Tebow Confides In Cutler

TIM TEBOW and JAY CUTLER meet in the tunnel to exchange pleasantries. CUTLER is sullen and dejected. He is trying to think of a loophole in his contract which will allow him to stay home for the games he is not playing in. Who is this Tim Tebow? He has to know. Why do his Denver teammates believe in such an inferior talent? CUTLER aims to find out.


TEBOW: Jay!!!! All praise be unto God!!!


CUTLER: God works in mysterious ways and what he giveth he taketh away and all that. Hell of a performance, kid. You played like shit for a sixth consecutive game and still managed to win. I play good and I'm STILL the reason we lose.


TEBOW: Enough with the BULLSHIT, Jay.


CUTLER: Huh?


TEBOW: You're the only NFL quarterback I can entrust with my secret. I've always admired you from afar -- the way you give absolutely ZERO FUCKS in everything you do. This picture says it all. This is my favorite picture. I've never seen a better picture. I printed out this picture at home, blew it up at Kinko's and it is now framed, sitting on my desk. Creepy, I know.

    


TEBOW: Your absolute contempt for everything and everyone around you -- it's so -- human. You carry yourself the way I've always wanted to. But I am not allowed to.

CUTLER: I don't follow.

TEBOW: Don't you see? My whole life is a facade. I'm nothing more than an image -- a figure manufactured for public consumption. I'm not really a virgin.

CUTLER: Well, OBVIOUSLY.

TEBOW: I don't even believe in God.

CUTLER: Whoa.

TEBOW: That anti-abortion commercial? All lies. That wasn't even my real mother. I was created in a laboratory, unaware to this day of where my DNA came from.

CUTLER: Wait a minute, now just HOLD ON. That wasn't your real mother?

TEBOW: Sadly, no.

CUTLER: Do you have her number?

TEBOW: I'm trying to tell you that my image and my entire being were conceived from the start. The NFL needed a handsome and polarizing figure. A WHITE one. Twenty years ago they studied religious trends in America and realized less and less people were identifying as 'Religious' each year. By 2011 they knew a segment of the population would be absolutely disgusted by the idea of a visibly successful athlete crediting all of his success to the supernatural. Especially when he didn't deserve that success to begin with.

They also knew another segment of the population would still be deeply entrenched in their religious beliefs. They would start to feel like the minority and the fools for continuing to believe in something the general population was shifting away from. They needed a reason to believe. And what better way than to give them a shitty NFL quarterback whose team continued to pull off improbable overtime victories?

CUTLER: But why? WHY?

TEBOW: The ratings, Jay. It isn't enough to suck and still win in the NFL nowadays. There has to be something controversial about you, and not controversial in the "he killed some pitbulls" sense. Almost everyone agrees drowning and electrocuting dogs is deplorable. Not everyone agrees on expressing your religious beliefs so openly. Thanks to myself, there are people watching and discussing the NFL that didn't give two shits about football three years ago.

CUTLER: So you're saying you were made from the start to be an NFL quarterback. I get that. But how are you still winning all these games? You've said yourself religion is just a front.

TEBOW: My games are fixed. All of them. First game against Miami, overtime win. Second game, a blowout at the hands of the Lions. My time looked to be over -- now we're unleashing the fury on everyone. My mediocre team is must see television. You're going to watch every fourth quarter I play in, regardless of the score.

CUTLER: How are you fixing the games? I caught no wind of this.

TEBOW: Sure, you caught no wind of this. Marion Barber was in on it, and a couple of your teammates too. The refs also knew. Like I said, the NFL is smart, they've been planning this for years. When Barber ran out of bounds it was one of the stupidest NFL plays imaginable. That is a play that seems fishy. But not with Barber. The NFL made sure he played like a dumb fuck in Dallas too so something like this was not beyond the realm of possibility. It also didn't hurt the NFL slipped him a cool 15 million under the table.

CUTLER: 15 MILLION?!?! I would have gotten out there and threw the fucking game for THAT.

