When I was but a lad of 8 or 9, my mother offered some advice I’ve never forgotten.
“Boy,” she said, “if you’re ever a mediocre NFL cornerback who gets burned every third play …”
Yes, mother?
“… and if you position yourself significantly too far off the line of scrimmage …”
Yes, mother?
“ … and if slants eat you alive …”
Yes, mother?
“ … and if your last team traded you for being a Clifford-sized mutt …”
Yes, mother?
“ … and if you’ve fathered nine children with eight women …”
Yes, mother?
“ … and if you need your team to front you $500,000 for child support payments …”
Yes, mother?
“ … don’t talk trash about the opposing club’s quarterback. Especially if he’s one of the greatest to ever play the game, and especially-especially if his team humiliated yours, 45-3, earlier in the season.”
Yes, mother.
With that information, I leapt from the couch, anxious to flag down my mittens and launch snowballs at cars as they passed our house.
Mother, alas, wasn’t done.
“Boy?”
Yes, mother?
“If you’re ever a portly NFL coach with a taste for Carvel triple-scoop and nary a second’s professional playing experience …”
Yes, mother?
“ … and your team has no real shot of reaching the Super Bowl, despite your boasts …”
Yes, mother?
“ … and your sweaters look as if they were extras from the Cosby Show …”
Yes, mother?
“ … and much of your ceaseless trash talk has backfired …”
Yes, mother?
“ … and if you struggled to squeak past Cleveland and Detroit …”
Yes, mother?
“ … and if the franchise you’re about to play destroyed you, 45-3, earlier in the season …”
Yes, mother?
“ … and if you cut one of the opposing team’s best players in order to open a roster spot for David Clowney …”
Yes, mother?
“ … and if the world knows you and your wife enjoy playing footsie …”
Yes, mother?
“ … well, if that’s ever the case, Boy, please do your mother one very big favor.”
Yes, mother? Anything.
“Anything, Boy?”
Yes, mother. Anything.
“Shut the %$#@ up.”
