying to find a historical comparison for a certain player, or a game in a similar ilk to the one that just occurred. This type of thinking can be lazy, and prevent us from forming any kind of original thought. But comparisons can also help in providing a larger context for sports and a more developed paradigm from which to work. I guess it all depends on perspective.

Comparisons are especially useful to shape a narrative. Take the last two Wisconsin games. Wisconsin lost on a last second Hail Mary and now found themselves on the other end of it against Ohio State. After letting their three-point lead slip away, Wisconsin received the ball on the 40-yard line, down four points with 18 seconds left. Looking to get the Badgers within a more manageable Hail Mary distance, Russell Wilson's first throw was an incompletion to Nick Toon. The second, again to Toon, bounced off his hands. But wait...a penalty! And not just any penalty, but a 15-yard personal foul on Ohio State safety Christian Bryant for grabbing the face mask. The clock had ran out, so Wisconsin had one play left from Ohio State's 45-yard line, the manageable Hail Mary distance they were looking for.

This was now venturing far beyond the realm of half-baked comparison. Michigan State's Hail Mary came from Wisconsin's 43-yard line. Cousins released the ball at his own 45. Russell released the ball at his own 44. Both quarterbacks faced a three-man rush and rolled out to their right. The only difference: where Wisconsin dropped back eight, Ohio State linebacker Andrew Sweat lingered around midfield until the pocket collapsed. He sensed his opportunity, blew past the Kevin Zeitler practically untouched and got just enough of Wilson's arm to prevent a throw of any consequence (4:22 in the video below).




What I sensed, even in real time, was a perfect narrative, a Hail Mary destined to redeem the Badgers from last week's gaff/bad luck. Except Andrew Sweat showed up to the table with a compass handy and attempted to draw perfect circles by hand. They of course came out misshapen and ugly. Fuck you Andrew Sweat for having the gall to change the course of something much bigger than you.

With two straight losses comes crazy consequences, like looking up a little bit higher at Penn State in the standings. The same Penn State that needed almost forty minutes to push across a field goal against Illinois, and for Illinois to miss a 42-yard field goal as time expired to come away with a 10-7 win at home. The same Penn State whose coach, 84-year-old Joe Paterno, sits up in the booth and does God knows what. Does he call plays, watch film, or do anything 21st century coaches do? I don't know. His recruiting pitch has been reduced to, "Come to Penn Staaaaaaaaaaaaaaate," as he clutches his coat pockets, bravely withstanding the ever-present chills of 80 degree weather. "It's either here or the Temple Owls," his recruits respond. "Sure. I'll come to Penn State coach." JoePa recently accepted a nice plaque to commemorate his Division I leading 409th win, to which he thanked the room for the thoughtful birthday gift. They didn't have to get him anything.

Penn State controls their destiny in the Big Ten, but the real test starts now. They have a bye next week, and follow that up with a home tilt with Nebraska, and back-to-back away games at Ohio State and Wisconsin. Wisconsin needs them to lose at least one of those games before their match-up to close out the Big Ten season. Should this happen, and as long as the losing stops, Wisconsin can still miraculously end up in the Big Ten title game. Two weeks ago it was the National Championship, this week it's, "Gee willikers, I hope the Nittany Lions slip up so we at least have a shot at playing for the BIG TEN title." How the mighty have fallen. Apologies to Purdue and Minnesota for what's going to happen in the next two weeks.

November 5th marks the start of a cleansing period for the Badgers. They've experienced the turbulence and can see clear skies ahead (fingers crossed). There's now officially no room for error, but don't worry, Bret Bielema gets off to that sort of thing. I expect a much more focused football team. Or a team that appears more focused but is really just beating up on shitty competition. I'm fine with either.