JEFF PEARLMAN

Coming October 2022: "The Last Folk Hero: The Life and Myth of Bo Jackson"

Brandon Marshall, go away.

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Were Brandon Marshall to knock on my door tonight wearing his Broncos uniform, I’d have no idea who he is. I don’t know what he looks like, what uniform number he wears, how many catches he had last season, where he went to college. Literally, I know nothing about the man. Absolutely. Positively. Nothing.

That’s the thing men like Brandon Marshall—idiots who sign contracts, then whine and mope and hold out in an effort to renegotiate—eternally fail to understand: They are entirely replaceable. Not slightly replaceable. Not sorta replaceable. Totally, completely, 100 percent replaceable. As in, it won’t be much of a problem.

Yes, Marshall had a good season last year, catching (I just looked this up) 104 balls for 1,265 yards and six touchdowns. But allow me to ask Mr. Marshall this: Where in the world is Wayne Chrebet? Rod Smith? Louis Lipps? Rob Moore? J.J. Stokes? Yancey Thigpen? Ed McCaffrey? Vance Johnson? Russell Payne? Stephen Baker? Solomon Miller? They came, they caught passes, they vanished. Unless you’re Jerry Rice or Michael Irvin, that’s what happens. The gig doesn’t last long–especially if you stop trying; especially if you prove yourself an anus.

I never root for people to fail. But I’m officially rooting for Brandon Marshall to fail.

Damn.