Dallas might have overdone it, done itself in before playoffs

They just couldn’t help it. Dallas had to go and prove pasty TV personality Skip Bayless right.

Looks like I’m not watching ESPN’s First Take this morning.

…Yeah, that’s all I got.

The harshest criticism I can muster after last night’s 24-0 win over Philadelphia was split—half inspired by handing Bayless grounds to gloat, and Cowboy receivers’ first-down celebrations.

Would a little variety kill you guys? Honestly.

Problem is, regarding that on-the-field stuff, I’m not so sure Dallas served itself well yesterday.

Marion Barber ran wild. Tony Romo’s throws didn’t. Miles Austin continues to do his thing, consequently soothing Jason Garrett’s perpetual struggle to do his. Big D’s D-line led the franchise to its first shutouts in consecutive weeks, by appearance leveling the Eagles to Washington Redskin-caliber.

Wasn’t in meetings this week, but I’m pretty sure that was the game plan. To the T(D).

Which, now, the Eagles will blow up in meeting rooms, cramming like a med student before exams. Difference is, they’re not working with one well-written textbook. They’ve got the damn answer key. And they’ve got a corresponding copy for each of the test’s three versions in existence (DAL vs. NO, DAL vs. WSH, DAL vs. PHI).

Last night, Dallas prodded every schematic flaw in the Eagles’ game, too. In the passing game, and against it. When it stacking the box and its own backfields.

Now, going “back to the drawing board,” as Andy Reid put it, the Eagles have the opportunity to remerge fully aware of their pitfalls, and what players and situations leave them most vulnerable.

I wish Dallas was so lucky.

I won’t buy stock in Andy Reid’s pristine first-round record in January, outright. ESPN: we love the fruits of your interns (hope I’m one of ‘em some day). But that stat isn’t holding up in the playoffs, on its own.

But in tandem with the guy’s ability to game plan (9-0 after bye week)? Could be problems.

Plus, it’s tough enough to be swept in a three-game series from a season’s start to its finish. But doing it in consecutive weeks requires perspiration—even for a Philly sports team.

Especially with Reid holding the reins.

Backhanded a compliment as it sounds, the Eagles play with too much pride for an unimpeded 13-day flop, anyway. If the Eagles needed a slap in the face for inspiration, they’re not deserving of even the sixth post-season slot.

But that same passion—the embodiment of the city’s spirit—now has direction.

That imposing a combo could shake boots like a Big Mac in front of an Olsen twin.

And as much as Dallas fulfilled its on-paper expectations, I can’t say the same for the Iggles. Dallas beat them to a pulp. But they didn’t beat them at their best—or in its recognizable vicinity.

Philly blitzed as infrequently as McNabb hit his receivers on the numbers. And how long, exactly, do you expect those trends to last? Dallas should come out on top regardless, but they’ll field a more formidable resistance than a pile of leaves offers a sugar-stuffed toddler.

And if I’m a player on the Eagles’ roster, I look at that abberation as a bad day at the office. As unavoidable as it is unusual. I stow it in overhead memory, but only long enough to get me pissed.

Dallas has gotta feel pretty good about itself right about now, their three-week stroll before the postseason raging in full-fledged caprice. And three years of unencumbered disappointment bolsters the high, for sure.

Question is: did they overdo it?

What Notre Dame’s business school should be teaching–its AD

Thursday, most of the Sun Bowl’s TV audience vegged out during an entertaining 60 minutes of college football, one that featured the Cardinal of Stanford against the Oklahoma Sooners in El Paso, TX.

All but one.

The other? Me.

The most emotionally vested Protestant in Notre Dame football, I sat, fixated, just like everybody else. But I also dedicated three-and-a-half hours of my New Year’s Eve to masochism.

Difference was, you were gleaming. I was seething.

In fancy pants business school, I learned how to define the taunting broadcasted on ESPN Thursday.

Who the Irish should have hired.

So I’m told, it’s called opportunity cost.

It’s not the same as an accounting loss, though when new-hire Brian Kelly gets canned, Notre Dame AD Jack Swarbrick’s books should feature some red décor to remind him what he wasted.

Opportunity cost, they say, describes the losses they’ll notch, and the wins they won’t, because they bought the first shiny toy in the store.

Had their search exceeded window-shopping, they’d have seen the sickest gadgets with a hell of a lot more practicality. Stanford head coach Jim Harbaugh and Oklahoma’s Bob Stoops didn’t just fit the bill. They’re as tailored for the team’s needs as a Mike Nolan Armani.

Kelly? More like Chris Farley wearing David Spade’s.

I’m used to nonconformity, so still insisting Notre Dame could have reeled in Stoops–and that defense he’s taught me to covet–isn’t a belief I’m shy about. Resurrecting Notre Dame to glory is an ascension to the college football heavens that no BCS Bowl win can match.

Though, for Stoops in Oklahoma, that’s not exactly his forte anyway, so why not give blue-and-green a go-round?

But since he sold “no” and (almost) everyone bought it, I’ll bottleneck my jealousy toward Harbaugh, and his “Don’t Mess” trademark façade.

Harbaugh, whose lone response to questions of his interest included, “Right now, I’m the head coach at Stanford,” which, I’ll admit, was a pretty adamant denial…

Harbaugh, not Brian Kelly.

The man (Harbaugh), not the man-child (Kelly)–the collegiate model of San Francisco 49ers head coach Mike Singletary. The guy who called out Toby Gerhart on Day One, questioning his dedication as a two-sport letterman. And when the future Heisman runner-up told him otherwise—and backed it up, beading sweat in practice and snot-bubbling linebackers in games—Harbaugh backed him.

