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Brett Favre Gravy Train Over (For Now), Time For the National Media To Accept It
Published: August 17, 2009
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Bleacher Report is living, breathing cyber-proof that coming up with new sporting angles about which to write isn’t too difficult. There are quite literally thousands of unpaid, would-be writers bombarding the blogosphere with unsolicited missives on a daily basis.
For no other reason than to be heard on a subject they love.
While there is fair amount of repetition, such is overwhelmed by the diversity in topics chosen and tacks taken. Even if you reduce the entire site down to simply the Big Three American sports for comparison’s sake—Major League Baseball, the National Football League, and the National Basketball Association—you will still find a plethora of fresh print delving into the three organizations.
Which is why the latest from the established sports media giants is unacceptable.
Both FOX Sports and ESPN are attempting to restoke the dead fire under the Brett Favre retirement-unretirement-retirement-unretirement- retirement rumors. Sadly, I must apologize for I’m no “Insider” and can’t link to the specific ESPN kindling.
This is no longer a story most of the general public cares to hear.
If Favre decides to play again, so be it. THEN it becomes news. Or when he announces his intentions. At least give me something more than the confidence of the Minnesota Vikings personnel.
I don’t care if it’s pervasive.
Every single Minnesotan—man, woman, and child—could swear until they’re blue in the face (from lack of oxygen not sub-arctic temperatures) that No. 4 is coming back to the NFL. Riding one final time to drive that absent stake through the heart of his once-beloved Green Bay Packers.
Until Brett Favre even hints he’s considering it—LEAVE THE MAN ALONE!
I’ve been as critical of Bert as anyone. For the vast majority of this media charade, I’ve placed the blame squarely on his broad-but-aging shoulders. As I saw the situation, the dude continued to indulge the will-he-won’t-he media masturbation and, as such, had no interest in seeing it stop.
To me, that was a rather transparent attempt to lap up what was left of the fading spotlight.
However, it all changed the minute he told the Vikes he wasn’t lacing the cleats back up.
Once Brett Favre uttered those words—”I’m staying retired”—the fork was in the story. Done. No mas. Finis. That is the single blessing to be gleaned from all Favre’s hemming and hawing.
Through all of his indecisive antics and flirtations with national attention, you simply could not and cannot accuse the former quarterback of deception or dishonesty. If anything, you’d have to accuse him of too much honesty, a total lack of a filter on his decision-making process.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s gotta be a brutal choice to make.
Voluntarily stepping away from any professional sport must be a difficult thing to do for anyone and especially for the all-time greats. Not only must they say good-bye to the game they love at its highest level as well as the rush of adulation and adrenaline it entails, but they also have to admit they can no longer dominate an arena once their own.
I’ve never begrudged the Ol’ Gunslinger his struggle with a difficult life decision. I grew extremely tired of updates about his state of mind and, as he left such status in doubt, I grew tired of him.
But the doubt is gone.
Brett Favre has made his difficult decision. Not only that, he gave the talking heads and trash bin investigators months of easy material. The new retiree has earned his peaceful sunset.
If he really does plan to sit out camp and make a splashy resurrection from yet another post-career grave, then the fallout is once again on Bert. But that moment will arrive regardless of who breaks the news. If it does, there will be enough frenzy to go around.
Until there’s a real reason to revive him, give Brett Favre a break.
And give us one while you’re at it.
Attention Gold-Diggers: The False Rape Accusations Must Stop
Published: August 8, 2009
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Do you know what I did this morning?
I spent an hour or so reading about the 1991 Mike Tyson rape case.
Why would some jackass waste a Saturday morning reading about a violently heinous crime almost 20 years old?
Because of Kobe Bryant and that starlet snow bunny in Colorado. Because of the two strippers and the Duke Lacrosse team. Because of Ben Roethlisberger and Andrea McNulty.
And because Tyson’s volatile life was derailed by the conviction for his crime and subsequent prison sentence.
What if, as Alan Dershowitz later claimed, Iron Mike was innocent?
What if he went to prison for being a savage, unsympathetic character in a less sexually honest moment in history? One where nobody wanted to admit an 18-year-old girl might be sexually savvy, especially a good Christian one?
What if the trainwrecked boxer was simply guilty of the wrong reputation at the wrong time?
This is what it’s come to for me and I wonder how long it takes, how many more of these wayward amorous encounters before the rest of the American public follows suit.
