2011 All ACLB Team Final Words

RAVEN: FINAL WORDS
So we've finally wrapped this thing up that has taken us months of meandering back-and-forths to do. And what I can honestly tell you is this - Armchair Linebacker is an amazing fucking place. Fuck football talk anywhere else. We do not try to be the bullshit breaking news "just copied it from Chris Mortensen or Jay Glazer on twitter" sites, and we do not make us stupid lists just for the sake of making stupid lists to drum up search engine optimization. We are real dudes who really fucking suffer watching the NFL football. I am thankful for Neil for jumping into this so wholeheartedly, and I wish there was a dude like him for every other team. I am thankful for guys like LPOY and Mike Dikk and Harpo Garza who pop in with some amusing ass shit whenever they feel the motivation, and I wish there three guys like them for ever team in the NFL. And I am thankful for myself, for having a reason to suffer under Dan Snyder's oppressive regime, so that I can complain about him comedically and share his office number and hope that I am inspiration for someone out there to make a difference in the Redskins future. Haha, i don't mean hurt Dan Snyder; I was thinking more along the lines of not supporting the team in the hopes he moves them to Los Angeles to be next to his celebrity asshole friends and then we get a new team that gets to keep the Redskins name like the Browns, but probably at an immense cost because if he is nothing else, Dan Snyder is a shady sketchy ass money-hungry double-horned devil.
But most of all, I hope you enjoy Armchair Linebacker, and I hope you share our bullshit with our friends. I hope you contribute, either by commenting or by getting involved and bitching about your own piece of shit ass team you've loved since you were 7, wearing a jersey your dad got for you that you saw one just like at the thrift store last summer and it looked so old and weird but you almost bought it anyways. That's being a fucking football fan. And though the internet tends to be about pretending to break things before anybody else does or fighting to be quick with responses to happenings as close to real time as possible, or just showing off your knowledgeable ass with punter formulas and baseball nerd sabermetrics for the gridiron, I say fuck that. The internet should be a place for real dudes to provide real fucking opinions on the really miserable suffering they go through watching a goddamned football game they have no control over, yet are so emotionally involved in it they will fight with their life partner if things go bad. That's the NFL. It might try to paint itself as some goddamned country club physical chess match for the idiot savants of our modern times, but really it's just about dudes smashing into each other to move an oblong ball in a direction against the other team's collective will. That's all. That can be a beautiful thing to watch when it is pushing your way, and a terribly soul-crushing painful thing to see when it doesn't go your way, and you start to feel it will never go your way again. That is Armchair Linebacker.



NEIL: FINAL WORDS
It’s the tail end of July, the lockout is over and I am finally sitting down to put an exclamation point on whatever the fuck this thing is. Some of it has been inspired madness, some of it has been ordinary madness and some of it has been embarrassing madness. But that’s exactly how it should be because that is life, you know? Sometimes you soar with the eagles and sometimes you shit your pants with the goats and then they eat your pants because they’re goats and that’s just what goats do. In the end, though, every word we have written here has been alive. Every word has breathed and seen the blue skies of this world. There is nothing antiseptic or pandering about anything that we do here, and that’s what sets us apart. That’s what this team is a celebration of, that freedom to be who and what you are without apology or reservation.
I’m sure we lost some people along this brutal road. That’s fine. We’re strange dudes and we say and write strange things that make people uncomfortable sometimes. We know this. But, frankly, we don’t give a shit. Actually, we’re proud of this because this world is full of dead souls and bleating sheep and we are lions with hearts of fire, and even though we might fare better in the flock if we cover ourselves with lamb’s wool and bleat the same worthless bullshit that everyone else is bleating, there is no point to any of that, no reward other than being shorn along with the rest of the flock and then sold as mutton. We roar because that’s our natural voice. It is an extension of our proud warrior hearts, our stardust souls and our more human than human minds. Maybe this means we’re just destined to chase away the sheep (And man, I hate using the term “sheep” here because it’s so clichéd, but fuck it, for this metaphor, it’s what works, you know? Just please recognize that I’m not doing some dumb “Fuck the sheeple” thing here. Well, maybe I am, but it’s not the same because most of the time the people who go on about that sort of shit are just sheep of a different color. You know what I mean? No? Eh, me neither.) but it also means that the people who do stick with us – like you intrepid souls – are of our kind, and finding you and each other is a far more rewarding experience than being accepted and loved for what we aren’t. This is the only way we know how to talk about football. This is the only way we can talk about football. We can’t even bring ourselves to do all that other simpering bullshit.
I know this comes across like an epic circle jerk, but there comes a time when you have to thump your chest and scream “This is me, motherfucker. This is me.” And I suppose now is one of those times. We are profane and crass and we don’t mince words. Most of the time when people do that it comes across like some sort of lame shtick, a Howard Sternesque attempt to shock and offend as a means of getting attention, and that is desperate and lame and sad. But we are not like the others. Not me, not Raven and none of you reading this. We simply speak the truths told to us by our own hearts and make no apologies for it. That is the Armchair Linebacker way.
Like Raven said, we’re always on the lookout for voices of our own tribe. If you want to join in and write with us, then by all means, let us know. We may shout a lot and we may offend the local gentry and drink from the hollowed out skulls of our enemies and pick our teeth with their wicked bones, but we like nothing more than commiserating with our own kind and laughing and high-fiving and kicking ass with our friends while everybody else stares with slack jawed horror. We’re surprisingly accessible. We may be brutes, but we have the hearts of warrior poets.
Look, I’m not even sure what I’m gibbering about here. This is supposed to be the final word on a project that took months to complete, saw a lot of weird gibberish written, spanned several bouts of “Fuck this, and fuck football” feelings, raged stupidly but honestly against the idiot mewling of the Great NFL Football Machine which has dragged our patience through the mud over the last several months, and finally found itself being posted, piece at a time as the lockout finally dragged to a sorry end. This whole project, though, should be taken as a whole. Ideally, it should be read in one furious bender, spanning many hours, blood, sweat and, if we’re being honest, even a little semen. If you want to add some tears, that’s fine too.
In the end, Raven and I wrote this because there comes a point where you just have to put it all down and say “Here, this is where I’m coming from. If you like it, cool. If not, I’m sure Rick Reilly has a new column out.” Hopefully, we’ve spoken some serious truths hidden in all the insanity. That’s the brutal yet glorious secret of this blog – for all the weird shit that we write, for all the blur of insanity which we seem to be, at the core of it there is a beautiful heart pumping with raw, naked truth that is painfully earnest and wants nothing more than to hope and to fall in love with the teams we have so tragically attached ourselves to throughout the years. We are the children who grew up wide eyed and innocent (Well, as innocent as we could ever be.), watching and loving our teams because, really, we had no choice. You don’t choose love, no matter what the cynics say. It chooses you and these damned teams chose us long, long ago. And now we wait, and we wait, and we wait, and we try to capture that moment when they will finally love us back. That’s what Armchair Linebacker is all about.