Not just a hard-ass (Eric Mangini), a mindless ego-narcissist (Brad Childress). A proud citizen of the nation of Winner (not Wade Phillips’ small, private island), who’s imposing his culture in Palo Alto.

With an 8-5 season in the books—factoring in four-point loss to an underperforming, but nevertheless stacked Big 12 power in the Cardinal’s first bowl since 2001—he’s getting there.

Before Harbaugh, Stanford used to be a doormat. Now, it’s lighting paper bags on fire (going for two in a rout over Southern Cal), hammering on front doors (hanging tough in the Pac-10), and cackling while the conference’s perennial bullies unknowingly dance in poo (“What’s your deal?”).

Imagine that. Commitment, character, “playing like champions?”

Not losing 6 of 10 games decided by seven or fewer, one in OT to—this one hurts—Connecticut. Not being as  generous in the clutch with the football for opposition than Angelina Jolie with her home in wherever-the-hell-she-lives for orphans.

Not talk of greatness in a press conference from a bobble-head doll—the same schpeil I’ve heard from more qualified suitors. More qualified than a scout-team All-American coach (2 national titles in D2) with resumes against talent outside of the MAC or its over-glorified BCS equivalent.  

I want to see it, like is so glaringly palpable on Harbaugh’s defiant mug. And I want to see it at Notre Dame, not at Central Michigan, not at Cincinnati, not at a school two-levels below the FBS that I won’t dignify by naming.

Both have had success, both, to a degree, on account of recruiting classes. But, unlike Kelly and who he brought the University of Cincinnati, Harbaugh did his thing at Stanford—California’s second-cousin, twice removed, of the Ivy League.

Think Brian Kelly is filling five slots at receiver for that June Jones knock-off at South Bend? Where average SAT is a more important acronym than average YPC?

Not likely.

And who dubbed offense Notre Dame’s problem du decade, anyway? Vaguely remember the Irish putting up 22 at Pitt and another 30 the following week against those damn Huskies.

Sketchy on the details, but I’m pretty sure the Notre Dame D allowed 27 and 33, too.

But it could have been worse, say, the 44 and 45 that…hold the phone…

…

Sorry, had to check the score of the Sugar Bowl, the game Brian Kelly and his supposed Irish Catholic morality dipped before the pending bloodbath–the inevitable 51-24 beat down, the blowout loss that had as much to do with Kelly’s absence as dehydration did Meyer’s health concerns.

In fairness, Brian Kelly could, conceivably, improve the program.

There. I said it.

Reluctantly.

Still, I can’t help but think about what could be, who should be doing it. We’ll never know (personally, I know, but I mean, know, know) but it’s a more-than-reasonable assumption that whatever successes Kelly might enjoy, Harbaugh could have fared as well, if not better, spackling the Irish’s pitfalls.

Check that–the opportunity cost, a theoretical figure.

Chock that one up as a bad debts expense.

Writing Peyton Manning’s dictionary entry

Brace yourself for this one:

Peyton Manning–(n., proper) a product of the system.

I know, I know. That kind of statement steps on expert analyst’s toes, and oversteps the bounds of conventional thinking. And, considering its tacit blasphemy against the football gods, a power-surge from my ESPN-tuned TV set isn’t something I’ve ruled out of the realm, at least for the moment.

But once the initial audacity subsides, think about it. By definition, is it really all that outlandish?

With one game to go, Manning’s already tucked away 16 weeks of the greatest single-season in football history. His 14-0 record (head coach Jim Caldwell–not Manning or backup Curtis Painter–can enjoy last week’s loss his), his epic comebacks, his knack for making Austin Collies and Pierre Garcons household names—all unprecedented before 2009 and likely untouchable  in years to come.

Nobody’s argued that, and I won’t be so bold.

 But would we be talking about the run under different circumstances, say, if Indianapolis didn’t see in Ryan Leaf what we all did, if Manning wasn’t grain-fed football nourishment by O.C. Tom Mora?

After a decade and change, Manning’s become more a super computer than an NFL vet, updating his Pentium Processor between off-seasons. Pre-snap, he identifies. Post-snap, he exploits. He processes the information and, unlike Windows Vista, doesn’t misfire.

But his most outstanding talent—polished and unrivaled as anyone else’s best—was one Mora first installed. Picking up defense’s pre-emptive tell isn’t god-given. A 4.3 in the 40 that skill isn’t.

But it does partition boom from bust among NFL QBs. See: Packers’ Aaron Rogers and 49ers’ Alex Smith. Same tools coming out. Interchangeable as 2004’s No. 1 and 2. Difference is, one guy gets it, the other doesn’t. Playing the position isn’t rocket science, but it’s pretty damn close. Both share a common denominator.

They need to be taught.

Manning knows his playbook like a ginger knows his freckles, but his offensive scheme is an infallible cheat sheet. It provides the right answers to foreseeable questions, reactions to game-situation stimuli. More often than not, he finds himself hitting targets that are so gaudily wide-open that all he’s gotta do is not screw it up.

Now, he’s the one in the game, matching a defense’s soft spot with the Mora Manuscript’s predestined compliment—a skill set the game’s never seen. And regardless of how much wiggle room he gives himself, he delivers most packages with UPS reliability.

Point taken.

But is he putting up the numbers, winning games if the scheme isn’t so conducive to über real estate?

I’m just not sure.

ESPN insider’s scouting report touts Manning’s outstanding intellect and football IQ, not his self-described “laser-rocket arm.”

“He relies more on smarts and instincts than he does raw physical skills. He knows this offense like a coach and that shows in his play. He reads defenses like the best of them and knows his receivers and where they will be at any time or place on the field.”

But what if what he knew, in and out and all, came from a different textbook? A different teacher?