TEBOW: Of course you would have, and so would many of your colleagues. Comparatively, NFL athletes are not paid much. They need the money and the post-career health insurance.

CUTLER: This is all so depressing.

TEBOW: All the more reason why I admire you. You aren't about to risk permanent injury for this game. Laugh at those who scream "PUSSY" loudest and storm the tower with sharpened pickaxes.

CUTLER: [thinking to himself] Am I dreaming? This guy is so fucking weird. We've been talking a long time. Way too long for a simple post-game handshake. Did I leave the oven on?

TEBOW: Hey Jay, would you like to do some coke?

CUTLER: Coke?!?!

TEBOW: Yeah!! I do a couple lines before every game AND a couple more at halftime. It certainly makes the interviews more bearable.

CUTLER: Uh....I think I'm good.

[Men with cameras descend. TEBOW notices]

TEBOW: God Bless, Jay! Best of luck with your treatment and the rest of the season! [whispering now] And remember, don't tell a soul what we discussed!

TEBOW exits into the locker room, leaving a stunned CUTLER to fend off the reporters. 

JERK-OFF REPORTER NO. 1: What did you and Tebow have to say to each other?

CUTLER: I uh.....I wished him luck for the rest of the season. I just told him....I just told him to keep doing what he's doing. I guess. I think I'm going to give it a go next week. Standing on the sidelines is really messing with me.

JERK-OFF REPORTER NO. 2: Jay, how much of this game do you think can be chalked up to divine intervention?       

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?                 

A Lesson Learned

Chris Harris had his best game of the season Sunday afternoon in the Bears' 38-34 victory over the Jets. He recorded 11 tackles, 10 of them solo, recovered a Santonio Holmes fumble in the 1st quarter, and then picked off Sanchez with less than a minute left to clinch the game for Chicago.

To most people, Harris is known as the Bears' hard-hitting safety. To a smaller number of us, he's @ChrisHarrisNFL, his Twitter account, where he interacts with fans and critics alike almost daily. In fact, Chris Harris is one of the most accessible modern athletes. Between Twitter and his blog, he's established a unique way of using social media to showcase his personality and enhance his brand.
Athletes on Twitter often give away tickets to games, usually holding some kind of contest to determine who wins them. On Christmas night, Harris did just that. He had four pairs of tickets for the Jets game and asked four questions about himself. The first person to correctly answer the question would be given a pair of tickets.
I normally don't get caught up in these sort of things because I start convincing myself I have a great chance of winning. This usually leads to disappointment -- that I could have avoided. But I decided to give this contest a try. It was Christmas night and I was Christmased out. The alternative to taking part in a contest to win Bears tickets was watching one of one of four Christmas movies I'd seen ten times a piece, or listen to one of 250 Christmas songs I'd been listening to for the entire month of December.

First question from Harris (all of which I'm paraphrasing, by the way): What was the name of my school mascot?

Google is my friend. Now there's two ways of going about this question. Look up where Chris went to school (Louisiana-Monroe), and either hope the mascot is in the title, or then do another Google search for the mascot. This approach takes too much time. It's a race against anyone else who may be answering, some of who probably didn't need to look it up.
I decided to go all in and typed in "Chris Harris School Mascot." To my surprise, an interview of his with WGN was the second result, and it contained the answer, "War Eagles." I was a little hesitant at first. What if I responded and was wrong? How stupid would that look?
I wrote back. I was right. I was too slow. Someone else won. Next question I would just have to pull the trigger. I decided to leave the tab of the interview up. I thought he might ask another question that could be answered from that page.

Second question: What number did I originally wear as a freshman in college before switching numbers before my sophomore year?

