#its the offseason i have nothing better to do than keep track of a man cycling through his closet yeah

[ratatatastic]

quick question do you think he likes that shirt

[imaginingsoftly]

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time Pt. 7 - Morgan Reilly

Type: roommates to lovers, Y/N insert shorts

Requested: No

Warnings: concussions

(Y/N = Your name, Y/L/N = Your Last Name, Y/N’s POV to Morgans, POV change marked with a line)

A/N: Apparently I suck at writing deadlines, and I’m really sorry about that. Hopefully once my semester is over I’ll be able to write at a more consistent pace, but trying to do University online is different and challenging. Enjoy!

Y/N’s family was nothing like her, her brothers’ noise a sharp contrast to her quiet, and she was trying not to panic over the madness that was about to ensue. It was four days after Morgan’s concussion diagnosis, and it was only yesterday that he stopped cringing at the brightness of the sunlight coming into the apartment. The house and its inhabitants were going to be loud when her and Morgan showed up, no matter how much she had told them to tone it down for the sake of Morgan’s brain. She also knew that her brothers were more than likely suspicious of the kind of relationship she and Morgan really had, and that they would be observing her and Morgan’s interactions pretty closely. 

“Remind me again how many brothers you have?” Morgan’s question brought Y/N back to the present. 

“Four. All older. They played baseball and don’t watch much hockey, so they shouldn’t bombard you too much.” Morgan chuckled in the passenger seat as they sped down the highway towards Charlotte.

“I’m living with their baby sister, Y/N. I have a feeling they’re not going to leave me alone no matter how indifferent they are to my sport.” He was right, though it wasn’t that they didn’t want her to date (not that her and Mo were dating) so much as they didn’t trust athletes. They had loved her first college boyfriend, a guy from her dorm Freshman year that surfed and worked as a barista at one of the local beach cafes. Her second boyfriend was a baseball player, however, and the boys had freaked out. She guessed it was because they had been college baseball players themselves, and they didn’t want their sister going out with the type of guys that their teammates were in college. He had cheated on her after one weekend series on the road, so they ended up being right.

“They’ll get over it. They base everything off of their experiences in college baseball locker rooms, and those aren’t great places to be.” Morgan laughed, and Y/N turned off the highway and towards her house. The winding roads to get to her neighborhood were peaceful, and she could see Morgan relax into his seat as he stared at the leaves turning orange all around them. 

“Tell me about your brothers. Were they good athletes?” 

“They were good baseball players, though Bo was probably the best all around athlete. He could play any sport well. He’s the oldest, and he was the only one to go pro, got drafted out of Carolina in the second round by Seattle. Cal probably would have gone second round too, but he blew out his knee his junior year of college. He tried to play after that, but he was meant to be a catcher. His knees couldn’t take the position anymore and he wasn’t as good elsewhere in the field.” Y/N caught Morgan bending his left knee in discomfort, probably empathizing with Cal. It had been a gruesome recovery, and watching him try to re-learn how to walk had been one of the worst things Y/N had ever watched, though it was nothing compared to watching him realize he couldn’t play his position anymore. 

“Davie was always a better lacrosse player, but they don’t really have lacrosse down here. He moved to baseball so he could hang out with the other kids in the neighborhood and maybe get a college scholarship. Josh was a pitcher until he needed Tommy Johns. He threw hard, like mid- 90’s by his Freshman year at State.” Come on, Y/N. Like Morgan was gonna know the significance of a fastball speed by a college kid. “That’s really rare,” she added quickly. “For a Freshman to have that kind of speed, with the location control he had? He was on a fast track to being drafted in the first round. He actually got drafted pretty low out of high school, but mom convinced him to go to college for a few years to at least start a degree.” 

“Two of your brothers had career-ending injuries? That really sucks.” Morgan was looking at her incredulously, almost like he didn’t believe her. 

“The knee thing runs in the family. My dad and his two brothers all had knee replacements before they turned thirty.” Morgan shuddered, and Y/N was inclined to do the same. Knee surgery was no joke. “I actually need one as well, but I’m trying to hold off for as long as I can. They don’t last forever, and I don’t want to go through the surgery twice.” Morgan shuddered again at her words, glancing at Y/N’s knees in alarm.

She turned the Jeep into her parent’s driveway as she spoke. It was long and twisting, and more than a little excessive. The original owners of the house must have really had a flair for the dramatic. The house came into view as they rounded the last corner, a shingled beauty that looked like it belonged on Nantucket rather than in the South. 