“He has good arm strength, but not elite…”

…That might complicate things a bit. And it has.

The only sightings of otherwise unalleged Manning Mortality coincided with the few instances when Xes and Os didn’t give him the overwhelming advantage.

As a rook, Manning threw a ton of picks—causation, not coincidence.

But based on what he’s done since, his struggles don’t fit the bill of your quintessential growing pains. Looking back, “oops” seemed to describe glitches in the system, errant what-if analyses. He might have not yet known what he was doing. But more detrimental, he didn’t know what Mora’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Gridiron wanted him to.

And remember the lean years in recent Colts’ post-season history? The poor conditions, tight coverages, itty bitty windows? Patriot DBs gave Manning’s wideouts their first taste of physicality, while Belichick posed an unfamiliar scenario that Manning’s egg-shaped processor couldn’t compute.

Impso facto, Indy didn’t win.

They couldn’t.

Manning is the upper echelon of the game’s most learned students–much a product of rolling up his sleeves in the film room. No doubt: It’s an army of one. Nobody’s game lands them in the same country code, let alone his lonesome battalion.

But Manning got lucky. Born into a millionaire family lucky. As damning a notion as it might sound, I’d never take anything away from the guy.

I just take him for what he is.

Somebody call a medic!! (Or psychiatrist)

Brad Childress just can’t help himself.

Like the slighted half of an abusive relationship, the Vikings head coach must have serious issues with masochism. I’m no doctor, but that’s my best shot diagnosing the torture he’s subjected himself to in the media.

Exhibit A:  Sunday night, during Minnesota’s primetime TV dismantlement against Carolina. It remains unclear whether the ill-advised move sought to get Brett Favre out of harm’s way or on the bench, but Childress thought he’d try his luck at pulling No. 4.

The Saw series featured more buoyancy than that prospect.

Now, current events tend to impose a blurry case of nearsightedness on our memories, but this is no recent trend.

In [August], the [Twin Cities] were without form—no clout at coach—and void—at quarterback. The football gods transcended their omnipotence and infinite wisdom, setting the wheel in motion that landed Brett Favre—southern rigidity personified—in a purple jersey.

Sure, Favre wanted that gig for years. But after Childress rolled out a carpet for his arrival—and left it there for weeks—and spent more time at Favre’s beck and call than Ed Werder did on his Mississippi lawn, the offer might have shined with a bit more luster.

And how could we forget The Childress Ultimatum: report to camp or we, reportedly, don’t want you. The white elephant in the room looked more like a noose. Favre was always coming back; never a second before he felt like it.

The honeymoon lasted for a time. Minnesota breezed through the NFC North and Favre filtered out years of bad QB dander from the Metrodome.

But like any (un)holy union with such lopsided leverage, the first disagreement escalated into a brawl. Words with boxing gloves (or, depending on the conversation making headlines, without).

I’ve been a cozy resident in Brett Favre’s corner for some time, but even I can’t defend his not-so-subtle jabs at Childress’ lack of authority. I understand heat-of-the-moment after a “heated discussion.” Still, Favre should know better than to dance on professionalism in that sort of forum. Especially after he’s been slammed for it.

But Favre had a point, and repurcussions loomed beforehand. Could Childress really have convinced himself like pigs on an Animal Farm that it wouldn’t blow up under the media microscope?

Now the buzz around Vikings’ camp—maybe not Favre’s, but undoubtedly not Childress’—reports that the two are clashing over Favre’s decisions to make pre-snap checks.

Umm.

Explain the science behind arguably the game’s greatest—without whom Childress couldn’t live and the Vikings wouldn’t contend—getting the training wheels bit at age 40?

Favre once threw more touchdowns in a 16-game season (39 in 1996) than Childress has won games in a nearly 30-year career (37-26). In fairness, Childress’ column only dates back to 2006—his first season as a head coach on any level.

With the numbers he’s posted this year, more than a few over-enthusiasts have classified this revisitation of his Packer past as vintage Favre—impressive since both our memories and his body are so damn old. I trust Favre under center more than Childress with the clipboard. And whether you’re higher on career resumes or “what have you done for me lately?” the scales tip in Favre’s favor.

Pronounced:  Farve’s favre.

Semantics aside, the Childress is [power] trippin’. He’s been jaded by the prospect of capturing the timeless preceding “Super Bowl winner” whenever he’s announced on TV and radio broadcasts. He seems to believe that, if it happens, he’ll have any more than the title to show for it.

But he’s been busy in the meantime, and has slung more mud than a what you’d expect from a John McCain-led TMZ at the trifecta from PR hell (Lohan, Spears, Hilton).

Difference is, he’s done it to himself.

He’s lost his grip—on reality. His approach—as if Favre’s game is confinable (or the notion it should be), or that he’s doing himself any favors by resisting—is clinical dillusion. And as for the reins of the team?

Never his to lose.

NFL Players: Use (and protect) your heads

Admittedly, I’m expecting the Philadelphia Eagles’ Week 16 matchup with Denver to grab hold of my undivided attention. But even as an emotionally embattled Dallas fan, I insist, my interest isn’t spiteful.

And not just because the game is inconsequential to determining the NFC East champ.

More importantly, altruistically, I don’t see myself making it through next Sunday’s TV lineup without repeatedly checking up on Brian Westbrook. His comeback from a three-week cranial throe (two concussions in 20 days) looks to be about as glorious as any this season, less that old guy from Mississippi and the young guy named Young.

But, considering the risks, I can only hope it won’t rival the year’s most tragic departure.

No unveiling necessary: pro football is a sport predicated on violence, and a business fueled by flash. Big hits are inevitable, and, frankly, profitable. And there’s not a whole lot players have to say about either.