This was a tough one. I thought it might be on the tab I already had up but it wasn't. I immediately realized that this wasn't an answer I or anyone else could simply Google search. It was going to take a little bit of detective work and luck. I typed in "Chris Harris College Number" and clicked on an ESPN.com link. Each year listed him as number 5. I figured that was the number he had switched to after his sophomore year, seeing as the information was so widely available.
I don't remember how I got there, but eventually ended up on Louisiana-Monroe's program for the upcoming 2003 season, Harris' junior year. The article didn't mention Harris' number, but when I scrolled all the way down, there was a picture of a number 20 making a tackle, with the name Harris on the back of his jersey. The caption read: FS Chris Harris. That was my break. I was convinced I had the information others didn't. I was going to be the first to get this question that others were too stupid to figure out. They all probably thought the answer was 5.
I responded to Harris with my answer and patiently waited. I thought I had a great shot. My heart began beating a little faster. I started refreshing the page every ten seconds. About ten minutes later I found out I didn't win. That was my best chance, I thought, and I just wasn't quick enough.

Third question: What was my favorite football team growing up?

The answer was the Dallas Cowboys. It was on the WGN tab I had left open. The same tab everyone else responding was probably consulting as well. I was beat out again.

Fourth and final question: Who is my favorite NFL safety of all time?

Let me preface this question by saying, I had spent the last five minutes memorizing the answers to all of the WGN questions. Two of the three questions were from that list, so I decided to go with the odds and assume the fourth one would come from there. The WGN question was: Favorite player growing up? And the answer was Steve Atwater.
Atwater's name immediately popped into my head. "Write it down," a voice inside my head shouted. "You'll win." Another voice said, "You memorized his name, but you don't know what position Steve Atwater played, you idiot." And I didn't. I had to Google Steve Atwater, saw he played safety, and responded to Harris with the answer. I knew I'd be too slow, and I was. The couple seconds it took to Google Atwater's position were what cost me.

The saying "showing your age" is usually referring to old age. Not in this case. Atwater's name sounded familiar, but I was downright embarrassed when I saw that he retired in 1999, when I was 12 years old. No excuses for not knowing him.
To be fair, on a scale of one 1 to 10, my knowledge of football history is probably about a 3. Basketball is about a 7, and baseball around 5. I blame this disparity on two things:
1) The Bulls won their sixth championship in 1998. I was completely enamored with basketball at the time. I delved into every NBA book I could find and knew more about the NBA than most 12 year-olds.
2) 1998 was also the year that Mark McGwire and Cubs slugger Sammy Sosa rewrote the record books by belting 70 and 66 home runs, respectively. That sparked my love for baseball, and baseball statistics in general. I became pretty familiar with records and players from different eras around that time.
The Bears went 4-12 in 1998, finishing last in what was then the NFC Central. That was their second straight year finishing last in the division and they would finish last for two more years. I wasn't as interested in football as a kid because my team wasn't any good. If they were, I'd probably know the history a little better.
Anyway, I started reading up on Steve Atwater after losing out on the tickets. He played ten of his eleven seasons with the Denver Broncos and was selected to the Pro Bowl eight times. I was especially interested in the way Wade Phillips, who was Denver's defensive coordinator at the time, used Atwater. He played him close to the line of scrimmage, basically as a fourth linebacker.
As a result, Atwater was able to total more than one thousand tackles in his career, an astonishing number for a safety. Atwater is probably best known for a hit he put on Chiefs running back Christian "The Nigerian Powerhouse" Okoye, shown in the video below.




I've always been interested in the way different athletes rise to fame, and especially how certain athletes are inextricably linked through out time. For those who witnessed the hit, Atwater and Okoye will always share a place in NFL history together.
Okoye's story is pretty fascinating as well. Once one of the most dominant power runners in football before injuries and disinterest curbed his career, Okoye established a reputation as a gentle giant and Tecmo Super Bowl legend. Here's a pretty good video on Okoye during his prime, although a bit cringe-worthy during some parts compared to the Politically Correct standards of today.



I didn't win the tickets, but got a nice history lesson in exchange. That's a pretty good consolation prize in my book. Best believe I'll be ready for any Steve Atwater related questions in the near future.