2011 All ACLB Team Wild Cards

NEIL: KEN STABLER, BARRY SWITZER, JIM BROWN, DICK LEBEAU, & JOE NAMATH
When I was a kid, in those middle teenage years which are crucial to every man’s development, every summer I had a little ritual. My family and I would go camping and I’d always bring a couple of books with me. One of them was always – always – Ken Stabler’s autobiography. I read that shit every year, without fail. And why the fuck wouldn’t I? It was called Snake and it had a picture of an upside down Raiders helmet filled with crushed beer cans on its cover. How could a natural born rebel like me resist something like that? Think about everything I have ever written here. Think about your mental image of me, whatever the hell it may be, and then think about that book and ask yourself how I could possibly resist that. I mean . . . come on. It was like the book was written just for me.
It was full of wild tails about Kenny Stabler getting all fucked up, fighting fools, diving naked out of ladies’ bedrooms before their husbands got home, and winning football games. If we hadn’t already honored Reggie Roby, Kenny Stabler would no doubt be the patron saint of Armchair Linebacker. No one player better epitomized the Armchair Linebacker ethos than our man Kenny Stabler. Even his nickname was cool: Snake. The fucker actually got away with being called Snake! And it wasn’t some dumb play on words, some dumb rhyming scheme like Jake the Snake. No, it was just Snake, and that’s because Ken Stabler was a badass, a dude who will forever appeal to that pulsating wild eyed adrenaline fueled wild boy who will live in my soul until the end of time. I’ve grown up since then. I’ve been civilized a bit – not too much but a bit. But the part of me that is a sports fan and the part of me that refused to be civilized are the same person.
Ken Stabler appeals to that part of me that will get in drunken boxing brawls at 3AM with my best friends. Ken Stabler appeals to that part of me that will always want to stand at the edge of the world and shout into the void just to let it know that I’m here. Ken Stabler appeals to that part of me who’s made of fire, that spirit within that is just too fucking hot. Ken Stabler appeals to that part of me who believes, retarded as it may be, that when I die, thousands of years from now, that fire spirit will cause my whole body to burn away before they can get it to the grave. Ken Stabler appeals to that part of me that gibbers on about being a Warrior of Light and all the other horseshit I yammer on about here. Ken Stabler is someone I was born to root for.
Ken Stabler doesn’t give a fuck about any of this shit. All he cares about is riding around in the Gulf of Mexico in a power boat with a cooler full of beer and a bunch of girls in bikinis hanging all over him. He doesn’t give a fuck about what some asshole in Michigan thinks of him. He doesn’t give a fuck about what anyone thinks about him. He grew up worshipping Bobby Layne and he’s been true to himself since day one. And that’s really what it’s all about. It’s not the drunken antics or the bullshit debauchery. It’s about being one of those ultra-rare souls who lives life on his own terms and no one else’s. I don’t always do that as well as I should. Really, none of us do, but fuck, all we can do is try to hold to that shit the best we can, and Kenny Stabler, as far as I’m concerned, does that about as well – or better – than anyone else. You bet your ass I’d want him hanging around this team, at least in some capacity. At the very least, he could seduce the Squidman King’s daughters and get us some sort of advantage there, you know? Maybe he could gain access to the Squidmen’s headquarters by seducing one of their wives, and then while he was there he could steal a playbook or something. Fuck, I don’t know. All I do know is that if the future of the human race is at stake, I want Kenny Stabler on my side and that’s all that matters.
Barry Switzer is Kenny Stabler’s spiritual cousin. He also had an autobiography (I won’t say “wrote an autobiography” because . . . come on) and I read that shit a couple of times. It was called “Bootlegger’s Boy” and had a picture on the cover of him celebrating a National Championship or some other glory from his days at Oklahoma. That sums up Barry Switzer right there. He was the son of a bootlegger who lived through some heinous shit as a kid, but never stopped smiling, never stopped moving forward. The light that lived inside of him couldn’t be extinguished, that inner fire that draws other souls to it as it hurtles through the universe. He won and he won big and he did it his way. He legendarily got along with and appealed to young black kids because he understood what it meant to be poor and pissed on by the world. He was their friend first and their coach second and eventually the world pissed on him again for it, but fuck all that. He was an outlaw and a renegade because he didn’t know what else to be. And in the end, the record books will show that he won a shitload of football games, a handful of National Championships and a Super Bowl. The world thinks he’s just a bumbling old fool but that’s because the world doesn’t understand Barry Switzer. It never did and it never will, but that’s because Barry Switzer never bent to the world, never let it conquer him, and I want somebody like that by my side.
Jim Brown is just a badass. He seems like the exact opposite of Stabler or Switzer but really, he’s just like them. He’s a dude who lived life on his own terms, won because despite everything else he’s a winner, and refused to apologize for any of it. You don’t want to fuck with Jim Brown. He’s an old man now but he’ll still kick the shit out of your fool ass. He’d grab one of those Squid motherfuckers and he’d beat that monster senseless. Besides, if shit got too out of hand, I imagine that Stabler and Jim Brown could replace whatever fools I picked at quarterback and running back. I don’t even remember, it’s been so damn long since I started this thing. Ryan Fitzpatrick? Is that who I picked at quarterback? Fuck, I don’t know. I’m pretty sure that’s who I picked. If it wasn’t, just laugh at me and ignore the rest of this paragraph. In retrospect I can’t even remember why I picked him – or the dudes I picked at running back – but wouldn’t it make sense to have dudes like Ken Stabler and Jim Brown hanging around to teach them the ropes, to teach them to how to be a bunch of damned winners? As a matter of fact, fuck Ryan Fitzpatrick. Kenny Stabler is now the quarterback for this team. I don’t care how old he is or how drunk, he’ll win the damn game.
Dick LeBeau is the best defensive coordinator in football. He’s been doing it for years with the Steelers and we need someone on this team who can handle the details. I’m confident Dick LeBeau can concoct the perfect game plan to stop the offense of any fool team that makes the mistake of fucking with our boys here. He’ll have the Squidman quarterback shitting in his pants and weeping for his whore of a squid mother by the time the game is done.
As for Joe Namath, well, I figured that Kenny Stabler needed a good wingman and I’m sure that Broadway Joe would gladly fuck a female Squid guard while Kenny Stabler makes off with their playbook. These are the sort of details that will ensure the survival of the human race and you should all be glad that I’m here to think of them. You’re welcome, Earth. You’re welcome.



WILD CARDS: KEVIN GREENE, DEXTER MANLEY, THE GHOST OF JUSTIN STRZELCZYK, JOE GIBBS, & BARRY SANDERS
The idea of adding wild cards to our All-City teams was because these BEST PLAYERS IN THE NFLZ! lists tend to just go for the statistical best, without thought behind the actual chemistry needed to make a team perform well. And even using that term "chemistry" is kinda stupid because that makes it sound scientific. You just have to put dudes together who are of the right mind frame, and you need some older dudes to instill in them the culture of what they are a part of now. This is why street gangs have O.G.s with tattoos memorializing dudes you young bucks never even knew of and why corporations will keep old ass fuckers from the old days on their payroll as consultants to pop in every now and then and draw some Venn diagrams on dry erase board and tell some stories.
So obviously you want some intense dudes, but who are also good-natured. That makes Kevin Greene my first pick. I vaguely remember him being a coach for one of the team's in the Super Bowl, maybe, but I was in heavy codeine fuzz during that game so it's hard to say if I really remember that or not. It would make sense he'd coach for the Steelers, as that's his history, but it also makes sense you'd have a guy like Kevin Greene hanging out being a coach for A.J. Hawk and Clay Matthews and all in Green Bay. Like that makes so much sense, I am going to assume that's what I remembered seeing, being I am in the camper and there's no internet out here (although there is screwed and chopped norteno music in full effect, really fucking loud... shout out to DJ Dreemz and his Raza Hitz). Kevin Greene is the type of coach you would love as a player, because he will know where the good old school strip clubs are that keep you hidden from the prying eyes of the media or camera phones of other folks in the club, but also knows how to help dispose of a body if you accidentally "overdose" a dancer against the headboard of your hotel room because you caught her stealing leftover tip money out your leather jacket. And on top of that, he understands the game of football, from the inside. Sometimes all the Xs and Os in the world don't mean shit compared to just teaching dudes how to suck it up and be able to go head first through a brick wall with more enthusiasm than anyone else on the other side of the ball. That's Kevin Greene.
At the same time, as you dabble in pushing your collection of haphazard physical specimens towards willful self-destruction, you have to show them what it looks like after falling over the edge, and clawing your way back. That's Dexter Manly, who is the happiest go lucky recovered crackhead you'd ever meet. I could not be prouder of him being a former Redskin, and have never felt ashamed of #72, even when it was discovered he was illiterate, and even when he pawned his Super Bowl ring for crack money. Never. When my Ma Dukes bought me a customized Redskins jersey a few years back, the number I chose was #72. And that number has not been worn prominently in Washington until they gave it to Trent Williams after last year's draft, and I do not think it a coincidence that Dexter Manley is back in D.C., with his own show, to be there to give the okay for such a thing to happen. Football gets made out to be such a bullshit physical chess drama a lot of times by the NFL Media machine, trying to hype it up as something more than what it is - physical as fuck. That's all it is. And having a guy like Dexter Manley around who is testament to how book-stupid you can be yet still be wildly successful in the football world, it's got to be motivating to a team. You ain't got to be shit but physical as fuck and hungrier than anyone else. Say crazy shit, and do crack, but show up on Sunday afternoon and crush a motherfucker. That is the spirit of defense you fucking want. Fuck egghead 49 blitz package defensive coordinators with three defensive QBs and audibles and all that shit. Just give me three motherfuckers at each level of the defense (line, linebackers, secondary) that will straight up crush motherfuckers without losing sight of where the ball or play is going, and I'll show you a bad motherfucking defense every time.
Okay, so if you instill that in your defense, you have to make sure your offense gets that feeling too. And I had contemplated a living offensive lineman like Russ Grimm or Dan Dierdorf or somebody to do the same for my team as a wild card, but honestly those dudes are in coaching and broadcasting, which means they keep their hair cut and probably have to pass drug tests still. That is not what you want to have as an influencing factor on your O-line, at all. You want dirtbag viking mentalities who are good dudes to the bottom of their heart who would share their last whore dollar with you in a Mexican brothel. And for my whore dollars, no one compares to Justin Strzelczyk on that front. Dude looked like a viking, was insanely tough, and after leaving football, suffered massive early dementia from the brain crushing he took as a player. Rather than be stifled by that in a gay manner, he embraced it, did lots of drugs, and ended up dying in a fiery wreck flying the wrong way down the interstate running from the cops who had set spike strips out for him. That's a man. And being most of these guys are concussing themselves into early dementia as it is, to where if they don't self-destruct, they'll probably commit suicide, it's important to have an example like Justin's ghost floating around, to show you that you'll die either way, so if the damage is done, you might as well go out guns blazing. This mentality is easily transferable to the football field to where you can either go out with guns a blazing, fuck your own brains, or you can be all careful and worried about not being able to be a 63-year-old. 63-year-olds do not make good football players, and honestly who the fuck wants to be 63 anyways? Social security is crumbling away and retirement's going to be pushed back to death, if you can find a job, as the American economy continues its slow death crawl towards the end of the American Empire, so you might as well go out like a man, the wrong way down the interstate, high as fuck, hoping you kill twice as many cops as kill you.
A good tempering influence for all these guys on my wild card list is Joe Gibbs, the greatest man in the history of the Redskins. Sure he's a Christian, but not a Bible-beater. This is the man that happily tolerated Dexter Manley and John Riggins. And though his last return to the NFL was considered not as successful as his first run where he won three Super Bowls (and spoiled me for life as a football fan), but dude, do you realize how much fucking Dan Snyder sucks? In three years under Dan Snyder, Joe Gibbs took the Redskins to the playoffs twice. TWICE! I think that time will show that to be even more amazing than the three Super Bowl wins.
Finally, simply Barry Sanders, not talking or coaching or wearing old jerseys or anything. He'd just show up and sit in a box and watch games and not leave early and he'd shake hands with like seven dudes after they won a game, standing there clapping and smiling at everybody but grabbing this dude or that dude and being like, "Hey bro, great fucking play on that stop on that 3rd down," or "Nice push for that four yards early in the game." Simple, quiet, concise awesomeness, and then he'd disappear, before Joe Gibbs tried to recruit him for Bible study, or Kevin Greene tried to convince him that he hasn't lived until he gets a "Puerto Rican lapdance" or something. Then the players all know what it's like to be the best, and how you can be that and not flash it and not have to have every other person affirm it to you and not be surrounded by sycophants (thus often times financial parasites). You can just be the fucking best and be cool with it and slip out the side door without anyone noticing or having to make a grand exit or entrance. Just be a regular dude playing a goddamned billion-dollar game, because that's what all these guys are, and regardless of the long-term health effects or how demented they become or how much the owners make and exploit them for (which they do), they are some blessed motherfuckers to be doing it. It's a lot fucking better than digging a goddamned ditch with a backhoe, I can tell you that much.