Even as chairman and CEO of Brian Westbrook, INC. the battered Eagles’ running back doesn’t have pull with fate, and plays the wrong position to check out of an Iso. But he and the growing company of the NFL’s concussed need to get smart to protect the linchpin component of their enterprise’s product.

Personal allegiances aside, I’m not trying to be critical. Or patronize, drawing a parallel between an untimely passing in hours following a “lover’s quarrel” (since when is law enforcement better with a pen than the media?) to smoking some weed or chronic infidelity in the same, scolding breath.

But, considering how the issue has exploded in recent months, it blows my mind when players don’t take advantage of resources to fortify their longevity.

Including, but hardly limited to, football.

There’s not a whole lot available, let alone this accessible. In 2000, sports equipment manufacturer Riddell introduced the first advancement in helmet technology, its principal interest being protecting neck-hoisted goods. The result:  The Revolution, or Revo—the new-age alternative to old-school headgear.

Swapping out traditional foam cushioning for inflatable air pockets, the model was engineered with the physiology of head trauma in mind, aside from accessory benefits to the neck spinal cord during collisions. Competitors have since responded with similar designs, the most namely being Schutt, which claims its now-expansive line outperforms the pioneer’s in clinical trials.

Much thanks to American capitalism, players have the liberty to decide which among the two better suits their needs—comfort and aesthetic. Preferences aside, both seem to make foam obsolete.

Information is limited, but still implies some level of benefit. Indifferent, uninformed or otherwise, players are idling like all things Detroit—cars, economy and sports franchises—on getting an upgrade. All kidding aside, they also seem to be paying for it.

The household names of players who’ve suffered concussions through 16 weeks of NFL action include the likes of Kurt Warner, Ben Roethlisberger, Clinton Portis, DeSean Jackson, Jamal Lewis and Trent Edwards. Of those bell-ringers whose bells were unfortunately rung, all wore outdated helmets. Expanding across competitive barriers, the most recognizable player to go down while wearing a newer piece was Florida Gator quarterback Tim Tebow.

You remember the hit. Now imagine how bad it could have been, had he been wearing something else.

(Note:  We’re only talking about guys we know, not whose names don’t. Or won’t—30 of 160 current NFL players admitted to hiding concussion-like symptoms in a recent AP poll.)

When tied to dementia and other degenerative CNS disorders among NFL retirees, concussion conservativism isn’t an overreaction to a few megastars being “soft.” Though the league claims it’s treating the issue with high-priority prominence, nothing corrective or preventative appears imminent from the powers at be.

In spite of early glimmers of promise, the league recently announced that the study which sought to better define the injury and long-term consequences has been indefinitely suspended. And forgive me for my lack of enthusiasm about any pending Congressional hearings.

For the time being, while the NFL sorts out the commission’s personnel and conflict of interest issues, and anticipating bickering among partisan powers, players need to make due. Whenever findings arrive, and regardless of how they’ll change the landscape handling (or preventing) these injuries, players need to be the ones to thrust their best interests to the forefront. Cash flows and politics might matter to everyone else, but not you and your “star player.”

Right?

Pre-emptive measures would be best, but neglecting the problem after it happens is utter irresponsibility. I understand players’ reluctance stay sidelined longer than necessary—self-defined or implied by the status quo. But regardless of outside pressures or that unrelenting itch, there’s no affirmative in any debate that justifies putting yourself at risk.

Considering the media’s propensity for quick criticism of players’ off-the-field conduct, this might be as harsh on the ear. But it’s tough love. It’s not meant to condescend or act as if I or anyone else knows better. By in large, nobody knows enough. Therein lies half the problem.

Sounding off on this game of inches, every bit of effort might help make a difference. And players shouldn’t be waiting on anyone else for that.

Why I’m not crying for [Ireland]

So what?

Yesterday, during a last-ditch, do-or-die opportunity for the Irish national team to wedge its way onto South Africa’s guest list for the 2010 World Cup, it wasn’t the opposing striker’s world-class right foot that carried Les Blues to a 2-1 triumph.

Instead, the game’s deciding factor was Theirry Henry’s left hand.

Twice.

Since, Ireland’s been tangling up international telephone lines, placing emergency dials to FIFA’s wah-mbulance. What for? Oh, nothing, just to cry “shenanigans” and asking for the sport’s international governing body to intervene.

I apologize for…

Matter of fact, to hell with that. I take it back.

I don’t feel any sympathy for the players, and I couldn’t care any less about disgruntled fans–considering they’d just as quickly crucify any last one of their “beloved countrymen” for an errant own-goal or slipping up on a game-deciding PK.

(Think I’m exaggerating? Check Mexican newspaper archives from the late-90s. Yeah, it happens.)

Reason for this apparently cynical apathy is that’s what the entire sport is predicated upon:

Deception and manipulation of rules.

Yeah, I guess, in this breed, it’s kind of putting a damper on the still-seething enthusiasm in advent of next year’s tourney. And, no, it couldn’t sit well with any real sports fan that hand-baller Henry, himself, admitted guilt to the international media.

But that’s nothing new.

Next chance you get, flip on Fox Soccer Channel. Whether your eyes are fixated on English Premiership rivalries, national-team friendlies, or—in this case—the tail-end of World Cup qualifying, you’ll see more diving in “the beautiful game” than in summer olympic swimming pools.

Yeah everyone does it. But, worse, refs on all levels seem to let it fly.

Now, it seems to me that this instance isn’t the unforgiving dental work of karma biting the Irish nation in their collective “arse.” They might be a lot of things—occasional underachievers and frequent doormats for the perennial four-year European powerhouses. But that side in particular isn’t the crime’s biggest perpetrators.