Y/N grinned at the shock that entered Morgan’s face, and the grin grew even larger when three tall bodies came flying out of the house and into the driveway. Her brothers were about as different as baseball players could look, and each looked like their position. Cal was a bit slimmer than he had been as a catcher, his legs not the tree trunks they’d been for most of her life. Josh was a beanpole, there was no other word for it. He was tall and all limbs, especially in contrast to Davie, who was compact and reminiscent of his hero Pedroia. Bo was absent, probably busy doing whatever professional athletes did in the offseason when they thought they were too good for their family. 

Morgan hung back as Y/N ran forward, and she almost felt bad for leaving him behind until her brothers swept her up into a group hug. It was comforting to be surrounded by them again, even if she was disappointed at the missing eldest. They were all yelling in her ears as she pulled back, gesturing for Morgan to come forward. “This is Morgan. He’s concussed, so please be gentle.” Morgan rolled his eyes at her words and she could tell he wanted to protest her instructions. 

Josh was the first to step forward, and he was the only one who even remotely matched Morgan in height. It was comical to her, seeing the boys that usually dwarfed her looking small themselves, especially as they tried to puff up and look vaguely threatening. 

“I’m Josh. It’s nice to meet you, man.” Morgan shook his hand with a smile as Josh was jostled out of the way by Cal, who opted for a fist-bump instead. 

“Cal. What exactly are your intentions with my sister?” Y/N groaned and punched Cal’s shoulder from her place to Morgan’s left as the other boys laughed. Morgan turned red, gaping at Cal. 

“Told you they would do this, bud. Good luck.” Y/N clapped his shoulder and took off in the direction of the house, hoping that Morgan would follow her. He did, thankfully, but so did the rest of the boys. The moved as a clump of noise into the house and through to the kitchen in the back, where Y/N’s mother was grumbling to herself over the stove. She looked up when Y/N entered, and dropped the spoon she was holding to hug her youngest child. 

________________________________________________________________

More than anyone else, Y/N looked like her mother. Those same curls tumbled down her mom’s back, though they were strands which had escaped from the messy bun sitting at her neck. They were nearly the same height, and the laugh lines at the corner of Y/N’s mom’s eyes and mouth were the same that would probably grace Y/N’s face as she got older. Y/N squeezed her mom one more time before letting go, though she kept an arm around her mother’s waist as she turned towards Morgan. “Ma, this is Morgan. Morgan, my mom.” 

“Call me Jo, honey,” she said, startling Morgan as she swept him into a hug as well. It surprised him, how much he needed the hug, though he supposed that mom hugs just meant more than any other kind. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Morgan looked up to find Y/N blushing slightly, and she stuck her tongue out at him when he raised an eyebrow at her over Jo’s shoulder. 

Y/N’s house was loud with the presence of her brothers, no matter how much Y/N and Jo tried to shush them. They eventually took their noise outside, where they constructed a makeshift batting cage and took turns hitting against Josh’s pitching. Jo tried to get Morgan to relax on the couch until dinner, going athlete-mom-mode with the whole “resting a head injury” spiel, though she finally relented when he said he’d sit on a stool and not try to help anymore. Y/N laughed as Morgan bickered with her mom, and he was almost tempted to keep it going just to hear her laugh some more. It was nice to see her relaxed in the place she grew up, floating around the kitchen with the person who’d taught her how to cook. 

It was like watching a ballet as they cooked. They would come so close to colliding that Morgan almost shouted out warnings several times, but yet somehow they’d always managed to dance out of the way in time to avoid each other. The longer he sat there on the stool, the more Jo threw over random questions about his life, and hockey, and his own family. It felt home-y in a way that Thanksgiving, American or Canadian, hadn’t felt since he was a kid. 

Y/N’s dad came home right as Jo finished telling a story about Y/N breaking her finger trying to catch a foul ball. Morgan was doubled over in his stool, nearly crying with laughter as Jo choked out the story in between her own laughs. Y/N happily interrupted the story to run to her father, shouting out a “hey” as she launched herself at him. Her dad was intimidating, tall and well-built with gray hair that somehow managed to look youthful and not old. He was obviously a former athlete, and Y/N’s stories about him playing college ball came to mind. 

“You must be Morgan.” Y/N’s father stepped away from Y/N to hold his hand out at Morgan, who stood hastily.

“Yes, sir. It’s nice to meet you.” Y/N and Jo laughed behind their hands at the exchange.

“Sir? It’s Bill. I’m not old enough to be called sir.” Y/N laughed, patting him on the shoulder. Morgan nodded at Bill, and tried not to look as intimidated as he felt. He was never nervous around his actual girlfriends’ parents, and now his roommate’s had him all flustered. Maybe his concussion was actually as bad as the doctor said.

Bill’s casual stare-down with Morgan ended as a small towel smacked the side of Bill’s head. “You’re a hell of a lot older than you think you are, Billy. Now help me with the dishes.” Morgan met Y/N’s eyes to find her smiling at him already. He smiled back, and the two missed the knowing look exchanged between Jo and Bill. 