LATER TODAY: some final words to wrap this up and get ready for a new football year

Two Lifelong Redskins Fans Emails During the Wacky Offseason of 2011 Part 2

Hey Will,
I woke up this morning and got in the truck to go back to work (only
like 9 hours since I left it) and heard the glorious news that
Haynesworth was gone as a radio tease. I was like, "Finally!" in my
brain, and then waited to hear the gory details. Two minutes later,
they said the Patriots gave the Redskins either a 5th or 6th round
pick for him, and the initial giddiness was replaced by a crushing
realization. Much like when someone has weird moles all of a sudden
after years of working in the sun and they take a biopsy to see if
it's skin cancer or not, that's what Haynesworth going to New England
is like. If the Redskins have been an inefficient beast in personnel
decisions as well as creating the proper environment for success, the
Patriots have been the textbook example of not being emotionally
attached to players, making moves when you can get the most,
thickening your draft picks every year, and simply filling in
positions 11 through 53 on the roster constantly and wait for guys to
develop into one of those 1 through 10 guys. No glorious saviors
signed the first day of free agency, no trading next year's 2nd round
pick for this year's new jersey in the NFL Shop, none of that
bullshit. I bet Belichick makes a ton of money speaking at corporate
bullshit.
So the dilemma here is Haynesworth, who has been this huge problem in
D.C. from the beginning pretty much, could go to New England and not
only restart his career but go back to being the beast that he was
once every 100 plays while collecting Snyder checks. And honestly, I
figure that'll happen. And what that'll show is that it's not so much
the player as it is the system, or the team structure that is set up,
and that's not an indictment on Shanahanny in particular so much as
Redskins front office culture of the past decade. It's not geared to
be efficient nor not be attached to personally knowing the players. I
bet Snyder had a bunch of brunches with Haynesworth when he was first
signed to the maroon and black dotted line.
So yeah, finally Haynesworth is gone, and then I am left with this
crushing feeling that Haynesworth, although a highly susceptible to
personal failures type of fellow, was not the cancer that needed to be
gotten rid of. I have a feeling we will see that proven this year in
New England.
I wonder what happens today?
**********
My first reaction to the Haynesworth trade was relief.

Sure there's always the chance that he'll be great with the Patriots, but I hated that team to begin with. Now, with his fat ass on the roster, I can hate them like I hate stuff like AIDS and Rosie O'Donnell- or Rosie O'Donnell infested with AIDS at the same time. It's a very efficient hate channel- really convenient.

No longer will he or McNabb be the subplot that makes the Redskins the team everyone loves to laugh at. No more 18-day physical fitness tests that are dragged out in detail on every media outlet from the NFL network to ESPN Deportes. No more veterans being anonymously interviewed about how bad the stand-off is for the locker room and how sick they are of answering that question every single day. That drama is gone.

Now, there is still plenty of time for there to be a big splash free agent signing that requires Redskins One to literally fly by night- one that inevitably will blow up in their face and negate any lesson learned.

But for now, there's an opportunity to have a locker room that doesn't resemble a carnival. Keep in mind that Portis is also no longer "being Clinton" in Ashburn.

Go. All of you- get the fuck out of here and let this team rebuild their dignity.

This is not a super bowl roster- I realize that. But guys that want to play together for eachother and their coaches is what makes a team fun to root for- in any sport.

The sense that they're going to carve out something memorable and forge their own identity- call it "heart" or whatever you want, but it's something that's been missing since Brian Mitchell left.

At least, that's what I tell myself in July.
********
I'd also like to add this (for old time's sake):

genius.
********
Will,
Did you see we signed some dude that was supposed to be a big dude on
Dallas' defensive line this year? I vaguely remember him, but he's
supposed to be young and able, according to some nerd on the internet.
I don't know... I'm a little sketchy of signing dudes from division
rivals unless they have chips on their shoulder and I don't think a
dude going for bigger money before Jerry Jones could unload on him is
necessarily going to play with a chip on his shoulder.
Am I being too negative? I mean seriously, I'm so sick from drinking
sour Kool-Aid I think I might be a bit paranoid about shit now, to
where anything they do, I'm like, "Fuck, not again."
But they signed all the rookies except that Kerrigan kid, but I don't
think we ever talked about the draft. I am stoked for that Hankerson
kid from Miami. He seems swagtastic. And also the internet nerd guy
said he has "large hands". But have you read or seen about this 7th
round dude from West Virginia Chris Neild or Nield or whatever the
fuck? He seems pretty chill in a crazy whiteboy who listens to hip hop
from West Virginia type of way. I am thoroughly stoked about him being
a back-up nose tackle in this modern system.
But yeah, let me know if I'm being unfairly negative. I just want Dan
Snyder to die, that's all.

