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Sports Then and Now




Heavenly Time: NFL Football Is Finally Here

Posted on September 12, 2010 by Andrew Jeromski

Tom Brady hopes the 2010 season has a better ending than occurred a year ago.

There I was the other morning, just trying to enjoy a leisurely breakfast, when through the sound of my own frantic chewing I hear that Patriots quarterback Tom Brady has been involved in some sort of car accident in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood, near the intersection of Commonwealth Avenue and Gloucester Street.

I nearly choked on my Lucky Charms, as phrases like “New England star sidelined with broken arm,” and “Patriots head into bye week 0-4,” danced through my head, and visions of Brian Hoyer, unable to make Brady’s signature quick reads at NFL speed, getting folded like paper money by oncoming pass rushers flashed before my terrified eyes.

I cowered at the thought of how “unwanted” Randy Moss would feel after several weeks of Hoyer at the helm, and the memory of what things can get like when Moss decides he isn’t happy (just ask a Raiders or Vikings fan).

There was only one thing I could do. Manipulating the marshmallows in my spoon until there was nothing but green clovers for luck, I swallowed the talismanic mouthful and began to feverishly search the internet for details of the incident. It didn’t take long to find out that it was a relatively minor affair, and Brady had suffered only the most superficial of injuries, although a passenger in the other vehicle needed to be freed from the wreckage using the jaws of life and later underwent back surgery.

It would be pure folly for me even to attempt and explain the relief that I felt when I heard the news of Brady’s continuing structural integrity. The incident provoked a staggeringly oppressive feeling of anxiety that had started to swirl through my chest cavity and spread gradually throughout the rest of my body before finally dissipating and leaving me spent and broken, a shell of myself, clutching the edge of the kitchen table and gasping to regain my breath.

Just when I thought I was out of the woods, I began to recover my auditory senses and heard the rest of the morning’s sporting news, and before I knew what hit me, I was on the floor and being beckoned towards an ultra-white light by a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Morgan Freeman.


Symphony of Destruction

The sound byte that sent me into the abyss was a quote from the Cincinnati Bengals’ inimitable and unpredictable wide receiver, Chad Ochocinco.

Who doesn't expect the pairing of Terrell Owens and Chad Ochocinco to eventually end in a train wreck?

The Bengals (insert multiple felon jokes here) play the Patriots on Sunday at Gillette Stadium in the season opener, and when Ochocinco–now one half of what has to be the most outspoken WR tandem in history–was asked how he thought everything would go with Cincy’s shiny new offseason acquisition Terrell Owens and himself, he offered the following: “It’s going to be a freaking symphony out there. We’re going to go hand in hand,” he said. “A lot of people are waiting for us not to work and all this other hoopla or whatever. We’re making each other better, pushing one another.”

From a football standpoint, it’s hard to argue with the logic of adding a player like TO, who is currently third in NFL history in yards receiving, to a Bengals passing attack that was largely toothless a year ago, and ended up ranked 26th in the league. However, at this point, I urge you to recall that, from a football standpoint, drafting Lawrence Phillips also seemed like a good idea.

I’m sorry, I just can’t see these two coexisting in harmony through an entire campaign, and I will be shocked if, at season’s end, they are still frolicking along “hand in hand,” as Ochocinco so nauseatingly put it. I guess they are somewhat reminiscent of a symphony however, especially when you consider that both have shown themselves over the course of their respective careers, to be completely full of movements …

Nonetheless, when pressed for an opinion as I was by Morgan Freeman, who menaced me with a pair of garden shears, demanding I supply him with the winning team and margin of victory for Sunday’s season opener, I had no choice but to blurt out the Bengals as winners by a score of 31-24. This seemed to placate Freeman, who pocketed the shears and went back to staring at me quizzically from across the room, under the glare of the piercing white light, arms folded onto his chest, like a detective who knows he is looking at a guilty suspect.

Joe Montana Hates Hobbits

Former legend Joe Montana is sounding a little like a bitter, jealous ex-star these days.

Joe Montana hates Hobbits. That’s the closest I can come to figuring out the logic of Montana–an NFL Hall of Famer and four-time super bowl winner–taking the time to inform us all that parts of the movie “Rudy” were fictional.

Shocking. Next he’ll tell us that Best Western hotels aren’t actually the best.

Hollywood embellishing the facts to make a buck. Tell us more Joe.

Why bother to do this at all? I mean Montana has a model-caliber wife, and a son who is following in his footsteps at Notre Dame. What does he gain from this stunt? I’ll say it again: the man hates Hobbits.

If you watch the Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King very closely, you will observe the unmistakable figure of Joe Montana, fully clad in the saddest of possible armors, that number 19 Kansas City Chiefs jersey we saw for the last sputtering moments of his legendary career, battling alongside Orcs in the ranks of Sauron’s dark army.

It sounds strange I know, but watch the movie again, and you will see him, hacking and hewing, intent on destroying Sean Astin and those delightful little shire-folk once and for all.

At least that is what I tried to explain to Morgan Freeman before he backhanded the ever-loving crap out of me, knocking me to the floor. He was just about to pounce upon me, when I convinced him to let me explain myself. “I meant it figuratively,” I pleaded, adding: “I loved you in Glory.” This seemed to calm Freeman, and I watched apprehensively as his body language became less severe and he finally bade me to continue.

I explained to him that Montana’s choice of timing to call the accuracy of the 1993 film into question left me wondering what he was hoping to accomplish with his statements. Does he hate Sean Astin? Perhaps the next move for the ex-QB will be casting aspersions on the historical integrity of the Lord of the Rings, and its depiction of the battle for Middle Earth.

I suspect however, that if you were to go to Casa de Montana, and poke around a bit, in some hidden away closet you will find the Eye of Sauron, staring at that Chiefs jersey and crying an evil tear. Freeman seemed to like this last bit, and for the first time since the white light appeared, he spoke: “Andy Dufresne, crawled through a river of shit, and came out clean on the other side.”

I was taken aback. “You’re just quoting from The Shawshank Redemption,” I protested.

“I wish I could tell you that the sisters left Andy alone that day,” said Freeman. “I wish I could tell you that …”

This was starting to get weird, and I was beginning to tire of Freeman’s company. I shoved him and made a move to walk away, but he caught me with a kick to the back and I fell in a heap on the floor.

Looks like I picked the wrong day to stop smoking meth

When I came to, I saw Freeman packing a bunch of stuff–like a giant halogen spotlight, small black case and a white suit–into a small hatchback in the front of my yard. I realized what had happened and immediately advanced upon Freeman with intentions of causing bodily harm. He was deceptively fast though, and parried several of my jabs before connecting an uppercut with my jaw that effectively ended this strange episode, for when I came to, Morgan Freeman, and his shitty little Dodge Omni were nowhere to be found.

The mailman had came and went when I was unconscious apparently, as I found a letter addressed to me from the Cincinnati Bengals lying next to me on the lawn. I hastily tore into the envelope and removed the contents, only to find the following message: “Dear Mister Jeromski, At this point, we must ask you to cease and desist from any further communication with our organization or any member thereof. Furthermore, we would like to unequivocally and absolutely state that we will not be considering your proposal to change our team mascot to “CORI the rapping rap-sheet” in the near future, and your continued communications regarding this matter are neither wanted nor expected. Good day sir.”


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