I like to be conservative when I’m discussing hot-button topics and rape certainly qualifies as that. In spades as it should.
I have two sisters so any disrespectful urges I may have had towards the fairer gender have been kicked and slapped out of me long ago. Furthermore, I’ve known several females who have been raped so I have no illusions about the violative act.
I’d break every bone in both hands against the face and skull of an admitted rapist, and I’d do it with a smile on my face, a song in my heart, and a skip in my step.
It’s no trivial thing and it shouldn’t be treated as such.
Additionally, there are no truly innocent parties here.
The defendants, particularly Bryant and Roethlisberger, deserve a healthy amount of criticism as well as blame for putting themselves in such a stupid and predictably vulnerable situation. There is no more quarter found in naivete or simply wanting to “have a good time.”
Not in the sexually predatory world they inhabit.
If they could’ve sent a little blood to their brains instead of directing it farther south, we could be spared these nasty little episodes.
Even so, it is Kobe’s 19-year-old chippie, the Durham dynamic duo, and Ms. McNulty who need to take the longest, hardest look in the mirror.
They seem to be using the severity and atrocity of sexual assault as leverage to extort money from deep and/or famous pockets.
Rape is one of those crimes that is so intimately disgusting and inhumanly unforgivable, the very accusation carries a somewhat sacred consequence—almost anyone who doubts the allegation risks the appearance of a malignant heart.
Nobody—NOBODY—would ever lie about being raped, so the mere suggestion of skepticism is dangerous.
And the law treats rape in similar fashion—all sorts of rules of evidence and procedure go flying out the window in deference to the possible malice.
Again, this is entirely appropriate.
Not only is the crime singularly evil, but it’s extremely difficult to prove in the absence of physical injury. The prosecution and accuser should be afforded a good degree of latitude to explore the charge as well as a layman’s presumption of honesty.
The reason these exist in the first place is because, at one point in our country’s history, they didn’t.
Until the latter part of the 20th Century and culminating with the inception of rape shield laws, the charge was basically unprovable in all but the most obvious cases. The unspoken belief that “she must have asked for it” had even crawled up the skirts of Justice.
Seriously, read some of the old cases. There is some scary and wholly abandoned precedent in them.
I highly doubt it, but it might still be a legal impossibility in some States for a husband to rape his betrothed. This because the crime’s definition once included the qualifier “other than a man’s wife.”
Any effort—intentional or not—to devolve back into those troglodytic days should be denounced. Loudly.
Yet that’s what these women are doing, maybe even have done as far as the layman’s presumption of honesty is concerned.
That’s not as hideous as the actual act, but it’s getting close because it throws genuine transgressions into doubt. Sooner or later, a rightly traumatized victim will watch her attacker walk clean.
Shoot, it may have already happened or be happening right now.
Maybe Kobe really did force himself on that girl. Maybe Big Ben assaulted McNulty and the affidavit is another lie to bolster his defense. Maybe, maybe, maybe…
I have NO idea what really happened.
That’s the point—rape cases are almost always about “he said, she said,” reputation, and credibility. Heretofore, the gravity of the charge and the reverence given the victim tipped the scale for all accounts in the accuser’s favor.
It made moral and legal sense.
There seemed to be negligible risk of throwing innocent men in jail because nobody believed an innocent man would be charged with such a terrible crime.
Slowly, with each false accusation, these women are adding weight to the other side.
And woe to us all once the delicate balance is lost.
Brett Favre Apologists, Meet Roy Halladay, the Genuine Article
Published: July 17, 2009
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“I think I’m done talking about it for a while. You have a responsibility from time to time to address different situations. I feel like I’ve tried to do that to the best of my ability. At this point it’s out of my hands.”
Write it down, take a picture, etch it in freakin’ stone, and then get the word to your boy Bert.
Those were Roy Halladay’s words in response to yet another question about the maelstrom of trade rumors that have been swirling around his Toronto Blue Jay baseball cap—and I do mean maelstrom.
Ever since J.P. Ricciardi announced he was fielding offers for arguably the Show’s best artist on the bump, the rumor mill has been grinding furiously, and over the All-Star break, it ground out of control.
These babies have become so random and haphazard that I think I saw the San Francisco Giants’ name pop up—something about Madison Bumgarner and others going to Canada with the Ace of Aces heading to the City.
Wow.
Somebody had to be drinking a lot of coffee and working on zero sleep to reduce that gem to writing.