Thanks,
Raven

2011 All ACLB Team Head Coach

RAVEN: BILL BELICHICK
I do not respect Belichick as a head coach like most football people respect him. I am not in awe of his brilliance or ability to motivate players because I think that's mostly bullshit used by successful coaches during their peak to ratchet up their speaking engagement fees for corporate retreats. Why I like Belichick is because other than Tom Brady, he will pretty much put his penis in a player's mouth and be like, "I know my penis tastes nasty but that's because I was fucking your eventual replacement during film session earlier today. Where were you, and how much do you want to keep your spot?" The most exciting aspect to Belichick's evil demented bossman status is at some point he will no longer be coaching the Patriots and Tom Brady will be dead and gone, purchased by Mexican drug cartel overlords to perform in their own personal donkey shows, and Belichick will want to take a shot at proving how he is the ultimate greatest genius the game has ever known, and could do it somewhere else with someone else. I really hope that place is Oakland, and Al Davis is like barely alive in Stephen Hawking mode, tooling around the sidelines in a wheelchair with the driving stick in his mouth, robot voicing, "Bill, go long to that new wide receiver, they'll never expect that," while Belichick ignores him.



NEIL: JIM SCHWARTZ
Good Lord, we are almost done with this infernal thing. Sure, it’s probably July by the time you’re reading this, but hey, fuck it, I told you this shit would happen way back when we started it. Anyway . . . Jim Schwartz. Yeah. Who the fuck else was I going to pick here? Most NFL coaches – hell, most coaches anywhere – are horrible assholes. The majority of them are just ineffectual toadies just wasting space until they get their shit packed in a box by management and some other worthless asshole shows up to take their place. And then the few successful coaches are basically sociopaths. Jimmy Johnson told his whole family to basically go fuck themselves because he had to spend all his time obsessing over a dumb game. Bill Belichick is like some hideous old vampire priest who walks around in rags with dead soulless eyes and then sups on the flesh of his unsuspecting flock before retreating to his cave where he watches game tapes until his clothes rot off his back. And then when morning comes, he changes into a snake and slithers out into the wild where he lays in wait for mice and voles and then he swallows them whole, transforms into a baby and suckles at the teat of Gisele Bundchen and leers at Tom Brady before he transforms into that ragged old vampire priest again and then he dazzles poor Tom and leads him back to his cave where God only knows what kind of carnal nonsense and unholy terrors take place.
And those are the good ones! Oh sure, sure, there are others, like that fat blowhard Rex Ryan but there is something fraudulent about him. He just seems like a dude with a big mouth who talks a steady stream of shit and carries himself like “Hey, look, ya’ll! I’m a pirate! Yee-haw!!!” And then his ass cheeks clench on 4th and 2 from the opponent’s 35 yard line and he punts but nobody notices because he spends the time after the game telling dumb jokes to the media, who roll over on their stupid backs and purr and laugh while he strokes their hideous bellies. He’s a vengeful fucker too, which is cool because that is a dark, primal instinct that we understand at Armchair Linebacker. We know all about dark, primal instincts. But because we are gentlemen and warriors of light, we understand how to control our base instincts and make them work for us instead of becoming dumb slaves to their salacious and idiotic whims. But not Rex Ryan. He is consumed, like some fat degenerate Ahab, with righting all perceived slights, with slaying windmill dragons and in doing so he reveals a shameful inferiority complex, the fat little kid underneath who learned to talk shit so people wouldn’t kick him in the ass all the time. His daddy was Buddy Ryan, and he tries so hard to be his father that it is kind of embarrassing. Honestly, the only time I actually kind of liked the dude was when it came out that he worships his wife’s feet. Hey, man, good for him. At least there is something perversely honest about that shit. But everything else is just a sad clown show, false bravado meant to cover up some hidden insecurity that makes him waver when shit gets a little too hot. But back to him being vengeful. He is. He decided that the Patriots were the bad guys and he made it his life’s mission to overthrow the big bad vampire priest, Bill Belichick. And he did. Good for him. And then he and his team went out the next week and lost to the Steelers. Just like everybody knew they would. Because deep down we all understand who Rex Ryan is. We know. He can’t make it to the end of the line because he’s a damn fool. He lacks the wisdom which every great coach has, the knowledge that the only victory that truly matters is that last one, the one which involves confetti raining down and Sheriff Goodell handing you a giant trophy in some antiseptic plastic stadium. He’s too consumed with petty battles and ultimately pointless wars and vendettas. He and his team embarrassed themselves after they beat the Patriots. They carried on like they just blew up the Death Star, won the Super Bowl and killed Hitler all at the same time. But all they won was a playoff game, one damn playoff game, and then they lost the next week and nobody cared about them anymore. Rex Ryan is just a clown, the front man for a stupid travelling hillbilly circus that will eventually spin out of control and end in laughter and tears, and deep down we all know it.
So fuck all of those dudes. They’re all awful in their own way and I don’t want anything to do with them. (Quick sidenote: If Bill Belichick were my team’s head coach, I would love him forever, and if I was going to pick anyone else, it would probably be him, but he’s not my team’s head coach and so fuck him.) And so that leaves me with no alternative but to pick my guy, Jim Schwartz, head coach of the Detroit Lions. Yeah, yeah, that sounds like rank homerism, and well, to be honest, it kind of is. And. frankly, I don’t give a shit. I am not some pod person alien blogger who is trying to play boy reporter, pretending that I’m some overly responsible Keeper of the Truth who believes sports are Serious Business and that I have a responsibility to some sanitized version of the truth which is really just some bastard mutation of the hint of something true, a polite whisper in the dark that nobody will ever pay any attention to because it sounds like all the other polite whispers in the dark. I’m a fan, goddammit, and that is the only truth I care about when I’m writing this shit. What moves me as a fan? What pisses me off? And Jim Schwartz moves me. He makes me believe. And maybe more importantly, he makes me want to believe. If you’re a Lions fan, then you know how difficult a trick that really is. We are so beaten up, so jaded, after a half century plus of utter failure and horrible pain that to get us to believe, to make us willingly throw our too damaged heads and hearts on the chopping block again is damn near a miracle. And he’s done this even though the team really hasn’t won anything yet. That’s his greatest trick of all. Yeah, maybe that just makes us a bunch of damn fools for believing, but it’s easy to believe in something when everything is going good, when the world bends before you like willows in a nuclear blast. It’s easy to jump on the bandwagon then and shout and gibber about how you believe. But it’s something else to see the foundations for some grand dream laid and to believe in them even though the world keeps kicking your ass week after week. That’s true devotion. That’s true belief. And that’s what Jim Schwartz has inspired as head coach of the Detroit Lions.
Think about it. Has there ever been a Lions coach in your lifetime who made you feel like that? Not mine. Wayne Fontes was always in over his head and we knew the whole thing was a mirage, held together by the will of Barry Sanders and as soon as that will flickered and broke, we knew the whole mirage would just disappear and all that would be left with would be the desert of the damned we had been left to eternally trudge through as penance for hiding Bobby Layne’s bottle of Wild Turkey back in the 1480’s. Bobby Ross was old and tired and we knew he wasn’t going to lead us anywhere. All he could do was use what energy he had left to try to hold together even a fraction of that mirage, a fading palm tree buried in the sand. Rod Marinelli . . . I’m sorry, I just vomited into a bucket. Mariucci? A glitzy name, a false prophet who just led us in circles and left us buried even deeper in the desert than we were before.
But Jim Schwartz showed up and started talking about winning and for some reason I believed him where I had never believed any of the others. He talked to the fans, he listened to metal and, well . . . he just seemed to get it, you know? I hate when people talk about “getting it” because it’s usually just an excuse to fellate some meathead who talks in clichés and appeals to some childish willful ignorance that lies deep in the heart of every man. But Jim Schwartz is not a meathead. He’s a smart, smart dude, a dude who understands numbers and theories, who graduated from Georgetown and then cut his teeth under the vampire priest Belichick and lived to tell about it. He manages to marry the rah, rah Hey He Gets It shit with the cerebral and with the sociopathic drive for greatness which is a necessary part of every great coach, like it or not. He is the real deal. He knows that the only thing that matters is winning that game at the end of the year. That’s what Belichick understands. It’s what Jimmy Johnson understood. But unlike them, he also sees our hearts, our minds and it makes him want to win that final game all the more. He gets it and . . . he gets it. All of it. And that’s why he’s both my head coach and real life and the coach of this team. I believe in him, and in the end my belief may be rewarded with nothing but more pain and more senseless wandering through this foul desert of the damned, but to hell with all that. I have no choice because Jim Schwartz made me believe, not in a mirage, but in the finality of ultimate victory, in the salvation that lies at the end of a long, hard road. And that’s a damn miracle. And that’s who I’d want leading this team.


TOMORRROW: our team Wild Cards!