So consider them the sacrificial lamb, an innocent bystander of repercussions for FIFA’s inaction regarding its referee policies.

I take that back, seeing how the council has sat on their hands regarding enforcement of their preexisting policies (FIFA regulations qualify a pretentious attempt to earn a free kick as a punishable offense, sometimes worthy a red card).

Still, the association has fielded complaints for years from fans, clubs, countries—everyone but Al Sharpton—and has done nothing about it. So if now, in the aftermath of a PR catastrophe of “Fresh Prince” proportions (That’s right, no one actually saw that movie…Gilgi?) if the sport takes a few lumps, so be it. Its upper-level suits, frankly, are getting what they deserve.

And, looping attention back to the only reason why the good reverend hasn’t gotten up on his familiar soapbox:  Tolerating this frustratingly common dimension of the sport is why its global popularity hasn’t pervaded the homeland of us “yanks.”

How, you ask?

Well, there are a few preventative barriers against the spread of futbol in the US (among them being football and others). But, all things considered, one of the most significant among them is that no red-meat-eating, American fan base wants to watch a bunch of melodramatic sissies flop on their faces. The only thing they’d have more trouble digesting it’s so often rewarded:  handsomely in the lucrative form of the sport’s Oscar-equivalent for its actors, er, athletes—a free kick.

And don’t think an attacker’s confidence in his ability to beat a defender honestly supersedes the urge to dive.

One of the world’s most electrifying footballers, Real Madrid floating midfielder/forward Christiano Ronaldo, is also one of its most decorated floppers (awarded 23 fouls in 2006 WC, 2nd-most).

But yesterday, when a whistle wasn’t blown, you think: This is different. It single-handedly packed the bags for one team’s trip to the planet’s biggest stage, and sent the other, well, packing.

Considering the sport’s most productive offensive opportunity is often set-pieces (2 of top-3 scoring teams in top-3 for most FK), how many game-clinching goals were presumably were scored thanks to dishonesty? Maybe not a bunch, but one is grounds enough for this kind of quid-pro quo consequence.

So, no—you world’s worth of fist-waving, angry fans. Don’t lose sleep over France’s asterisk-laden World Cup berth, or the notion that FIFA should intervene.

Especially since it hasn’t before.

Atlanta Falcons’ fan mail fodder

Dear Atlanta Falcons,

I know you guys probably get a ton of fan mail—especially early in 2009, when you actually played like the southern surprise you were supposed to be—but I gotta tell you, I love what you guys have been doing lately.

See, I’m a die-hard New York Giants’ fan. And as you’ve probably noticed—seeing as you’ve experienced much of the same recently—times have been tough on us G-men. But there is room for optimism, thanks to you folks down in the ATL.

On paper alone, Dallas’ recent three-week surge pushed the ‘Boys past my Big Blue in the NFC East standings. Still, nobody’s investing emotional stock in Jerry Jones’ enterprise. Nor should they.

No. 1 reason: they haven’t beaten anybody yet, your Atlanta Falcons included.

The thing is, when Notlanta trekked west to Jones’ Taj Ma-millions a few weeks back, their season approached a crossroads. After Dallas beat up on your reigning Offensive Rookie of the Year, manufacturing three takeaways at the expense of his much-acclaimed offense, that win was supposed to represent validation—the bold statement of Dallas’ alleged legitimacy for which everyone had long waited.

After that Monday-night dismantlement, I can’t imagine it still being the case. You’ve laid it out there for us all along. I just can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier.

In defeat, your Dirty Birds have been, well, dirtied on in their year’s triad of tarnishes.

Your second-worst pass defense singlehandedly resurrected New England’s phoenix, when Tom Brady distanced himself 277 yards from knee surgery and a flimsy 0-2 start in the Pats’ 26-10 Week 3 win in Foxboro. That’s neglecting to mention the wonders your O-line worked on Dallas’ pass rushers.

Coming off the edge like they needed a walker early on (10 sacks in 5 gms), the Cowboys’ front-seven nearly doubled their season’s sack total. Since, they’ve battered opposing QBs a lucky seven times in the past half a month of football (4 sacks vs. ATL, 3 sacks vs. SEA).

And I guess that Austin kid from Monmouth—an FCS college—has done well for himself, too, after that franchise-record receiving performance. Pretty selfless, I’ll admit.

Especially when you consdier that debacle on primetime TV. That must’ve stung. Really taking one for my team, huh?

A heavy dog coming in, the only confusion during was when onlookers couldn’t figure out whether you were incapable of winning, or just didn’t want to.

I’m not even sure which was worse: New Orleans’ 14 points in two minutes to wrap up an offensively lackluster first half (thanks to a pick-six ensuing its disheartening two-minute drill). Or, with one of the only remaining unbeatens on the ropes, Matty Ice Ryan tosses another wrong-colored-jersey completion in the red zone.

And I get it—opposing DBs are about the kid’s last resort. His latest outing only adds to the piling evidence that Michael Jenkins has got hands like feet, and Roddy White’s biggest catch Monday night happened to be the one that wasn’t.

Now that I think of it, taking a look back at Cold-lanta’s 2009 resume, its only reputable win was a 19-7 channel-changer against Miami.

Hardly impressive.

I’ll have to write another letter to Miami for those sorry 68 rushing yards allowed a pretty stout front-seven (MIA opp. avg. 94.2 rush yds/gm; 6^th in N. F. L.). But 6.36 yards per attempt against a secondary ranked 21^st in the league against the pass? The Falcons deserve all the acclaim. (MIA opp. avg. 236 pass yds/gm).

Not only did your has-been mercenary field-goal kicker miff an extra-point attempt, but if football’s H1N1, fumblitis, doesn’t hit the Dolphins’ backfield hours before kickoff, Atlanta probably drops that game, too (MIA-lost 3 fum).