The Gents currently have one of the strongest starting rotations in Major League Baseball, their fifth starter just threw a no-hitter in a pseudo-emergency start, and Bumgarner is one of the most coveted prospects in all of baseball.
Not to mention San Francisco’s offense is iron deficient to the point of being several steps from a run-scoring coma even in the best of streaks.
Why, in the name of Joe Nathan, would Brian Sabean leverage a potential ace, under control for years, for a current ace finishing up his contract in the relatively near future? When his team desperately needs offense and has young, dominant hurlers coming out of its ears?
The lunacy of that particular example should give casual fans a good idea of how amped up the hysteria has gotten.
Unsurprisingly, it’s gotten to be too much for Doc, one of the Majors’ classiest offerings on his worst day.
His words prove it—both parts.
Whether they work or not is beside the point because he said them. Once they passed his lips, those of us arguing for Brett Favre to stop the insanity had our smoking gun.
I’ve always agreed that the media is partially to blame for the (unbelievably) still-ongoing Brett Favre Saga. Some of its members are tireless, shameless, and lack creativity—those unfortunate souls will hammer a story until there’s nothing left, not even a beaten corpse.
However, most members will stop asking a question if they don’t get a juicy answer.
That is the very nature of the business and why jackasses like Terrell Owens and Curt Schilling become such media darlings. It’s pretty tough to turn “no comment” into a sexy story, so the reporters focus on those unlikely to regurgitate clichés.
Since this is the general rule, the brunt of the blame for the mind-numbing morass is landing on No. 4’s shoulders. He’s kept indulging the charade with his flirtations and come-hither fence-sitting.
Never once has he played the card Roy Halladay just played.
Favre has never mounted a sincere campaign aimed at stopping all the whispers because he adores the attention, pure and simple.
I’m not saying he absolutely could have stopped this monster in its infancy; I’m saying the fact that he never tried proves he never wanted to.
The right-hander’s words are all the proof I need to confirm what I’ve expected all along: Brett Favre has become a diva.
Doc Halladay is the real gunslinger.
Karlos Dansby: A Great Tackler Who’s Just a Bit Out of Touch
Published: July 17, 2009
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Let’s get this out of the way immediately.
I’m not trying to disparage Karlos Dansby. As a fan of the San Francisco 49ers, I’m actually quite familiar with the Arizona Cardinals linebacker, as far as his exploits and excellence on the field are concerned. And he is excellent—quite deserving of accolades he doesn’t have because he plays in National Football League purgatory (until recently).
But I’m trying to make a point in the wake of the announcement that the League’s Redbirds will franchise the player for the second consecutive year.
According to Dansby, he’s “kind of disappointed” the two sides couldn’t come to an agreement on a long-term deal.
Presumably, the former Auburn Tiger wanted something in Terrell Suggs’ neighborhood—calling it the high-rent district doesn’t seem to do Suggs’ new contract justice since it pays the Baltimore Raven an average of $10.5 million for six years.
Additionally, the richest deal for a linebacker in NFL history includes $38 million in guaranteed compensation.
Instead of a lucrative six-year deal with over half of it secured by his signature, Dansby settled for a one-year salary equivalent to the average of the top five highest-paid players at his position, as is the rule when a player gets franchised.
Or $9.7 million.
In 2008, Dansby was also franchised and earned a touch over $8 million.
Karlos Dansby is 27 years old. Accounting for taxes, the man will make roughly $9 million in two years for playing football—and he is “kind of disappointed.”
Again, I understand I am a mere blogger, and I’m well aware of the reputation such a smear entails. So I’m going to be very careful about this because I’m not trying to make any personal attack on Dansby.
I get what he’s saying—he’s in a business where employees of his caliber are usually rewarded with the kind of financial security lavished upon Suggs, but Dansby has fallen into a smaller category of players who must wait.
That means he still has a chance of falling into an even smaller and less fortunate group whose pot of gold never arrives.
Furthermore, Karlos has been slapped with the franchise tag two years in a row.
Most importantly, Dansby seems like a good hombre with a solid head on his shoulders. He isn’t raising hell or throwing colleagues under the bus, and he genuinely sounds like he wants to stick in the desert, which makes him loyal—and that’s a trait I admire.
This isn’t a media whore like Terrell Owens or Chad Ocho Sinko, it’s not a spoiled diva like Brett Favre or Jay Cutler, and it’s definitely not some simple psychopath like Latrell Sprewell gibbering about needing more money to feed his family.