Two Lifelong Redskins Fans Emails During the Wacky Offseason of 2011 Part 1

Hey Will,
Remember a few minutes ago when I asked you if we could send emails
back and forth like we already do but I'd put them on Armchair
Linebacker? Well this is the first email. Lockout's over and we get a
feeding frenzy of NFL bullshit, with our beloved leader Danny Boy
probably shitting himself with all the money he can waste, next year's
draft picks clutched loosely in his sweaty palms. The other night I
was thinking about him owning the team and medieval fairy tales like
my daughters came to mind, where there's this kingdom of people and
this little village of mostly good chill people who are way into
things going on around them, but then like the King dies from war or
syphilis or samurai assassins from the Orient or something, and the
King's evil brother, usually only a half-brother, takes over the
kingdom and rules with a retarded fist, and just generally makes
everything terrible for everybody and children are starving and the
elderly are abused and there's burly dudes riding around on ominous
dark horses with the burly dudes wearing serious head armor but with
fruffly shoulder shirts, just being straight up dicks and enforcing
the dickhead king's will on everybody, for years and decades and shit.
And then there's this little girl or boy who is born who is somehow
some sort of chosen savior, like has blood of the original king in
them or is just ordained by actually woodland fairies along with some
sort of naturalist monk type dude who usually has a beard, and that
kid is bound by destiny to grow up and save the oppressed villagers -
all good people - and the entire kingdom from horizon to horizon from
the ominous and oppressive rule of the little shithead king who never
should have been.
I feel like that's the Redskins, except I don't think there's any
ordained kid because this isn't medieval times where fairies fill the
night woods with glitter lights and we drink ale from wooden cups and
all women have their breasts about to pop out of white cotton blouses
for some reason even though I don't even know if bras existed yet or
not then.
Anyways, I was trying to not see anything about the Redskins before I
sent you my first email but I did see I guess they re-signed Santana
Moss and are talking with the Vikings about trading McNabb. Have you
seen pictures of this John Beck dude who is probably going to be our
QB? He looks like a fucking carney, and I don't mean that in a joking
way. He literally looks like a dude who would stink of generic
cigarettes operating the Tilt-a-Whirl in a Poison Open Up and Say Ahh
t-shirt in 2011, and if you're lucky you happen to walk by him and
make eye contact while Kenny Loggins' "Danger Zone" is playing on the
loud speaker and you realize you have just started at the living
embodiment of the lyrics to that song, far darker and more sinister
than even Kenny Loggins could imagine.
Two things make me endorse this Beck dude. One, I ran a franchise mode
of Madden 03 or 05 or something (the one with Marshall Faulk on the
cover maybe?) and love those franchise modes when all the players are
pretend players and none are real, and I had a dude named Dale Beck as
QB for the Redskins that won like 6 Super Bowls in 9 years. I almost
bought a customized jersey (from China, naturally, shit is mad cheaper
and probably made by the same people) with BECK on the back. But that
dude was a black guy and John Beck is a white guy that looks like a
carney.
That being said, the Redskins, contrary to their own belief every
year, kinda suck. We are not one piece away (unless maybe that piece
is an owner). Shit man, we aren't even five pieces away. So I see
value in playing a journeyman freaky-looking degenerate QB as starter,
and cut away from the "THE FUTURE IS NOW!" bullshit we've been fed
every year. Of course, that won't sell many jerseys, but fuck it man,
they had a pretty decent draft and if we had a couple more drafts like
that, we might actually be able to flirt with thinking about a wild
card beyond Thanksgiving for once.
I'm not sure about the Santana Moss thing. On one hand, sure he makes
lots of catches. On the other hand, dude celebrates like he won the
Lotto every time he makes a first down. And on the third hand, if I
see that goddamned quick slant thing he does every fucking time again,
I am going to throw my fucking children into the TV. Why has he not
been decapitated yet because any other team watching tape has to be
like, "Oh yeah, Santana Moss does this quick slant thing about 9 times
a game. We should knock the fucking shit out of him."
So yeah,
Raven

*******

Hey Will,
Looks like they signed a Giants defensive lineman... unfortunately out
of the 17 guys the Giants have that have concussed QBs for us in
recent games, they got one of the guys I'm not sure who he is. Barry
Cofield? Didn't he do that "Driftin'" song in the '70s? It is a plus
that this guy has apparently never played in a 3-4 defense. He won't
be set in his ways, you know. That's usually what douchebag managers
say when they hire people who don't know what the fuck they're doing.
Also apparently the Skins seem to be interested in Matt Leinart, which
makes sense, being he's a big name flameout that'll look sharp holding
up his jersey number to sell to chump ass fans willing to believe in
things. Unfortunately I'm not sure who's left that believes in things.
Tell me you are alive and not curled up in the fetal position under
your desk listening to Enya's Watermark on repeat.

Later,
Raven

********

Raven-

Barry Cofield is apparently a dancer (not a singer in the defunct Stax Records roster, as once thought). At least that's all the positive I've heard on the guy- that he has this dance that he does after he sacks somebody that looks like he's hitting himself in the gut with a taser. Youtube that shit- you'll see that it's mildly amusing. Then you'll realize that you're going to see that dance in the 4th quarter of an NFC East game that the Redskins are getting killed in- when he makes a completely meaningless sack. Much like the dancing we're used to when Santana Moss catches the 1st first down of the half (right before the half), and the chest-beating, back-arching, giving God the old pistol symbol thing that DeAngelo Hall does when he picks a ball off (and subsequently hands the reigns over to the offense for yet another 3-and-out. And of course, the 3-and-out is a yard shy because the receiver ran a 7-yard route when they really needed 8. Just details, though).

So, yeah- we've got that going for us.

And, the other thing we've got is that our alleged QB-carnie (sort of a lovechild of Brad Johnson and MacGruber, don't you think?) is a great leader.

Do you really think anybody in that locker room is buying that John Beck is going to be the leader of men? Anybody want to run through a brick wall for John Beck? Or how about Rex Grossman or now Kellen Clemens? (By the way- do you think Danny's phone rang this afternoon and someone on the other line said, "Dan? It's Bruce Allen. I just thought you might want to know that I've got a bead on Kellen FUCKING Clemens, and I'm going to make him a Washington Redskin. Let that sink in for a moment. OK. Bye."

One last point that really sucks. This year, they drafted a ton of young, dynamic college wide receivers- and they also have Brandon Banks, "Knee-less Joe Jackson" Malcom Kelly, and Anthony Armstrong. Some real resemblance of a youth movement there- at an exciting position, too. Youth that we drafted and could develop into a real cohesive team in a few years- a foreign concept since Bobby Beathard rolled out in the early 90s. And today, they've gone out and signed three washed-up WRs that will probably absorb all of the young guys' playing time- the youngsters will get cut and go to teams that value youth.

OK, I've gotten over it. I guess we see how training camp nets out.

Also, Jeremy Jarmon was traded. That means the ever-hilarious Jeremy Jarmon/Jarvis Jenkins combo is now off the table.

Such a shame...
Will

*******

*******
Whoa... what the fuck? I'd been actually having to work at work today
and missed the WR flurry. So we have a drunk driver (which I endorse,
though not killing people like Stallworth did, because he gives most
honest hard-working ditch-fearing back roads drunk drivers a bad
reputation and is the cause of the overlegislation of drinking and
driving... Burt Reynolds in The Longest Yard was perhaps the greatest
QB of his era behind just Kenny Stabler and maybe Terry Bradshaw, and
he never drove his girlfriend's car without alcohol), we have a
35-year-old dude (Brandon Stokely? I forgot that dude was alive), and
something called a Jabar Gaffney (which sounds like one of those corny
made-up sexual things like a Dirty Sanchez or Hoffenrauer's Special).
That kinda sucks because yeah, I was stoked for Double A (Armstrong)
and Double B (little Brandon Banks) with all the rookies they drafted.
I thought those rookies were supposed to be the greatest shit ever,
espeically that Hankerson dude? Man, I don't get this team sometimes.
Also, I cannot even begin to explain how sad I am about Jeremy Jarmon
being gone. Beyond the greatness of the Quadruple J sack attack, he
actually seemed like a cool dude, especially when he concussed Aaron
Rodgers. I mean, the Redskins beat the Super Bowl champions last year,
and pretty much only because Jeremy Jarmon concussed Rodgers at the
end of the game and they had to insert Matt Flynn or some shit. That's
some good defensive feel-good shit that you build on, not trade to
Denver for a blowjob you get while riding a motorcycle (that's what I
think a Jabar Gaffney is, though I might be wrong).
Oh well, it's been like an hour since I started this email because I
had to go shoot brain damaged rats with copper. My job sucks. It'd be
nice if the fucking Redskins could win and give me fucking pathetic
hope a shot of adrenalin instead of the slow death gloom that they
fill me with. It's like your favorite sports team is Sylvia Plath or
some shit.

