Tuesday, November 16, 2010


You say you haven't heard the news? You say you didn't see Monday Night's version of "Shock and Awe"? You didn't realize we had just regressed back to the days when the quarterback was your every man: your commander, your speedster, your play-caller, your passer, and your primary scorer? You didn't see that at the same time the NFL ushered in the possibility of the quarterback position moving into a new realm? You didn't watch the Philadelphia Eagles, and more to the point, Michael Vick, put all NFL defenses on notice? You didn't watch a Redskins Defense, under Jim Haslett, and the illustrious head coach of Mike Shanahan, run slipshod, arms extended all over the field as if unsure they had seen the ball -- as if they approached a would-be ball carrier only to have him vanish in thin air?

What, you say? You say you weren't watching Michael Vick single-handedly give the entire Redskins coaching staff a reason to fear for their very jobs. You didn't ponder the irony in Dan Snyder's next biggest blunder, that of handing Donovan McNabb a five-year, $78 million deal, $40 million of which is guaranteed to the 33-year old quarterback who appeared incompetent and under-talented in comparison to his protégé across the field?

You somehow didn't hear that Vick, who went into the game with 95 fantasy points in six games left yesterday's game ranked in most leagues within the Top 15 of all fantasy quarterbacks with over 145 points, yet he has three less games played?

Somehow in your busy world you didn't witness a player performing at such a peak level that when Jerome Harrison added 109 yards and a score on just 11 carries, it was an afterthought?

What, you say? Not that Michael Vick -- the same one that was accused of the heinous crime of dog-fighting, spent time in jail, went bankrupt and was released cold turkey by the Falcons? Not the guy none of us ever wanted to see out of prison much less on a football field? Not the guy that now might be labeled the best case scenario of a prison term and rehabilitation -- a man who somehow accepted his wrongs, paid his debt, worked super hard, and somehow transcended the hatred of not only the NFL bourgeoisie but the entire populace of bar-going ruffians who believe Sunday's ritual mass includes shot-gunning beer while wearing cheese on your head?

What, you say? Really? You didn't see Michael Vick do that?

I didn't either. At least, I can't believe I did.