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?                 

Nick Toon (No Nickelodeon)

Perusing Twitter a few weeks ago, I came across Wisconsin Senior wideout Nick Toon's Twitter handle -- @TOOOOOOOOOOON -- a tip of the cap to the fans who bellow his name after every catch. It's not the funniest or most clever, but it's my new favorite Twitter handle. My first thought was to count the number of "O"s because why not? I was pleased to count 11 "O"s. Solid. Eleven is an arbitrary, clunky number. Ten is nice and clean. The 11 tells me Toon typed a "T," placed his right index finger on the "O" key and held it there for a few seconds, and followed up with an "N." Had he been concerned with aesthetics or practicality, he would have made it an even ten. I immediately thought of situations in which his Twitter handle may be problematic:

UW-MADISON STUDENT: I'll hit you on Twitter about this Agricultural Journalism project. What's your handle?

TOON: It's TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON.

UW-MADISON STUDENT: Uhh, how many "O"s is that?

TOON: Jesus, I have no idea. Just type my name in the search box and my account should pop up on the right side.

UW-MADISON: So you want me to type your name into Twitter? Is this some kind of lame attempt to show me how many people are talking about you?

TOON: I have over five thousand followers.

And so on.

I've often wondered if athletes seriously consider why the crowd chants their name. They're fan favorites or good players, those seem like the obvious answers. Sometimes familiarity with a player -- he's played most or all of his career for the same team, or even tradition -- we chant his name because we've always done it, play a part. During pregame introductions in the 1990s, roars of LUUUUUUUUUUUUUC would fill the United Center when Luc Longley was introduced. Nowadays, Luc has been replaced with LUUUUUUUUUUUU for Luol Deng. For Bulls fans, tradition meets appreciation in the form of pregame introductions. Each time Packers fullback John Kuhn touches the ball, Lambeau is engulfed in KUUUUUUUUUUUUHN chants. Kuhn is a short and stout white guy who does all the dirty work. His primary role is that of lead blocker, but he will occasionally be asked to pick up short yardage or catch a checkdown out of the backfield and take on a linebacker head on. Kuhn's look and style of play appeal to the blue-collar sensibilities of the Green Bay fans. He could be and probably is the guy sitting next to you at Joe's Texas Barbecue, wolfing down the hefty pulled pork sandwich.

TOOOOOOOOOOON is a combination of all of these elements. Former walk-on Luke Swan preceded Toon at Wisconsin and became a fan favorite. Camp Randall shouted LUUUUUUUUUUUUUKE after every catch and held their right arms at 90 degree angles, rotating their hand to resemble a swan's head. Aided by his father's impressive NFL and UW resume, Toon endeared himself to the crowd with his athleticism and knack for making the spectacular catch. Now a Senior, Toon has developed into the consistent Number One receiver the team envisioned him as two years ago. Chants of his name are as much an appreciation for his development as a player as they are an adherence to tradition and nepotism.

As nice as it is to talk of tradition and performance, we cannot ignore the obvious. There are many great players, iconic players, all-time great players who have never heard their name chanted in a stadium. This isn't because they are overlooked or their home fans are shitty. They simply do not have names as aurally pleasing or compatible with a sustained chant. Peyton Manning, Brian Urlacher, James Harrison, Adrian Peterson -- great players, but names that need to be broken down to multiple syllables in order to chant. They just wouldn't sound as good.

Not to take anything away from the Nick Toons of the world, but he clearly is the beneficiary of a perfect name. The special sign of appreciation Camp Randall shows to him is as arbitrary as the number of "O"s in his Twitter handle. The fans mostly scream his name because the close back rounded vowel sound in "Toon" is nice to listen to for 5-10 seconds at a time. And this is why @TOOOOOOOOOOON is my new favorite Twitter handle. It caused me to contemplate an otherwise glossed-over subtlety of fan behavior, and I now know what a close back rounded vowel sound is. 

Neither of these pieces of information are useful in any way.