On the other side of the line, the Falcon D has given up 400+ yards four times already, while its two-first-named quarterback only broke 300 once—versus San Fran (opp. avg. 174.9 pass yds/gm; 22^nd N. F. L.).

To date, the team’s only beat one opponent above .500–the 4-3 Bears, in the upper-echelon of NFL franchises capable of this kind of post-win dismemberment (take your pick, there’s a few).

We can’t add the Falcons to the list of cupcakes gobbled up during Dallas’ three-game binge just yet. But their recent woes raised enough eyebrows to put the Falcons as some subcategory of sugar-baked inadequacy (Toaster strudel, maybe?).

As a G-man fan, I’m grateful to say the least. So, to everyone, thanks a bunch.

Sincerest regards,

Your biggest backhanded fan.

At Least we got Gil

Early weeks of blowout N. F. L. action may have disproved its alleged parity, but the resounding theme magnified during tip-off to the N. B. A. season might be exactly that.

Disparity, or better (or worse) polarity, was on display Tuesday night in its grandest form, epitomized by inaugural competition of two of the league’s most embattled megastars.

Undoubtedly classified on a similar spectrum—each player hoping to rebound from ailing knees—they’ve still got catchy nicknames:  K. G. and Agent Zero. But it seems only one has rekindled what matters most to pro ballers, tactfully cocky participants in the ultimate swagger sport.

Game.

Both players walked off winners from respective courts, but Gilbert Arenas proved the driving force to the Washington Wizards’ 102-91 stunner over the Dallas Mavericks in front yet another sellout Texan crowd—now the longest streak in the league.

More renowned for his blogging these past two calendar years (played in 15 of 160 gms; started 10 since ‘07), Arenas misappropriated the stadium’s mandatory defibrillator, instead used to electrify last season’s deadened 19-63 Southeastern Division duds past a playoff-caliber squad from a year ago.

Kevin Garnett on the other hand, he looked more like the rich kid with his daddy’s check book, paying the chauffer in his Boston Celtics’ triumph in its home-opener. A big man’s most bipolar companion turned on him a year ago, ending his season and likely his career’s productivity.

Those all-important lower extremity joints looked about as ravaged by surgery as the toll Father Time has imposed on Doc Rivers’ mug—neither of whom integral to the Celts’ win over LeBron James and his newest (yet least subtle) jester in the King’s court.

But that’s another story for another, yet inevitably pending, date and time.

Now, on paper, not a whole lot looked different. It’s only 48 minutes of the a long 2009, but the two revisited their respective career seasons, if not accrued averages.

Arenas (10/21 FG) shot .476 from the floor, slightly higher than his usual .427 over his eight seasons. He led his team in scoring, finishing a lonely dish shy of a double-double—sharing the wealth on nine Wizard possessions.

Agent Zero misfired from beyond the arc, all but one of his four long-distance mortars from three-point land ripping through its intended target—the net, of course. But, in a true validation of this apparently revitalized D. C. star, he posted more points himself than the city’s football team’s season-totals.

Okay, not quite.

But Arenas’ 29 points compared with the Skins’ joke of a seven weeks at least warrants the hyperbolic fun to be shared at Mr. Snyder’s expense. Literary equivocation aside, Big Gillie’s Tuesday night was his best individual outing in years (most since Nov. 14, 2007), likely cracking his sealed lips more swiftly than that pocket change of a $25,000 fine imposed by the nation’s second-most popular Stern.

“I feel fine,” he said, collaboratively nailed to the wall by the N. B. A. and the media tighter than the Mona Lisa—though a janitor couldn’t even have conjured up a scheme dubious enough to get him out of that lockdown fortress.

Most importantly, and ostensibly, was the way he played Tuesday night–with the authority that injected his as a household name. He drove to the lane with reckless disregard for his body, and the truth that it’s been put through three surgeries in two years. His shots were crisp, passes accurate, and—the most proven litmus test to gauging success of one of his guests—he pissed Mark Cuban off all night long.

Flip on the black-and-white function of your camera, er, Microsoft Office software, and the same goes (well, doesn’t) for K. G.

TANGENTIAL ASIDE (I’ll give him style points for grace, though, not backhanding ‘Bron for rolling out Garnett’s pregame powder toss in his own building. And I’m talking about a misappropriation lawsuit. Neither organization of grown men should fight like pansies, but M. L. B. watching scuffles is at least a hell of a lot of fun.)

His Celtics’ may have reigned supreme the game with him off the I. R.—impossible in his stead during the 2008 post-season—but they certainly didn’t win because he was on the court.

The ailing power-forward connected on 5-of-10 from the floor, on par with the percentage posted during his career-high attempted shots and buckets he put up during the 2003-04 season (804/1611 FG).

A stark contrast to the house of bricks subsidized by the game’s other antiquated post-presence, K. G. only missed one of his four freebies—not quite adequate material to build refugee housing for any piglets.

But where did Kevin Garnett go?

The position has advanced, shifting towards a duality. Teams need their four-man needs to play like an swollen small forward with the physicality of Terry Tate (…the office linebacker? At least I remember the good old days.)

Both robotic and stagnant in the paint, evolution and age seemed to have left Garnett behind. The 33-year-old just doesn’t seem to have the unparalleled buoyancy (neither his performance or its inspiration) that elevated the franchise to the same competitive supremacy as Bird’s boys decades ago.

OK, he had three blocks. But there needs to be a sub-category for the stat, considering those silly-nanny swats paled in comparison to the embarrassment James has inflicted upon similar position players all preseason—and last night.

A different set of eyes might have perceived a different picture, but there’s no arguing Tuesday’s bittersweet tinge.

