DATELINE: Boys Will be Quarterbacks!
Are we seeing double? Are they separated at birth? Are they twins?
The Red Zone of NFL has given us a double dose of cutie-pie QBs. We are now in double jeopardy of wondering how the NFL can allow players to take the field before they can shave.
Josh Allen and Kyle Allen are among the new generation of NFL quarterbacks. They have leapt into the Internet social media and beefcake dreamboat category simultaneously.
They are not joined at the hip because we saw them in different cities on the same day. However, we still cannot tell them apart without a scorecard.
Of course, one is always a tad shocked to find out that the star players are so young that they look like teenagers who could play the Hardy Boys in a new cable series.
TeenBeat might be featuring them on the cover. They could play Tom Brady’s sons in a movie.
One of them plays for the Buffalo Bills and the other now has taken over the Carolina Panthers. They are not your average blue-collar city boys. They are fresh off the farm.
Gleaming smiles and boyish good looks are not the kind of tough guy image you expect from grizzled NFL leaders, like Troy and Peyton. This is the new generation following in the footsteps of botox Tom Brady, whose looks now try to defy the twenty-somethings whom he must play against.
Of course, there is a big difference between looking young and actually being young. We don’t know if the Bobsey Twins of Josh and Kyle will fall into the youth movement of 2040 and find silicone to fill their wrinkles and cracks.
Right now they are so adorable that you wish the time machine would hold still for a few years.
We wish them long careers and hope they never are able to grow a beard like Ryan Fitzpatrick and cover up those beautiful doll looks. Movie contracts are sure to follow.
DATELINE: Ghost Hunters
If you saw New York Jest Quarterback Sam Darnold, of mono fame, on Monday Night Football, you saw a man spooked.
Yes, the young and callow big QB was mic’d up as they say for the cameras. He did not disappoint. When all the cursing is done, and whitewashed out, you had the tall drink of water having the worst night of his life. If you dismiss the night he caught mono…
He ended up with a QB rating of 6.5, which sounds nearly as abysmal as anything this season by anyone.
That conjurer of ancient gridiron spirits, Merlin Bill Belichick, apparently sent Macbeth’s witches to bubble up some trouble for young Darnold. Too damn young for being darn old.
The Jets main man said on the bench after one appalling interception that he was seeing ghosts out there on the field.
We, of course, believe him, as we have seen the power of orbs flying by at breakneck speed. These little photons of light are really the spirits of past football for Darnold, and they are making mischief that would do poltergeists proud.
Marley’s Ghost might have offered him some sound advice on how to deal with the Patriots defense that was fired up to deny the existence of ghosts.
Perhaps Hamlet’s fatherly ghost might have warned him of a coach would pour poison in his ear. That Jets coach was heard to tell him that he knew what to do. Apparently the coach did not know or have the number of an exorcist on his speed dial.
You can scare children with ghost stories, or conversely you can scare QBs like Josh Allen and Sam Darnold who look like giant kids playing a game of chess with the Grim Reaper. Shades of Shades.
DATELINE: Brown’s Grade, AB Positive
sample! Not for Player Use!
Quiet! Shhhhh! The big secret of the NFL is the notorious nondisclosure agreement, aka NDA. You may remember that little bitty from Donald Trump crying about Stormy sex crimes. Your Non-disclosure agreement puts you in the high chair.
if you molest someone by grabbing genitals, you simply pay the victim a large sum of money to keep his or her mouth shut with a small stocking stuffer. NDAs are the ways to go.
That’s how you play footsie with a wide receiver.
Grabbing genitals is congenital in the NFL. But an NDA saves the day!
If you cry havoc, cry rape or cry wolf, you may have an x-rated Xmas while the gridiron is hot!
Short of murdering people on the streets of Boston in the manner of Aaron Hernandez, you could probably get away with quite a few garden-variety crimes with a few golden nuggets in your pocket party.