Later,
Raven

*********

Hey Will,
Also I saw they signed Josh Wilson, who was a good return man a couple
years ago and scored mad points for me in fantasy dork football. This
means I don't mind that dude at all. I guess Butterfingers Rogers
wasn't a bad CB necessarily, but he surely wasn't worth the fucking
6th overall pick or whatever it was we wasted on him.
Also did you happen to see the ridiculous Silverback gold chain that
Trent Williams got in the offseason? It's a gorilla medallion.
Seriously. On one hand, I feel that maybe Gil Scott-Heron died for
nothing, but on the other hand if there has to be a big weird dude
covered in questionable tattoos who proudly wears a giant diamond
gorilla medallion in his leisure time, I guess I'd like him on my
team.

Later,
Raven

*********

2011 All ACLB Team Kick Returners

NEIL: STEFAN LOGAN
I am picking Stefan Logan for both spots here because fuck you, that’s why. No, but seriously, folks, fuck you. Okay, okay, I apologize. I am getting a little testy after 600,000 words (just a rough estimate), involuntary imprisonment in a mental hospital, an intergalactic war with squidmen and you don’t even wanna know what else. I’m tired. But thankfully, I have my memories of watching that little midget Stefan Logan smurfing his way down the field for big return after big return, reviving a proud legacy of dynamite return men in Detroit which stretched from Mel Hall to Desmond Howard to Eddie Drummond, but which had been vanquished and was sucked away in a maelstrom of vicious tears and a mournful howl, aka the Matt Millen Era.
Yes, during those dark and terrible days, even those small beautiful glories which we held to our hearts were ripped away and shat upon. They were torn apart and we were left with only our memories, proud yet despairing, and as we watched Aveion Cason and Derrick Williams and Aveion Cason and Aaron Brown and Aveion fucking Cason fall down and shit themselves shy of the 20 yard line again and again, it seemed as if those memories belonged to another lifetime, another age of this world, which existed in black and white, fading, dying, from both our hearts and our minds.
But then Stefan Logan showed up, plucked off the waiver wire from Pittsburgh and the moment he broke his first big return, those memories exploded back into our hearts and minds in Technicolor, and the promise of the past seemed to be faintly alive again, pulsing from forgotten places in our souls, flowing back into our living memories and the world seemed, if for only an instant, to be one which we could still conquer. We could outrun death, we could turn and laugh at the Failure Demons as they futilely pursued us from hell, and we could capture the very light of heaven again because now we were back in the game, now we had a dude who could tilt the field in our direction, who could tilt the very world itself in our direction. That cold, gray uphill trudge was replaced with a brilliant green downhill jaunt. We could laugh and tumble and roll carefree, like we . . . you know what, this is getting completely ridiculous. I apologize. I have passed hyperbole and entered into some ridiculous unknown realm which is utterly shameless. But fuck it, that’s kind of the point here. For the first time in a long time, we have a return man in Stefan Logan who allows me to get stupid, to babble on like a giddy fool in love with all the world, drunk on promise and the light of tomorrow. Stefan Logan took that kickoff and he ran from the past towards that light and when he did we all went along with him, and maybe that’s just a small thing, maybe his contributions to that run to glory are minimal, and that I am overstating things just because that’s what I do, but then again, maybe not. Maybe he sets a tone for the rest of the team, maybe he fires all of our hearts in ways that we don’t understand, in ways that we’d forgotten. Maybe he is the hidden secret to this whole damn thing. Okay, fine, probably not, but still, I will slam my fist on the table and I will fight any man who says that they have a better return man than me, and that’s what this is all about. Pride, motherfuckers. Pride. And that’s why he’s on this team.



RAVEN: DESEAN JACKSON & JOSHUA CRIBBS
Look, at this point I am just forcing myself to finish writing this thing as it has become a long convoluted process and we are almost half a year removed from the end of the season, but luckily the lockout has saved us from having like 39 of our chosen players end up on different teams by now. As for the dudes who catch the kicks and return them, seems like it might be a dying art, as the NFL is afraid of concussions and the long-term demented effects of such things. As a scientifically minded individual, I can understand this. But as an alpha male omega man, this is bullshit. Football is supposed to be separate from civilization's faggotries, and not concerned with long-term nothing. Fuck the future.
And this is the best mentality for a kick or punt returner, as well as fuck the past. There is nothing but the moment, and that's why every kick has to be returned with passion and zealotry. There is nothing more frustrating as a fan than seeing your return man commit fair catch after fair catch, which is like dating a good-enough-looking woman who wears daisy dukes all the time but doesn't like to have sex, or slips into pajama pants at like 7:30 every night. It sucks. A return man is like, "Fuck it, I'm gonna do this," and does it. Sometimes he gets concussed, sometimes he gets 6 points. But either way - concussion or touchdown - he instills in his regular, non-special teammates a do or die mentality, that you just do not give a fuck and this thing must be done because we have chosen to play this game which is sort of like a war but also just a game and we make lots of money but ultimately we will all be broke and broken and half-crippled and mentally disabled so we are obviously all in now and let's MOTHERFUCKING DO THIS!
With that in mind, as my main return man of the punted varieties, there is no one other than DeSean Jackson. He has what the kids in flat-brimmed hats and athletic socks pulled up really high nowadays like to call Swag, in abundance, and he makes things happen, constantly. As a Redskins fan, it bothers me that the year he was drafted, we picked like 3 other pieces of shit receivers who have amounted to just barely more than nothing in front of Jackson. And there he is, twice a year, motherfucking doing it, rubbing my nose in the fact I am emotionally attached to an organizationally retarded franchise. And yet he is so good at doing just that, I can't even hate on him. It's not his fault we suck. This culture existed long before him. Whereas a Dallas Cowboy was my born snipe victim from the moment my father and mother's DNA commingled inside her womb, the Eagles were just another rivalry, to be gotten up for, but I'm not going to organize pipe bomb campaigns against them or anything. I mean I can hate them as easily as anybody, don't get me wrong. But DeSean Jackson is just so motherfucking doing it, I can't hate him like that. I just can't.
As for a kick returner, I'd go with Joshua Cribbs, mostly because I play in a dorkery football league with heavyweight special teams scoring, and Cribbs has been my man for like three years now. Also he looks fairly L.A. gangster in 1993 thuggish, yet has a warm smile, and did better as a wildcat QB for the Browns than most any other actual QB they've had the past three years. Unfortunately, as a return man, he's hit that peak and is probably winding down, just as he was hoping to get a big contract done. That's the nature of the Great Return Man - a day late, a dollar short, but still getting 2.3 yards more than a fair catch would have gotten him.