If I’m wrong, and K. G. has fallen a victim to a more benign facet of time—what’s needed to bolster his stamina—there isn’t a cause for concern. But if I’m not, and this is a blaring manifestation that the end has already begun for one of the game’s most entertaining performers, it’s a saddening reality.

And even though he quit writing, a pleasure to be enjoyed through another medium, at least we’ve got Gilbert Arenas, back in that form, the one he defined as his own.

Thanks, sports media — I (and Brett Favre) owe you one

For those of us — and there’s a few — that have about had their fill with the always-dreaded Brett Favre saga, it’s completely understandable why many of us have bottlenecked out animosity toward the former-Green Bay Packer, present-Minnesota Viking, and future-Hall-of-Famer.

But I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong guy(s).

See the problem is, this debacle that’s been drawn out for the past few offseasons — especially immediately preceding and during NFL training camps in August — isn’t his fault. It’s our [the sports media]’s.

It all started way back when — in May of 2001, shortly after the then-32-year old inked a 10-year, $100 million contract extension — Brett Favre did exactly what he’s always done, apart from, of course, orchestrate fourth-quarter comebacks and win Super Bowls.

He told the truth.

Brett’s never been concerned with perception surrounding him. At all. He doesn’t care what the media thinks, he doesn’t care what the public thinks, he doesn’t care what I think, and he sure as hell doesn’t care what you think about what I think — if you even think that makes sense. The now-40-year old never bothered to answer any of our seemingly endless 20-questions without uninhibited honesty because, the man couldn’t care any less.

So when sometime that day — the same during which the then-former Packers’ head coach-turned-Seattle Seahawks’ figurehead Mike Holmgren acquired his old team’s no-name backup (some dude, Hasselbeck, I think?) — Brett Favre was asked a simple question, and he gave a simple answer.

Well, I guess.

During an open forum with reporters during the Packers’ press-conference immediately following the signing,  one anonymous media representative (whose name we fortunately don’t know, because someone would be imprisoned for his slaying) questioned Favre’s longevity in lieu of the long-term nature of the deal. Favre replied, in so many words, that he didn’t honestly see himself playing throughout the entirety of the contract’s 10 years.

And so, a beast — chaotic to the NFL’s fan base and disruptive to its television audiences — was born.

For the next seven years — spread out across the nation with stops in Green Bay, New York, Mississippi (specifically on Brett’s front lawn), and now Minnesota — the Favre saga has been a thorn deep in the everyday sports fan’s side, and I completely understand why they’re sick of it. The media’s conditioned us to hang on the man’s every word — the kind of behavior Dos Equis leads us to believe applies to everyone acquainted with its most recent ad campaign’s unnamed persona.

Only in Brett’s case, it’s not increasingly more “interesting.” It’s downright obnoxious. It’s also because they won’t stop putting a mic in front of his face.

One of the biggest knocks on Brett Favre, and “his” apparently tarnished legacy, has been his indecision. And there’s been plenty he’s been inconclusive about.

Or has there?

First, shortly before Packers’ GM Ted Thompson decided he’d had enough, the question du jour asked how many more years did Brett see himself playing. The answer was entirely elastic with the time of year you asked.

If you decided to drop the notion of his career’s end in August — when both his mental and physical conditions were peaking — he’d say something like, I’ll play until they won’t let me (again, wholehearted truth). But if you asked him around Week 16 — after he’d been abused by linebackers and the media for, God forbid, trying to do too much with too little — he’d tell you the end of the road was imminent, if not immediate (which, twice now, it was).

But, in true journalistic fashion, the sports media kept asking, asking, asking while he — too oblivious or disinterested to do what the rest of his peers do:  lie — kept answering, answering, answering. And it’s buried him. Buried him in terms of his esteem around the players, the record books, the fans, everyone really.

But at some point, doesn’t it become the media’s responsibility to treat the athletes — the ones about which they’re reporting, who ultimately finance their bank accounts — with some decency? Can’t we cut the guy a break — kind of like we’d hope someone would for us?

See the thing is that Brett’s not that much different from the rest of us. He’s got a few more dollars to his name –especially considering it’s become a thriving chain of Wisconsin steakhouses — but he’s about as average as any of us. I mean, he clearly hates shaving. He might hate drama a little more though, which is why it’s sad that conflict is all the media wants to throw at him.

The latest news surrounding the Vikings’ new No. 4 (that John David Booty never stood a chance) is that the team’s split its support between not two, but three of its quarterbacks (that John David Booty never stood a chance).

According to news reports the “schism” has the locker room at odds, as factions have formed between the players in support of Tavaris Jackson, former-Houston Texans backup Sage Rosenfels, and Brett Favre (and no, I’m not sure why it’s not pronounced kind of like ‘favor’). True, false or otherwise, it’s a shame that it’s the most pertinent detail in the conversation.

Shouldn’t it matter more that a team one position away from a likely Super Bowl berth in ‘08, recently added it in ‘09? Whether you agree or not, in a murky NFC with no-clear cut favorite that side of the argument at now at least has a pretty built leg to stand on.

To be honest (yes, I’m a hypocrite), I’m not sure how he’s going to fare in 2009. I’d certainly like to see him excel, though historically it’s just not rational (no one’s ever won a Super Bowl or thrown for 4,000+ after their forties). I’d even settle to see him perform just above mediocrity, so long as its along side one of the NFL’s brightest young running backs.

Fact is, it’s an unlikely road back to glory, at least in the form of Super Bowl splendor–even with the favorable 14-1 odds in Vegas for a Super Bowl party in the Gopher State, a significant drop after Favre’s signing.