Don’t be stopped at a red-light zone by police for soliciting sex at a massage parlor! If you keep the bare rumpus in your home, you can keep the victims quiet by throwing large wads of cash on their bare bodkins.
Your signing bonus is primarily a tool for legal expenses in pro football.
Fear not, rapists or child abusers, there is a kill-fee awaiting at your favorite David Pecker-run tabloid.
We know NFL players are paid beyond normal pay-scale and most have water on the brain, so quantitative quantum finance means loads of non-disclosure agreements. That way the NFL never can hear about what might cause suspension, investigation, or exempt status.
Your next super bowl will be held in the toilet bowl.
DATELINE: All Points Bulletin on Antonio Brown!
AB & NDA in NFL
If you thought the New England Patriots were immoral and unscrupulous, you surely are not surprised that Antonio Brown is laying on a thick residue of scandal on the beleaguered franchise. Even worse, he wore a notorious short suit in hideous design to the game.
Brown’s goop is knee-deep—ranging from Kraft’s massage parlor problems to an artist who came to paint a mural in Brown’s home and found the star walking around in his short suit birthday suit.
Is anyone shocked nowadays? How quaint that must be.
Only a Victorian throwback would find the Bill Belichick approach a shock to the system: money & ratings move the team’s off-field antics.
Yes, the Patriots have found a way to rekindle interest in their boring team. They had grown into old-hat, like the Yankees in the 1950s, standing too pat, losing interest even from fans. They were your grandfather’s bowler hat and Fred Astaire’s top hat.
Now, they have enlivened up the entire NFL season, which is built on the sandy castle of money. It shifts, and it is a porous foundation for anything permanent, except a gaudy Super Bowl ring around the toilet.
Football games are violent, scandal-ridden and off-limits to normal human civilizing influence. You may break an arm, have you clavicle broken, develop water on the brain, but it’s all for the entertainment of men with testosterone deficiency that undevelop every Sunday afternoon.
The Patriots have found a sure-fire formula to bring in fans and more money than ever: Gronk may be gone, but long live the boorish mean-spirit of AB. From A to B, you will have more alphabet soup than any spelling bee deserves.
We begin to wonder how many non-disclosure agreements there are in the NFL among players: Start singing the ditty: “you’ll never know.”
You can pour your soup into a saucer in New England, as long as there is no chowdah involved. Sip slowly with adequate slurps: with other teams collapsing all around, New England is on the road to the Super Bowl.
Move over, dead spirit of Aaron Hernandez
DATELINE: Water on the Brain?
Gronk (retired New England Patriot tight end Rob Gronkowsky) gave a rather humorless presser the other day in which he made some fairly peculiar statements in layman terms.
He alarmed us greatly when he began to talk about liquids in his brain, caused by football injury.
In his own simplistic way, he may have spoken about a hideous condition that surely means he would be mad to return to football. He discussed the ways you may recover and find some balm for the body and mind after the cruel sado-masochism of playing a game that makes jousting in armor appear to be civilized.
Gronk used terms that reminded us of the old phrase, “water on the brian.” You don’t hear it much anymore. It was a misleading term about spinal fluids unable to flow out of the head region. Doctors mght have called it “hydroencephalus” many decades ago.
Today it might better be explained in terms of concussion sysdrome: that repeated brain injury that has led former players to die too young, too suffer too much, to kill themselves, and to become violent shadows of their pleasant selves.
We think of former Patriot Junior Seau. Some players have donated their brains to research. It is frightful.
Gronk admitted that his brain injuries have given him mood swings already. He is not yet 30. If anyone wants to encourage him to return to the place that is already making his future a nightmare, they are greedy, mindless fans of a bloodsport.
We hope it is still early enough for full recovery for Gronk, though we fear that damage to the brain has been done and even in healing there will be scars, both mental and physical.
Liquids in his head and water on the brain, the end product of hydroencephus or concussions, is the horror no one in the NFL wants to face directly. Yes, they are men paid handsomely for the privilege of being media stars and marvels of physical heroism.