Dinner was fantastic, and Morgan almost didn’t want to leave at the end of the night. The Y/L/N family table was chaotic, for sure, and sometimes a little too loud for his concussion to appreciate, but it felt like family. He was grateful to have been accepted into the fold so easily, like he’d been there for years. 

“Thank you, Jo and Bill, this was fantastic.” Jo swept Morgan into another tight hug with a whispered “good luck on the rest of the season” and a brief kiss on the cheek. Bill was a little more formal, shaking his hand firmly. 

Y/N’s brothers finally showed their true stripes. They all bro-hugged him, and all three had a whispered threat and a “take care of her” to mumble into his ear. Clearly they hadn’t bought that they were just friends. He nodded anyway. Y/N was his roommate, after all, so he would take care of her. 

They were secure in Y/N’s Jeep and on the highway before either spoke. “Thanks, Red Sox. I really needed that.” Morgan stared out at the road in front of them. “It’s easy to forget just how much you miss your family, and then the holidays come around and it’s like a punch to the face.” 

Y/N reached out with her right hand and found Morgan’s, squeezing gently. “I’ve got your back, bud, remember? My family is yours.” Morgan tried to ignore the jolt sent through his body when she took his hand, especially as his heart thudded over her willingness to share her family with him. 

They didn’t speak again after that, and Morgan fell asleep in the passenger’s seat, as was apparently becoming tradition for them. He woke when Y/N shook his shoulder gently, and he trudged sleepily behind her back up to the apartment. 

It was something Morgan never would have done fully awake, but he was sleepy and there are no rules after midnight, so he pulled Y/N into a hug once she had locked the door behind them. She pulled him closer instantly, squeezing just a little. Y/N really gave the best hugs. She squeezed people just enough, and she was never the first to let go. Her hugs were therapeutic, and for a second he forgot about the concussion and missing his team and his family as his mind narrowed onto the feeling of her arms wrapped around his waist and her head tucked just under his shoulder. “Goodnight, Y/N,” he whispered.

“Goodnight, Morgan.”

[tfcrp]

THIS IS YOUR GAME

Name: Lucky California Age: Twenty One Class Year: Senior Position: Backliner, #2 Hometown: New York, New York

THIS IS YOUR MOMENT

TW: abuse, physical assault

Lucky, they call him, a hilarious irony on a team like the Foxes. It’s not his birth name, and he’s not under the impression that anyone on the team—(or otherwise)—is stupid enough to believe that the ridiculous moniker is actually real, but he has yet to offer them anything else. After all, it isn’t as if he has anything else to offer them. His name is self-selected, pulled out of the bitterly empty depths of his mind as his body attempted to knit itself back together in a hospital room.

Once upon a time, though, he was called James.

As a child, he wanted for nothing. His parents delighted in being part of the idle rich, descended from old money with nothing better to do than throw extravagant parties and dabble in the power struggle between top companies. Whenever James was allowed to make an appearance alongside the children of his parents’ friends, he made a splash—it wasn’t hard to see that he would grow up to be as stunning as his parents, and something about him set him apart as the darling of it all. It was his blue eyes, wide and beautiful; his dimples, charmingly adorable; his delightful mannerisms, even at a young age; his parents’ friends would raise an eyebrow, tilt their heads in his direction, and say that boy is going to be someone someday.

No one commented on the brutally tight grip James’s father kept on his shoulder, his smile more of a warning than anything actually friendly. If anyone noticed how his mother’s fingernails lined up perfectly with the fading half-moons on the back of James’s neck, they said nothing, assuming her gaze toward him was loving and not threatening. They were overprotective, just like any parents.

Throughout his childhood and adolescence, James was adored by nearly everyone he met, from classmates and teachers to his parents’ friends and business associates. Somewhere along the way, he took up Exy. At first, it was merely to pass the time, but it wasn’t long before his natural skills caught attention. Of course, he had the advantage of his parents’ wealth bolstering his swift progress: the best gear, the most exquisitely crafted racquets, and private coaching were all at his disposal. Even so, there was something distinctly special about the way he played, something money could never truly buy: pure, unadulterated talent. He shouldered his way through strikers like he had a personal vendetta against each and every one of them; with the level of ferocity and skill that he displayed as a backliner, goalies on his team were nearly rendered unnecessary. On the court and off, things came easily to him: James would decimate an opponent in a game, then stroll into his parents’ events in an impeccably tailored tux, charming everyone he met.

The bruises littering James’s torso were simply a product of his Exy games, of course. If anyone saw him struggle to hide a limp in the offseason, they must have been imagining things. James was a perfect athlete, and more importantly, he was a perfect son.

