DATELINE: GUNFIGHT AT OK HUMOR
The old gunslinger came out with his pistols blazing.
Bill Belichick mowed down the press with all the aplomb of Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti Western. We have not seen such fire-breathing vengeance in a dozen seasons from Bill.
Usually Just Plain Bill talks like a man with a prolonged case of dyspepsia expecting more hot sauce in his diet. On this Saturday, a week before the Super Bowl, he came across as a man whose homemade chili just burned out his esophagus.
Up an octave, down a reporter, he took down those who raised cheatgate, Spygate, and deflategate with a flurry of piercing blue-eyed laser beams.
Among the hastily drawn media crowd, those who asked rude questions ought to know they only lived by the grace of Bill Belichick. But, their names, ranks, and serial numbers, were duly noted.
Belichick announced he had conducted his own investigation, and he dared anyone there to snicker.
If Randolph Scott told the assembled town meeting that he was going to restore law and order to the West, you knew he meant business in one of those 1950s hard-boiled Westerns he did as precursor to Clint.
Belichick has had to waste his precious time bringing law and order to the Super Bowl—and now he was ready for the big showdown. It wasn’t going to be at noon near Tombstone, Arizona. He was putting the world on notice that them varmints who disrespect the Patriots ought to get out of town by sunset, February 1st.
The OK Corral has just been moved to Glendale, Arizona, and Patriot detractors better head for the hills. Belichick is on the warpath.