The price, we fear, may be far more devastating. It might make young stars like Gronk a shadow on the Moon, like a werewolf or cursed creature of night.
We do not think his simple declaration about strange liquids in his head should be dismissed as a childlike and preposterous notion. It is deadly.
DATELINE: Tom’s Time Runs Out
Mrs. Tom Brady.
|Reading Tom Brady’s tea leaves is pretty difficult, because he doesn’t drink tea!
Nevertheless, fans have requested that we look into the future of Tom Brady, as we have written several books on him and his general flakiness (See Tom Brady Swinging on a Deflategate, Amazon, paper and ebook).
It appears first that he has signed a large new contract extension with a raise that makes him the sixth highest paid player among NFL quarterbacks. Not bad for a GOAT.
Once again this year Brady gives the Kraft team more money to spend on other players or massages.
The big news is that he has put his house in Brookline, Massachusetts, up for sale for under $40 million buckeroos. Well, it is up and down. It appeared to be for sale, then it wasn’t. There’s no hurry as he intends to play for at least one more year in New England.
Patriot fans, who have come to think Brady may be a mere mortal after all, believe he may play just one more year and move to New York where he has bought a high-priced condo for his wife and children.
Like former teammate Gronk, Brady has loyalty to New England only as far as he can play as the team is concerned.
Gisele, one time model and actress, his wife, a billionaire in her own right, has other interests in the big city of the Big Apple .
These two are a Met gala power-couple with international ties who belong only to the money they have: no teams, no countries, no political groups .
Tom and his wife Gisele can do anything they want, and they will.
In the meantime, Tom has admitted that one of his great frustrations is that his second son doesn’t want to be an athlete like dear old dad. This young man is independent and wants to follow his own star, which may not be his father’s star.
All in all, the tea leaves say Tom, star of Tom v. Time, is headed for big changes in his ticking biological clock.
Ossurworld has written several books on Brady, including Tom Brady Swinging on a Deflategate. Available on amazon.com in print version or e-book for smartreaders.
DATELINE: Time to Call a Solicitor General
Known for Kissing His Players.
No, it’s not quite like receiving an invitation to a Super Bowl party, or even having a greeting from Santa Claus. You are accused of soliciting prostitutes, Mr. Kraft.
Owner and billionaire Robert Kraft of the New England Patriots has been charged by Florida police for entering a massage parlor and wanting more than a happy ending to the Patriots season.
At an age when most of his contemporaries are dead, 77-year old Mr. Kraft has shown a spark of life. We are not sure if we should wink and nod or congratulate him on enjoying whatever days are left to him. Another arrested user of masseuses is pushing 90, according to the published hit list.
Kraft apparently is using a service supplied by Chinese women who are essentially prisoners of the sex trade, kept under lock and key in a massage parlor to do the bidding of a stream of men.
Alas, the entire concept of sex workers is dubious. Unless there is criminal exploitation, we might well wonder why police haven’t found more important work than setting up candid cameras to catch your grandfather in flagrante delicto.
Are there no school shooters? Are there no gun nuts in the Coast Guard? Why are we focused on massage parlors?
Kraft was caught with his pants down on video apparently, according to some. In the tradition of Jussie Smollett, he is denying any transgression.
The massage parlor is only a few miles from the winter White House, and Kraft’s old pal to sex charges, the President of the United States, is even weighing in on the incident. We know Trump prefers to grab women’s crotches without paying by his own admission.
We may well scratch our head at why a billionaire septuagenarian would pay $75 for an hour’s dangerous liaison when he could have someone come to any private place of his bidding for a few more bucks.
We are of two minds: should we praise him and offer a medal for doing what most men his age can only wish?
Or should we prepare for the inevitable tombstone chiseling that will make this his last notorious act in a life of philanthropy and goodwill?
The ultimate profit goes to the media: this is not a game for gentlemen. Call your solicitor if you plan a trip to the massage parlor.
DATELINE: Do You See What We See?