Karlos Dansby is a good player and seems like a good person.
Even if you disagree with either assessment, the fact is he’s unassuming and would probably be described as a “lunch-pail” guy—puts his head down, does his job very well, and doesn’t say much on the way in or out.
And that is my point.
It’s one thing when the village idiots are ranting and raving about needing more money to buy baubles and bling. It’s one thing when the infants in the room scream for attention.
It’s another thing altogether when guys like Karlos Dansby lose touch so completely, even for one second. And that’s all Dansby is guilty of—a momentary lapse in judgment.
In a shattered economy still losing jobs by the hundreds of thousands, it’s just stupid and insensitive to say into a mic that you’re any shade of unhappy about a salary of $9.7 million.
About a raise of over a $1.5 million, which carries the double-edge of also implying a previous year’s salary of similar grandeur.
Really, really stupid.
Regardless of the size and length of the Joneses’ deals.
The bigger problem, though, is to think of what this implies if a rep from the “blue-collar” segment of professional sports can slip like that.
Just how disconnected are these people?
How dangerously delusional are the locker rooms if even the most “down to Earth” members of their community can look at a contract worth $9.7 million and shrug their shoulders?
The story is no different with other celebrities, CEOs, politicians, etc.
Which is an uncomfortable realization if you consider how much influence that group has on the real world. I have no idea of the true extent, but I’m positive that it’s substantial.
It has to be when you finish rounding them all up and contemplating all the avenues of their influence.
Consequently, the last is the biggest problem of all.
Brett Favre: How a Hero Becomes a Goat Without Even Taking the Field
Published: June 17, 2009
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I really don’t see how you can defend the last couple years of Brett Favre’s career at this point. Unless, of course, the explanation is, “Brett Favre was a football god for 16 years in a Green Bay Packer uniform so he’s entitled to spend X years behaving like a juvenile, vindictive media whore.”
You’ll get no scorn from me—I might not agree, but I can’t say you’re wrong. It’s a judgment call, and I’ll waste my time trying to change your mind about more important matters.
But, even if you take that stance, I think we’ve reached a point where only the most blindly faithful can argue Favre’s legacy remains undistrubed.
On the other hand, Mark Kriegel’s reputation is growing by leaps and bounds in my eyes.
If you trust Kriegel on the matter, the free agent quarterback spent a part of Joe Buck’s debut as Bob Costas Lite bemoaning his portrayal in the media. I didn’t watch the first “Joe Buck Live” (and I don’t plan on watching subsequent iterations), so I can’t confirm how much of the segment was devoted to violins, nor can I even say for sure that it happened.
Frankly, it doesn’t really matter.
Let’s pretend for a second Kriegel didn’t totally fabricate a direct quote from a broadcast seen by thousands of people—according to Favre, the media is the culpable party because it intends to “create controversy.”
Obviously, the statement is 100 percent true as a general statement. Unfortunately, it doesn’t apply here. In this instance, the media is simply reporting controversy.
Brett Favre created it and continues to create it. Because he enjoys the spotlight and the ongoing sideshow is his last tenuous hold on it.
The mere fact that Favre would even hint that this monster is the media’s creation confirms our worst fears about the man. He is not the gunslinger or the gritty road warrior or even the grizzled leader of men.
Not any more.
Brett Favre is a diva, pure and simple.
Diana Ross, Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston, Michael Jackson, and Aretha Franklin—Paul Mooney (at the 42:50 mark) might as well just toss No. 4’s helmet in the ring. Only a diva could/would look at a blue sky and call it red.
Only someone used to getting his or her way at every turn—no matter how insane the request—could be so arrogant. So out of touch with popular perception.
For the Favre Horde coming to get me (and I know you’re already makin’ a list), you can’t deny it. You can try, but you will fail.
This is not a private individual wrestling with a difficult life decision. This is not a breaking down superstar who just can’t shake the love of the game.
This is a bitter, jealous prima donna trying desperately to stick it to the organization he believes—in some twisted perversion of common sense and public record—jilted him in favor of a younger suitor. Furthermore, Favre’s looking for each and every opportunity to make as titillating a spectacle of the endeavor as possible.
In perhaps his most awesome display of delusion, the maniac still seems to think it’s helping his cause. At the very least, Favre doesn’t seem to understand the damage his media blitz is doing.
