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.