For those who have trouble understanding the definitive moments of history, science, and world politics, you witnessed on a hot afternoon in Miami in December the Fall of the Roman Empire.
Lest our metaphors shock you with their doomsday scenario, we will say it more simply: the New England Patriots have met catastrophe. Humpty Dumpty has fallen off the great wall and the Patriots cannot put him together again. Atlantis just sank into the ocean.
There will be those who say it is merely one loss on a long road of successes.
The cognoscenti will recognize that Tom Brady’s career will never recover. The team on which he plays has imploded. Its vaunted brain-trust has just been eaten by viral amoebas. You have just seen someone cough up his lung and his guts. King Kong has fallen off the Empire State Building. Satan has been cast out of Heaven.
A game that might have been won anytime in the past 20 years by the Patriots, was lost.
It is the end of the story when Cinderella loses her glass slipper, and the clock strikes midnight. It is the time you see a small, insignificant man behind the curtain who resembles Belichick in whom all New England fans trust, and he says he is not the Wizard of Oz and to ignore him.
Robert Oppenheimer said it best when the bomb when off and the clock ticked away: “I am the Bringer of Death.” Bring on a new generation of football stars and dynasties.
You cannot exaggerate too much what has happened in the world. Sometimes matters are puzzling and frightful. Here they are as clear as you can ever hope to see. Donald Trump stole the election and now you know.
Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead. The New England Patriots just sang the Swan Song of Football.
DATELINE: Thumbs Irrelevant
A funny thing happened on the way to the Super Bowl for the Patriots. It wasn’t Tom’s thumb that was the problem. It was a tough bunch of Jaguars. It started to look like James Michael Curley’s Last Hurrah—but hold on, fans.
No one in New England was laughing in the fourth quarter when Danny Amendola pulled off his patented Julian Edelman imitation. For a while, the alleged laughingstock named Blake Bortles looked like Joe Montana.
Yes, Blake’s advisor in California for throwing the ball is former Red Sox pitcher Tom House.
Yes, Jaylen Brown of the Celtics went rogue and backed the Jaguars over his Boston fan base because his cousin A.J. Bouye is their enforcer.
Dion Lewis saved the last dance for a fumble, but recovered one last time.
Waiting till next year may not be a good option: Brady’s thumb won’t be needed for hitching a ride out of Foxboro, and the two coordinators, Matt Patricia and Josh McDaniels, will not hit the road, moving on to other clubs, for a few more weeks and one more big game in Minnesota.
In the end, Belichick and Brady embraced. Oh, yes, there will be a meeting of the minds of Belichick, Brady, and Kraft as they try to end a political stalemate that may have contributed to ill-feelings and ill-intentions. But that will be after they win another Super Bowl and all will be forgiven.
The Patriots found a new MVP in Danny Amendola replacing Julian Edelman with his last-minute heroics this time. Gronk was concussed and out for the end again.
Brady stalked the sidelines when he was not on the field, unlike any game of the season heretofore.
Maybe he was pondering the ratings for his Facebook TV series as bombing unless he pulled the game out of the hopper.
Time is cruel, and next year may be less than this year, but for now, the Patriots are on top of the world, Ma.
DATELINE: Twilight Zone Meets Jaws
With an ice storm on the horizon in Boston, the two championship franchises, the Celtics and the Patriots, were also out of town and out of luck. Every great team has its up and downs.
After our ill-timed braggadocio, life gave us a cold slap in the face with ice pellets. Alas, it was too cold to make lemonade out of the fiasco that befell the Patriots and Celtics on Monday night.
We could not imagine these were the same teams that had been so impressive game after game. What on earth happened to the bright lights?
Miami and Chicago laid the expected victors a harsh dose of reality. No one is perfect, not even Bill Belichick or Brad Stevens.
If ever there was a night for Tom Brady to yell at Josh McDaniels this was it. If ever there was a night for Jaylen Brown to keep wearing his goggles, this was it.
Alas, Brown discarded his glasses and Tom Brady made nice with Josh.