Remember, this was the DEBUT of “Joe Buck Live.” As in, the first one.
Ol’ Bert came on a show featuring one of the most prominent faces, names, and voices in sports journalism. Not only that, he was the inaugural guest on the inaugural show, which has been hyped for WEEKS.
Then, he had the audacity to stake at least a partial claim on innocence. To claim he’s an unwilling participant in all of this garbage.
Nah, the current shadow of a once-great QB isn’t looking for any extra attention. He really hates that his every move pops up instantaneously on Twitter or the scrolling tickers on ESPN’s armada of channels.
Just look at the low profile he’s trying so valiantly to keep…
And that’s why it doesn’t really matter whether Kriegel invented the quote. Regardless of whether the words left Brett Favre’s mouth, they’ve been stamped all over the charade from Day One.
It’s been “woe is me” and “can’t I have a moment’s peace” and this and that. Yet, from Day One, Favre could’ve ended the whole thing. He could’ve said, “I’ll make my decision when I make it and, until then, I’m not telling.”
The questions would’ve persisted for a while, but not like this.
Instead, Brett Favre gives us “maybe this” and “maybe that,” to canned audiences who are directed to laugh on cue.
The rest of America isn’t laughing.
We aren’t even amused anymore. We just want you to GO AWAY. Sooner rather than later.
Sadly, when that day finally comes, he’ll no longer get to ride off into the sunset. He’ll have to slink away under cover of darkness.
A Tribute to Troy Aikman from a San Francisco 49ers Faithful
Published: April 26, 2009
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Most fan bases have endured far harder times than those suffered by the San Francisco 49er die-hards. I wouldn’t say I’m a die-hard—I reserve that adjective for my fidelity to the San Francisco Giants—but I am a loyal fan.
Admittedly, it doesn’t kill me when the Niners lose. It does sting fiercely, though, to see rivals of days gone by— the Dallas Cowboys, St. Louis Rams, and to some degree, the Green Bay Packers—enjoy success.
Maybe it’s because I’ve become inured to the losses through some pretty barren recent history. Certainly it’s because those recent struggles are the worst foils for the great Niner teams of years past.
Regardless, San Francisco’s overall success as a franchise garners its supporters very little sympathy, and rightly so.
However, I’d argue you would be hard-pressed to find a fan base whose agonizing moments were any more excruciating in terms of who authored them.
By that, I mean I’ll put the ‘pokes of the early 1990s up against anyone’s blood rival in a showdown of “Who Kept Getting Creamed by a Bigger Bunch of Urinal Cakes.”
Back in those days, my favorite quarterback of all time (Steve Young) was rampaging his way through the NFL. The Stormin’ Mormon would have three championship rings…except for those Cowboys.
In 1992 and 1993, Young lead our championship-caliber Niners into the teeth of those Dallas squads in the postseason. And, both years, Jerry Jones and his band of miscreants stomped out our Super Bowl dreams.
In both seasons, those Cowboys seemed like the only thing that could stop the 49er freight train. And in both seasons, they did.
The ordeal was all the more traumatizing because the agonizing defeats were trumpeted from the highest mountains and loudest microphones by such understated personalities as Ol’ Jerry, Jimmy Johnson, and Michael Irvin. The rest of the Cowboys’ roster wasn’t exactly tight-lipped either.
Ken Norton Jr., Russell Maryland, Nate Newton, Leon Lett, Charles Haley—these were not men who listed “gracious in victory” amongst their bedrock life principles.
Then you had the excellence of Emmitt Smith and the uncanny leadership of Troy Aikman to stomach—it was a brutal assignment.
I HATED those teams. Hated.
That’s a verb I also usually reserve for the Los Angeles Dodgers. But even my current brand of loathing for the Bums pales in comparison to the more youthfully exuberant version I harbored for Dallas as a 15-year-old.
It’s something I’m proud to have outgrown because it is only a game, but as a teenager, the hate burned.
It burned so long that only recently have I been able to appreciate the guy who orchestrated the whole shebang—Aikman.
He doesn’t get a ton of love for those three Super Bowl titles and, in truth, the shadow over him makes sense.
The offensive line was revolutionary, with the big bodies of Newton, Larry Allen, Erik Williams, Mark Tuinei, Mark Stepnoski, and Kevin Gogan. It allowed Smith to amass his superlative numbers, often without being touched until he’d covered three or four yards. It gave Aikman ample time to find an open target among his many weapons.