What I’d most would like to see, though, is for Brett Favre to enjoy — the same way John Elway and Jerome Bettis, among others, did– the oft-tired cliche “riding off into the sunset. Maybe if the media would just leave him alone, he might have the opportunity, regardless of what happens this season in the Twin Cities.

But I can only hope it’s not too late for that.

Denver’s McDaniels has established himself as more than trend-setter, he’s a mold-decimator

If the 2009 Coach-of-the-Year ballots were due today, Denver Broncos’ head coach Josh McDaniels has certainly earned my vote.

It’s been well-documented that–in his first year at the helm–McDaniels has certainly had his share of culture-shock in his first year in Denver, as spoiled sports megastars have put forward their best efforts to dictate the organization’s direction and undermine his authority. Though the national sports media has criticized how he’s handled the early stages of his coaching career in Colorado, I’ve got to disagree. I love what the guy’s doing.

Let’s take a look at what he’s working with. We’ll start with Jay Cutler, who -– in his first three years in Denver during which he’s thrown for nearly 10,000 yards (Cutler’s thrown for 9,024 already, compared with Montana’s 7,973 in the three-time Super Bowl champ’s first few full seasons) while completing over 60% of his passes (his 62.5% since ‘06  tops Marino’s 60.6% after the same period in the Hall-of-Famer’s career).

Statistically speaking, his hit-the-ground-running showing thus far ranks among the best all time, though as of late, Cutler may have earned himself honors as the NFL’s biggest baby (step aside, T.O.).

Upon hearing trade rumors early in the offseason that he might be shipped out of town in a three-team deal involving picks and possibly last year’s fantasy phenom from New England (Matt Cassel), he whined to the local media, accusing McDaniel of favoring his former team’s players over his new crew and expressing the sense of betrayal he’d developed regarding his new head coach.

Weeks later, Cutler was a Chicago Bear.

More recently, the saga of wide receiver Brandon Marshall’s discontent – and accumulating off-the field attention for his frequent clashes with the law – escalated to this week’s antics, including, but not limited to, walking while his team ran, punting footballs 50 yards away from the ball boys that stood next to him, and swatting passes thrown in his direction rather than catching them.

I mean I guess it makes sense. Why shouldn’t he work hard in practice? It’s just a game, right? It’s not like he’s being paid $2.2 million in the last year of what still is a fourth-rounder’s rookie contract–or anything silly like that.

Continuing with that tone of  unencumbered honesty, the former Central Florida wide receiver’s likely earned himself a first-class ticket out of town, a figurative prize that McDaniel would have no issue personally financing. Once he gets to wherever he’s going—assuming that a team is going to offer the Broncos a first and a third-round pick to take a chance on the guy—he’ll only perform after he’s signed the lucrative contract extension that McDaniel won’t give him.

And there’s not a damned reason he should have.

McDaniel hasn’t focused 100% of his effort on tearing the team apart, considering he’s robbed NFC East preseason Super Bowl fave Philadelphia of the heart and soul of its defense in Brian Dawkins, and he’s spent two first-round picks — both of which Denver acquired from Cutler’s dismissal — on SEC thoroughbreds in former-Georgia running back Knowshon Moreno and former-Tennessee defensive end Robert Ayers, both of whom were touted before April’s draft as among the best available at their respective positions.

But no one’s willing to talk about that.

In today’s sports world, the sad reality has become that winning is all that matters. It doesn’t matter if you’re Manny Ramirez and you’re backpedaling to first base in Fenway Park, we’d love to have you in Los Angeles, so long as you keep up the .396 BA that you ended the season with wearing a Dodgers uniform.

And we’d still love your company, even after you conjure up a 50 game suspension for yourself for proudly accepting your identity as a filthy liar/cheater/juicehead. Of course we’d love to have you—so long as you continue to blast opposing pitchers on the road (.324 BA, .520 SLG in ’09).

I mean, hell, we’ve already named a section in the stadium’s bleachers after you (Manny-wood), and we’ll vow consistently ensure that Manny Ramirez bobble-head night cracks SportsCenter’s lead stories featured on its bottom line.

It’s unfortunate, but this has become the culture of pro sports, the status quo—and its well-noted among players.

But enter Josh McDaniels.

A product of the team-first atmosphere that epitomizes the New England Patriots’ organization, he’s distinguished himself from a vast majority of his peers and colleagues, who’ve been too weak to stand up to guys like Marshall in fear of losing their best effort come Sunday—as if that’s ever supposed to be a bargaining chip within an organization. You can criticize him for his role in the Cutler fiasco, that he was careless enough to let the talks leak to us—the scum-sucking sports media—but once he realized he was dealing with a no-win situation by an malcontent employee (who’s, mind you, scheduled to earn over $6.4 million for his services, including bonuses and incentives) he kicked the guy out. Out of the team, the locker room, the scheduled discussion topics of local sports media, and out of McDaniels’ way as he tries to regain the luster that used to define the team with guys like John Elway—renowned for his consistent cordiality with the fans and the community—and Mike Shanahan—who, even though he’s jobless is still respected as one of football’s greatest minds.

As far as I’m concerned, he may not have made a great first-impression around the team’s facilities Mile-High, but Josh McDaniel’s certainly redeemed himself.

It’s likely that—even in an anemic AFC West that featured two teams last year that put forth each’s finest effort to avert winning the division—the Broncos’ 2009 will be rough on the rookie head coach and his prize at quarterback (former-Boilermaker and Chicago backup Kyle Orton). Whether the he wins, loses, draws—really anything except forfeiting or selecting the wind in an overtime game—I’m already Josh McDaniel’s biggest fan.

Now I just have to hope that he can keep his job long enough for me to enjoy following his potentially brief head coaching career.