When Jayson Tatum is unable to hit three-pointers and Tom Brady throws an interception and only has a handful of passing yards in the first half, you have crossed through the looking glass. In this case, it’s the mirror Tom Brady broke.
The Chicago Bulls are the worst team in the NBA, and the Miami Dolphins are the toughest opponents the Pats ever face in Miami. Brady has his worst record in 18 years against the Dolphins.
We have to admit the Patriots were without Gronk, who was suspended, and the Celts were without Kyrie Irving who needed some rest.
No matter where Boston fans turned, they were on the edge of the Outer Limits.
Both teams, known for their defensive finesse, showed it wasn’t their night. It was reminiscent of On the Waterfront, when Brando’s boxer complained his brother told him to lose, “It wasn’t my night!”
At half-time we were ready to become fair weather fans for our two teams.
Monday Night Football, Basketball, and Ancient Aliens
DATELINE: Boston’s Conundrum
Greens: Hornet & Lantern
For the better part of a decade, there has been no such creature as a head-to-head match-up of the Boston Celtics and the New England Patriots.
It was no contest. We could plead nolo contendre with gay abandon.
If the two franchises were playing in the same small timeframe, without question, the attention went directly to Belichick, Brady, and their imitation of 1950s-60s Celtics as a football franchise.
Perhaps in some future date the Patriots will have 17 championships and Bill Belichick and Red Auerbach will march, arm in arm, into New England mythology. You will see Tom Brady and Bill Russell matching ring for ring on their fingers.
However, this week in Boston, the conundrum rises anew: the Pats are playing on Monday night, and so are the newly rejuvenated Celtics. Normally, Patriots are sitting court-side at the Celtics game—but both teams are on the road and playing simultaneously.
Nineteen-year old shooter Jayson Tatum is leading the league in three-point shooting. We haven’t seen a 19-year old with this kind of dead eye since Billy the Kid shot up the New Mexico league in 1880.
Brady is twice as old as Tatum, but together they could be an epoch of victors lasting half a century. If Jayson Tatum plays until the mid-2040s, he may be retiring at the same age as Tom.
We are not sure whether we will be around for the accolades and retirement ceremony, but it is possible.
Hardly a man is now alive who saw Babe Ruth pitch for the Red Sox, but we are the recipient of modern medical miracles already.
So, whom will you watch on Monday night?
Fortunately, the new age of technology allows us to put the Patriots on our tablet and the Celtics on our smartphone—and leave our other attention to a new movie on UFOs on cable.
Life is grand nowadays. We are riding in the chariots of the gods.
DATELINE: NFL Flies By Seats of Stadium
As we come down to the home-stretch of the NFL season of 2017, there is an obvious conspiracy afoot, and aseat.
The networks (both cable and airtime) have joined the NFL in deceiving the viewing public.
Though our Commander-in-Chief thinks he is smartly pointing out that football ratings are down because of kneeling football players, he once again has missed the key point: there are fewer people at the actual games. The seats are empty.
Where once there were screaming throngs and sell-outs at every game across the NFL, there are now many teams faced with the embarrassing lack of din from supporting fans. The lung power of screams of support have turned to boo-bird calls—but the only way to make crowd noise is to fill the stadium with fake sounds.
Now, New England fans may not know what we are talking about. Their stadium at Foxboro is always filled. Indeed, Pat fans know no decline in support. They now are showing up at visiting stadiums where the home crowd is supporting the visiting Patriots. No wonder opponent team owners salivate when the Pats show up: it’s guaranteed revenue. Empty seats disappear.
No wonder the owners are happily taking their teams abroad. In London or Mexico City, language is no barrier to paying fans filling up every seat.
NFL Red Zone doesn’t have to avoid crowd shots of the stadium in a foreign land. Just the needed field goal kicks show the ball flying over empty seats as it hits the net for 3 points. The visual impact is that the viewers realize they are more alone than you might have thought.