Alvin Harper paired up with Johnson for the first two titles to form a devastating duo of wide receivers. Jay Novacek was no slouch at tight end, and Darryl Johnston was dangerous as both as blocker and a playmaker.
And the defense deserves just as much credit for its bevy of Pro Bowlers.
So Aikman didn’t have to carry the same burden most other NFL QBs have to carry in terms of on-field production. But he had a unique and insanely burdensome cross to bear in the form of the Dallas Cowboy locker room.
Make no mistake about it—the current scrutiny cast upon the star is not an entirely new development. The emergence of the 24-hour-sports gawkfest has taken it to a new level, but if you’re looking for a good NFL story, Dallas has always been the place to be.
The same guys who made losing to the Cowboys so painful had to have made Aikman’s job infinitely more difficult than any of us can imagine. No matter how many stories leaked to the general public, the reports out of his locker room must’ve been merely the tip of the iceberg.
Even in an organization as notoriously porous to media leaks as the Cowboys, you have to figure most fires are put out in-house. You also have to figure the quarterback, especially a leader like Aikman, was the point person to handle such conflagrations.
Sure, Aikman’s numbers don’t jump off the page. In an 11-year career truncated by concussion troubles, the Cowboy QB penned a record of 94-71 for a .570 winning percentage in 165 games. He completed 2898 passes in 4715 attempts for a career completion percentage of 61.5.
Those passes were good for 32,942 yards, 165 touchdowns, and 141 interceptions. That’s 3.5 TDs and 3 INTs per 100 attempts, 11.4 yards per completion, 7 yards per attempt, almost 200 yards passing per game (199.6), and a career QB rating of 81.6.
Toss in over 1000 yards and 9 TDs rushing with 58 fumbles.
Like I said, nothing there will put him among the historic leaders at the position.
Of course, his three Super Bowl rings rank behind only those owned by Joe Montana in the modern era. They share the second rung on the ladder with Tom Brady’s shiny trio, just behind Terry Bradshaw’s four-pack from antiquity (just kidding…kind of).
And still it’s taken time for me to appreciate Aikman fully.
More so than any QB from the modern era, he gets judged by a different standard. Usually, we find a way to shower adoration upon a quarterback who wins—even if he fails to put up staggering offensive totals. The NFL is about winning when it counts and, nine times out of ten, the signal-caller will get the lion’s share of the credit if a team succeeds in doing so.
Troy Aikman was a monument to this concept—take it from the man himself:
“I’ve always believed if you win, it’s good enough. My career was based on that. So I don’t really have a lot of great things to say about anybody who comes out and vocalizes their displeasure because they’re not getting more passes or more throws or more carries. To me, that’s not what this game is about.”
In that same link, he points out Irvin was never shy about demanding the ball and his Cowboys had clubhouse tiffs as well. Aikman also points out the vast majority stayed right there in the clubhouse and—judging from his words and actions—I believe his hand was a firm one in the process.
With the benefit of time and perspective, I’ve settled on viewing Troy Aikman as a different version of Peyton Manning or Young—a guy who played in the middle of a supremely talented offense, but put together an outrageous landscape of big wins instead of statistical brilliance.
But perhaps the most unappreciated aspect of Troy Aikman is his brain—that little organ he retired from football to protect. I remember my dad and I making jokes about how little sense this made and his first several years in the booth seemed to confirm our suspicions.
Well, I’ll order another round of Crow for those jabs.
Aikman has proven to be a man of considerable intelligence and insight while possessing a raw ability to communicate that needed only a bit of polish.
His football IQ is demonstrated weekly through his work for FOX Sports.
His observations about the state of the current Cowboys—the impact of the departed Terrell Owens, for instance—are spot-on.
Take Aikman’s gem on Tony Romo’s attitude toward perception: “But to say, ‘I don’t worry about perception,’ you better worry about perception, because it’s a big part of making it through some very difficult times,” Aikman admonished. Aikman knows what it takes to win in Dallas, and doesn’t mind sharing it with the rest of us.
The signs of a great football mind are there. It’s time to roll back those shadows and shine some light on Troy Aikman.
Maybe he’s not the best quarterback of all time, but he was good enough to be a critical piece for a franchise that won three Super Bowls in four years. And tortured the entire San Francisco Bay Area for many more.