TOMORROW: Head Coaches

2011 All ACLB Team Kickers & Punters

RAVEN: SEBASTIAN JANIKOWSKI & SAV ROCCA
If I have to pick a favorite kicker in the NFL, it will always be the mouthy drunk, of which there are a few still left at any time in the league. Kicker is such a cerebral position, more like a baseball player than a football player, and seems fairly well-designed to create drunkardism. And when you have to break the ties between drunks, well, being a chubby, date-raping Polock is going to put you over the top every time. It only makes sense that Janikowski has played his entire career in Oakland. It wouldn't have made sense anywhere else. And with the way NFL kickers have become this gay little club of 40 dudes who shift between teams and get swapped back and forth like wives at The Lifestyle convention, usually somewhere in Colorado, to keep out the riffraff, and allow easy access from both coasts, having one pudgy drunkard kicker who does fairly well, I mean no worse than anybody else really, that's a commendable thing. Although I imagine he gets mocked for his weight more now that Jamarcus Russell is gone.
As for a punter, I will never see the point of not having an Australian Rules Football punter on your team. Like seriously, those dudes basically play special teams gunner positions as a career, and learn how to punt like a motherfucker while doing it. Why every team does not invite two or three of these guys to America to try and make a million bucks not getting concussed anymore is beyond me.
Special teams mentality is a strange mentality, especially in today's sports concussion aware world, because the basic premise of special teams is to go head-first into a wall of humanity, attempt to pierce that wall, and then have enough of yourself left in control to knock one dude down, all of it done as quickly as possible. So when the overall mentality of a group of 11 dudes is that of a collective penetrating ballistic, having an Aussie football punter only makes sense. The only potential drawback is those down under dudes are probably all first-class degenerates, being from a continent descended from cast-offs and prison colonists, and coming from a fairly rough-and-tumble sports world themselves. I would imagine there has to be extra orientation training for Aussie rules guys when they come to America, how not to get accused of sexual assault, American intoxication laws, American battery laws, all of that.
Which is why Sav Rocca in Philadelphia makes perfect sense, even more perfect than simply having an Aussie dude on an NFL team. There is no more degenerate fanbase than what the Philadelphia Eagles have. I mean, they are a disgusting lot, and I've run with some pretty wretched of the earth types in my time. So Sav Rocca is basically one of them already, except he kicks the ball. I imagine he can drink with them and talk shit about how great rude titties are with them and generally be a societal miscreant with them. And yet he still can punt the ball well. That's probably the biggest drawback to being an Aussie rules dude coming over to punt, is holding yourself to your tough standard now that you're wearing all this pussy-assed personal protective equipment and don't have to run at motherfuckers anymore since that's not really asked of a punter except to be the save guy if the returner busts through everybody else. The life of an NFL punter is as cush as it gets to these guys probably, which may be why more of them aren't here.
They show Australian Football League games of the week on one of my local PBS stations, so I watch that shit every Monday night. It's a nice sport. I finally understand how they score, and even had a limey dude explain to me one night how all that compares to rugby, and the differences and similarities. And as the NFL lockout meanders along (we take forever to write this because you know how they have the little board you write your pick on in the actual NFL draft? me and Neil are making each other mail postcards to each other with each pick we make for this team, but the postcards have to come from different post offices each time or the pick is disqualified), and player health is of such concern now that Dave Duerson was proven retarded when he committed suicide, it's important to remember that beyond making money and being alive, the basic essence of being a Man is to lock up with other Men who are on your side, and through sheer primal brutality, physically overpower other men and make them do what the fuck you want them to do, or simply remove them as an obstacle to what you are trying to do. It's in our DNA. So as the NFL tries to modernize itself, and even talked about eliminating kickoffs altogether (what the fuck?), they need to remember that what is great about football is it speaks to our base DNA. If it gets regulated into some upper-crust cerebral bullshit, it'll lose it's greatness; and if they want to narrow down their demographic to the dorky, number-obsessed stats nerd, man, they'll lose that battle to baseball all day every day.



NEIL: JASON HANSON & ZOLTAN MESKO
Oh man, I didn’t know all that shit about Ed Reed. Actually, I think I might have. Once. But time does strange things to a man’s brain, strange and terrible things, and, well . . . yeah. I just thought that I was putting Ed Reed on the team because he was awesome, and it turns out that he is, but for reasons of which I was unaware. Naturally, I will take this as an opportunity to both apologize for not giving him the proper words of respect that he so deserved (although Raven made up for it) and to note that this obviously means that my instincts are impeccable. I knew that Ed Reed was awesome, I just wasn’t sure why, beyond being an awesome football player anyway. So, if you’re taking anything away from this, it’s that you should always listen to everything that I say and trust me no matter what, even when I can’t produce an iota of evidence backing up whatever horseshit thing I am going on about. Do this and you will know the secrets of the universe. Do it not, and remain lost in the shadows while me and my brethren dance in the light.
Anyway . . . where the fuck are we in this thing? Oh yeah, kickers and punters. Shamefully, it has been almost a month since I have written anything for this All-Pro team, but I have my excuses. Sure, some of them may include butchering Eskimos for their pelts and selling them to seedy Russians while we drink vodka standing atop the world, straddling the North Pole like degenerate gods, and some of them may involve Raven and me stranded in the Baja Peninsula with only a thimbleful of water between us, heads full of peyote, naked and in crude handcuffs or maybe I just forgot? Who’s to say in this fucked up world of ours? Who indeed?
Okay. So . . . Jason Hanson. Could there be any doubt that this was the dude who I was going to choose for this team? After all, I have written more posts about just him than any other Lion (with the possible exception of Drew Stanton, but those posts were written for vastly, vastly different reasons.), which may sound strange but it should start to make sense when you realize that he is the one dude who has been here through it all, through the bright promising morning of the Barry years to the sunless midnight of hell which ruined us for a decade, its mutant werewolves and savage vampire apes abusing us in the cold, cold night while the Failure Demons cackled and whipped us with chains made of fire and tears. Jason Hanson was there for all of it, and during those dark days, he was the lone prince, the lone knight, sitting atop a green and beautiful hill, untouched by the chaos down below, pristine and beautiful, his heart unconquerable by anything other than the creeping doom of time.
But I have written about all this before, and if you really want to know why he’s on this team, do some searching around the site. It will be fun. Actually, it will be a terrifying exercise in madness, but you will leave wiser than you did when you first entered these strange yet hallowed halls. There are a lot of words about Jason Hanson hidden within, some proud, some tragic, all heartfelt and they leave no doubt that there could be no other man I could pick to be the kicker on this transcendent team, which will stand for a thousand years and which will be forever remembered for conquering the squidmen and eating their heathen babies.
As for Zoltan Mesko, well . . . the man is a legend amongst a certain sect of the Michigan fanbase. He is known as Zoltan the Inconceivable, the Space Emperor, and one glance from his bejeweled eyes will turn the sinner to stone and will ignite the hearts of the righteous with primal joy. Sure, he may be a Patriot of New England, but he belonged to me first and it makes my heart happy to see him do so well in the NFL. Plus, his name is Zoltan, which sounds like the name of an escapee from Krypton or like some Zoroastrian mystic who spends his days taming the elements, wielding fire like a paintbrush, shaping it like a master sculptor, and his nights cavorting with his own personal harem, lost in a sea of opium and flesh, fucking his way towards enlightenment. If you need more reason than that, well . . . I’m afraid you are lost in a bewildering sea of self-loathing and dumb, ugly brutish ignorance and I have no time for you or your derelict ways.