Whether Trump is right that the politics of players and the national anthem issue have driven away fans is debatable. Perhaps we are just saturated by games of no importance, and seats of great cost.
Your owner greed has cast them into their own Twilight Zone of Red Zone: charging exorbitant prices for a day at the game has now created the effect of Roman emperors sitting in their luxury boxes watching the peons who paid good money for little entertainment.
Don’t get us started on the camera shots of owners, respectfully called “Mr.” billionaire by fawning broadcasters. That’s a conspiracy for another day.
DATELINE: Inexcusable Lapses of Judgment
If you need more than one example to prove that Trump is a fetid racist (on top of a dozen past examples), we have compiled a list of the latest evidence that Donald Trump is unfit to be president of the United States.
He is a blatant and unremitting in his bile. Perhaps he is not a white supremacist, as that entails belonging to a set of social pairings that he has avoided. However, he has shown a disdain for anyone who happens to be a person of color. We will ignore all his obsessive, continuous, illogical attacks on Barack Obama.
Case in point number one: this week he managed to show his lack of humanity (perhaps another disqualifying characteristic) by suggesting he should have let three college basketball players rot in a Chinese jail for ten years because no one wants to kiss the ring of the reigning monarch.
On top of that, he took on the notorious imbecile LaVar Ball in a battle of twitter -tweetie bird brains. Suffice it to say, there is no honor in bashing LaVar Ball. It’s like kicking a dog with three legs. If Trump wanted to illustrate that he is a vile human being, comments such as this do it.
Oh, please, to those who cry it’s only Twitter. It creates a social condition among the uneducated and dumb supporters of racist notions
Next, Trump is calling for the complete suspension of Dallas Cowboy player Marshawn Lynch. Here is another least popular figure in sports who happens to be black. Lynch sat in Mexico City during the American national anthem, but stood for the Mexican anthem. He hardly seemed to be protesting much of anything. Another imbecile to equal Trump’s IQ on patriotism.
And, finally, there is Steph Curry, a basketball champion who was disinvited from the White House for not supporting Trump. Some have defended Trump by saying that the President did not even realize Curry is “high yellow” (a light-skinned black person).
The only high yellow Trump approves is in in his hair and the streak running down his back.
DATELINE: Vocabulary Lesson for Jerry Jones & Media
This week Jerry Jones has tested our ability to play both Scrabble and do crossword puzzles. The owner of the Dallas Cowboys, mired deeply in a feud with Roger Goodell, reportedly called fellow owner Robert Kraft a mysterious name in regard to the Patriots owner’s inability to stand up to Goodell on Deflategate.
The media has given us a maddening clue by leaving out key letters of the word.
The media has also plastered the word over the airwaves, cable wires, and water-cooler discussions for men who live dangerously around women nowadays. For those who are fans of President Trump, the word may ring familiar, as he used the epithet (if that’s what it is) during his campaign against women.
In case you are wondering what the cryptic word is, we have gone to our cryptologist’s handbook to discern “P—y.”
In some more colorful stories the spelling is “p***y.” We always opt for the asterisk over the hyphen as part of our training as a literary critic.
We didn’t have to run to our crossword puzzle dictionary for the Sunday New York Times to be able to figure out what Jerry Jones and President Trump have said. The options are clear.
It is likely that Mr. Jones called Kraft “pasty.” This is ironical, if only because Jones is even more sun-deprived than Kraft, playing as it were mostly indoors at his stadium. We think Kraft is fairly pasty on his own too.
Another option is “puffy.” We have heard Sean Combs has discarded this sobriquet lately—and it is available to be put on Kraft who takes a paternal interest in his players, hence “Puffy Daddy.”
However, we realize soon enough that the best likelihood is another word: “Putty.” Yes, Kraft was putty in the hands of Goodell, and is pliable to the whims of the fans.
You say tomato, and we say “tomahto.” You say “P***y” and we say, “Putty.” Let’s call the whole thing off before our vocabulary descends into the tone-deaf style of NFL fans in general.