LATER TODAY: Kick Returners

2011 All ACLB Team Safeties

NEIL: ED REED & PATRICK CHUNG
I really, really wanted to include LaRon Landry here and in retrospect maybe I should have, but I know Raven will write about him and I want to let him have the full stage with that one. I mean, how could I not a love a dude who is probably legit insane and who has a pet monkey? LaRon Landry was damn near made for me. And yet, he is even closer to Raven Mack’s heart and I don’t want to steal his thunder. If anyone is going to wax retarded about Landry it should be him and not me.
And besides, I did want to honor these other two dudes and so I figured this gave me a good chance to do that. Ed Reed is kind of an obvious choice. I will admit that. He’s here for no other reason than he is an awesome football player, and while that may be disappointing (or a welcome relief) given the convoluted reasons I have used to put dudes on this team, it’s something that just had to be done. It would be disingenuous to leave him off the team just because I can’t make up some silly bullshit reason to have him on here. I mean, there a lot of great players who I left off this team for one reason or another. Sometimes, I just think the guy is kind of a shitty dude and I don’t want to honor him in any way even if he is a great player. There are a lot of dudes like that out there. And sometimes, it’s for some weird, trifling ass reason that only makes sense to me. Take Troy Polamalu for instance. You would think he’d be a natural here. I mean, he’s Polynesian, which I love, he has long ass hair and he’s a great player. Great. But the thing is, is that a couple of years back I heard him do an interview with Terry Bradshaw and the dude sounded like Michael Jackson. Seriously, his voice was, uh, kind of womanish. That is not in and of itself a bad thing. I love women. You kick ass. But when I think of Troy Polamalu, I don’t want to be thinking about Michael Jackson, you know? Michael Jackson was a creepy fucker. He just was. And so I can’t honor somebody who reminds me of that. It’s just the way it is.
So, you see, it’s all too easy for me to find reasons to keep guys off this team. I do that a lot. And so when a guy like Ed Reed comes along who doesn’t really do anything for me all that great, I immediately start looking for reasons why he shouldn’t be on this team. But honestly, I can’t think of one. And since he’s a damn fine football player and a former Miami Hurricane, perhaps the most Armchair Linebackerish football program there has ever been, he should be on this team. The fact that I can’t speak against him is testimony enough to his kick-assedness. I have no great love for him, but I have no great disdain either – or even a little disdain for that matter. In terms of my heart, there is a sort of ambivalence about Ed Reed. In terms of my head, there is nothing but respect. And it is out of this great respect that I select Ed Reed for the Armchair Linebacker All-Pro team.
That leaves Patrick Chung. Now a lot of you might be wondering what in the hell he’s doing here. After all, he’s not a great player or anything. He’s a decent player and little more. He’s kind of a boring choice, but he has one thing that nobody else on this team has: he is a descendant of none other than The Great Willie Young. That’s right. Don’t ask me how I know this, but It would seem that Chung is directly descended from The Great Willie Young via The Great Willie Young’s marriage to the daughter of his Chinese compatriot, The Somewhat Okay Wu Pei. Now, I realize that Patrick Chung is not actually Chinese. I don’t think so anyway. If I recall, Chung is a Korean name. So don’t get all bent out of shape and accuse me of some racist ass THEY’RE ALL THE SAME TO ME bullshit. That’s not what’s going on here. No. The reality is that many, many, many years ago – over 1,000 of them in fact - The Great Willie Young and Wu Pei’s daughter, the lovely Yi Xian Shu Guang, had married and as the result of this union, The Great Willie Young had several glorious children. When these children grew, they themselves went on many great adventures because they were endowed in part with the blood of The Great Willie Young. Sadly, though, and much to The Great Willie Young’s heartbreak, because of the mortal blood of their mother (who was herself half immortal thanks to the blood of her father, Wu Pei), they were subject to old age and the eventual death that all mortals must face. Even though they were technically ¾ immortal, the ¼ mortal blood aged them and eventually took them from this earth, just like it did their mother. Where their spirits went, if there exists some special heaven for their kind, nobody knows and it is said that to this day, The Great Willie Young can be seen speaking to the echoes of their spirits, communing in sadness and grief with what is just the hint of a memory and little more but this is all threatening to spin off in its own strange direction so perhaps I should get back to the main point, which is Patrick Chung.
Anyway, The Great Willie Young was forced to take his leave of his children before they expired because he could not bear to witness their final, ignoble days. He locked their memory in his heart along with that of their beautiful mother and he moved on to new adventures, to new lives and to new ages of man. But his children, those half Chinese/half Willie Youngese children, grew to be great lords and ladies and before they left this mortal plane they fathered children of their own who then begat their own children and so on and so on through the ages. One of these scions of the House of Young found himself fighting a great battle across the Yalu River which separates China and Korea. During this battle, this young prince came face to face with a savage Korean warrior, the champion of its people. The two fought for days amidst the snow while their compatriots fell all around them. They fought day and night until finally they were alone, just the two of them locked in mortal combat. It was obvious that both were of a great and ancient blood and neither would yield. But the prince of the House of Young’s blood was greater on account of his glorious ancestor and he eventually overcame the Korean champion, knocking him backwards. The great prince stood over his foe and placed his sword to the Korean’s heart and as he began to pierce the skin, a cry from the Korean rang out. The prince was startled, as this was the voice of a woman! The prince tore the helmet from the Korean champion and sure enough there was a beautiful Korean princess staring back at him. She was breathing raggedly, beaten but not conquered, and he loved her instantly. He withdrew his sword and bowed to her, but because of her own great pride, she took this opportunity to drive her sword through his belly and leave him bleeding to death on that field.
The young prince knew he was dying and yet he looked at his killer and he declared his love for her. She stared down at him, confused and was immediately struck by the horror of her deed. She knelt down, still stern of face, for her pride was unyielding even in the face of great sorrow and she acknowledged his love. After all, he was a handsome prince, filled with the blood of that handsomest of princes, The Great Willie Young and as we all know, no woman can resist the charms of that blood. And then she lay next to him and remained by his side for the many hours it took him to die, for again, that blood sustained him well beyond the limits of an ordinary mortal man and it granted him a measure of piece while he took his leave of this savage world. And while they lay together, they talked and they lived and they loved a lifetime’s worth and time slowed for them and became irrelevant. Eventually, the prince closed his eyes for a final time and willingly went into that great mysterious light which takes his kind and the Korean princess wept. And yet she knew that something of her prince still lived inside of her and nine months later she gave birth to a child, and it is this child who sired the line which eventually produced Patrick Chung.
So there you have it, the legend of Patrick Chung’s immortal blood. It is but a trace, and yet it is still in there, driving him towards an echo of the greatness of his great ancestor. He may seem like just an ordinary man, and he himself probably doesn’t understand the nature of his gifts but we know the truth, and the truth is that Patrick Chung is greater than ordinary men because through him flows the power of The Great Willie Young, and that is why I am proud to include him on this team.



RAVEN: ED REED & LARON LANDRY
Neil is exactly fucking right - I am going to include Laron Landry. But first let us speak further of Ed Reed. There is no other football player in the NFL who looks more like he is about five years into a 20 year plan to look like one of Fred Sanford's best friends than Ed Reed. He has the homeless man beard, the bug eyed look that is simply the result of being such a dark-skinned dude with beautiful almost twinkling bright eyes. He seems like the chillest dude on earth, just by looking at him. Seriously, there was always the one homeless dude who you knew was smoking crack with your dollar donation to his cause, but he just seemed so goddamned chill, you couldn't resist. And he'd recognize you, and call out, "Hey Potna, what's goin' on today?" and you would feel good about this crazy man calling you "partner" in mangled but happy speech. That's Ed Reed in years, except he is a successful millionaire dude instead, yet still looks like that.
Why is he successful? Because there is no better ballhawk in the NFL. Early on, in the shadow of Ray Lewis, Reed was a headcracker, like any great safety. But he has transitioned into the one guy on an NFL field defensively who can turn a game around. This is probably partially due to his early times in Baltimore where the defense had to win games, so they might as well throw six up on the board from time to time to help their own cause. But you put that on the field with an offense that is actually competent beyond Brian Billick's ego strut, and what you have a formidable motherfucker.
On top of all this, as he was doing just these very things last season, he was doing it under the duress of his brother having run from the cops and disappeared/drowned in the Mississippi River. Like it's one thing to have tragedy strike where someone dies suddenly, but to have your little bro running from the sound of the beast, take a desperate dive into the biggest river in America, and then not show back up, that's some heavy fucking shit. And yet Ed Reed was there for every game, still making huge plays, still showing mad heart, no matter how heavy it was, and fucking shit up. It is actually impossible to imagine, at least right now, a new defender coming into Baltimore and not playing two levels better than he would anywhere else with the one-two locker room presence of Ray Lewis/Ed Reed in the house. That will come apart at some point in the next year or two, but for now, it is as solid a defensive structure built around high-quality middle management as you will find in the NFL.
Oddly enough, Laron Landry's brother Dawan shares the secondary space with Ed Reed in Baltimore. But Laron Landry is on another level than his bro. Laron Landry is a fucking monster, and as a Redskins fan, you cannot help but be haunted by the potential of the ghost of Sean Taylor, especially as Landry has developed into the meat and potatoes hybrid he has become. Area 51 (Taylor's 21 plus Landry's 30) could've been one of the most devastating defenses the NFL ever saw, like a pair of Ronnie Lotts running around decapitating motherfuckers, taking the ball, and scoring six points or at least multiple turnovers per game. Except fate didn't let it go down that way.
As it stands though, Laron Landry took a big step last year, the same step I saw Taylor take the year before his death, where simply being a human missile on the field was tempered with an eye for the football, and trying to collect fumbles or picks instead of just concussion notches on your belt. Don't get me wrong though, Landry still drops his head and goes brain first like a heat-seeking Scud a few times a game. But he stopped losing sight of his responsibilities in the process so often, and started to grab some stray footballs in the process. Up until straining his groin (or whatever the fuck it was) last year around midseason, he was being talked about as a potential NFL MVP on defense. That's big talk, something that doesn't happen with the Redskins much.
I hope the motherfucker stays healthy this year, and keeps putting that meat and potatoes mentality into the defense. A lot of what he is learning now is what Sean Taylor learned before him, and it's just so sad, as a fan for a team with little to be happy about, that we didn't get to see Area 51 reach it's full potential. Usually this can be accepted because of stupid free agency or guys deciding they don't like their team anymore and going primadona or something. But whatever, the past is the past. Laron Landry is a fucking monster still, and just because he doesn't have a twin monster helping him give opposing receivers tyrannosaurus rex arms, it doesn't mean he still can't be a game-changing monster in his own right. Which I guess was the one shining moment last year as a Redskins fan, that Landry at the beginning of the year started to fully step out of the shadow of the ghost of Sean Taylor, and started to be, "fuck... Laron Landry," in his own right.


TOMORROW: Kickers & Punters