The beginning went something like this: I need you to talk to someone for me, his father had told him one night. James responded eagerly, still in the phase in his life where he wanted to please his parents despite their misdeeds. His father had gently steered him toward a man in his late fifties, his smile razor sharp and his fingers curled around a glass of bourbon. I want to buy this man’s company, but he doesn’t know it yet. Can you keep him occupied so he doesn’t see me speaking to the chairman of the board? James nodded slowly, eyes wide, and was sent off in the man’s direction with little fanfare. Armed with a false interest in a summer internship, questions about his future career path, and fabricated bashfulness about his own achievements, James ensured that the man never caught wind of his father’s dealings. His company was bought out from underneath him, with the full support of the board, only two weeks later.

They controlled him. They controlled his life. When he asked to play goalie, they responded with backliner, pushing him around and throwing expensive vases across the room at him until he was cowed into submission. When he gently requested permission to pursue playing Exy in college, they dismissed his dreams with derisive scoffs, scattering business school brochures across his desk and leaving marks behind as a physical reminder that this was the only acceptable option. Every step he took was wrong, wrong, wrong, and they made sure he never forgot it.

Ducking his head and covering the evidence of their displeasure, James pushed thoughts of his future to the side as he dove back into the other game he’d started playing on their behalf. With age, he’d only grown better: he would playfully flirt with wives to pull their husbands’ attention from business deals; he would craft heartbreaking stories to tug on the heartstrings of weak-willed heirs; he would play the old boys’ club off of one another until they didn’t trust each other with so much as their dinner order for the fear that they’d be poisoned. There was something almost breathtaking about the ease with which he slipped easily in and out of the crowd, blending in perfectly and adjusting himself to every situation. He knew people, and he never forgot a face or a name. This, however, was a skill he painstakingly kept hidden. After all, what kind of strength would it be if everyone knew how easy it was for him to keep track? That way, they were all the more flattered when he greeted them like an old friend. That way, they were all the more destroyed when he tilted his head quizzically, smiled condescendingly, and said I’m sorry, have we met? There was nothing quite so artfully brutal.

No one is perfect, though, and James was hardly the exception. Even he could make mistakes, and even he could be deceived. The blinding possibility of being free from his parents was more than enough to distract him from the holes in the lies he was fed.

It was an age-old story, sparing the details: the player became the played, the bitter taste of betrayal filling his senses as his own skills were turned against him. His father lost millions on a deal he’d relied on James to complete. Millions, of course, was pocket change to his parents. But the damage had been done, and James was unceremoniously disowned and thrown out into the street for the part he’d willingly played in the disaster. His undoing, not long after, was nothing more than a random mugging. One look at James practically screamed money, and he hardly lasted a few hours on the street before someone went after him. A blow to the head like that, and he should’ve been dead—or, at the very least, in a coma for the rest of his life. Instead, as he put it, he was left with fuck-all memories and a hell of a headache. Retrograde amnesia, the doctor had corrected him every time he said so, sounding more tired each time she repeated herself.

Suddenly, James Bonheur no longer existed. His mind, utterly wiped clean, patiently awaited its new resident. Though he was left with no faces or names to supplement the nothingness clouding his head, even the amnesia couldn’t take everything. He coveted the broken remnants, gathering them close to his chest: the sting of a nameless betrayal, the jagged edges of a faceless heartbreak, and the utter certainty that he belonged on an Exy court. 

Though he’d been in the hospital for more than long enough, no one had come to collect him. No one was looking—and it wasn’t as if he remembered if anyone should be looking for him. You’re lucky to be alive, son, a detective had told him, clearly disinterested in handling the mugging case of an amnesiac who would certainly be no help at all as a witness. Won’t you help us find who hurt you? What’s your name? His words were full of false sympathy, and he could already feel the man closing his case shut just as he’d opened it moments before. Lucky? Sure, call me Lucky, then, he shot back with a brittle laugh, raising his gaze to a nearby billboard just outside of his hospital window. Cheerfully, it proclaimed Visit California! And so, with a snort, he finished his new name: Lucky California.

He couldn’t stay in the hospital forever, and though he had nowhere else to go, as best they could tell he was eighteen and able to be discharged without another thought. With nothing more to his name than the clothes he’d arrived in, an iPhone mangled beyond all hope, and an expensive wallet suspiciously devoid of any identifying information, the newly-dubbed Lucky made his way to South Carolina. What better way to find out who he was than plastering his face all over national television? Without knowing his own name, Lucky had no proof that he’d ever played on an Exy team before, much less that he was any good, but after persuading Wymack to watch him on the court, any doubts he might’ve had disappeared. Between Lucky’s swift and firm denial of his strikers’ best tactics and the stark reality that he had no money, no identity, and nowhere else to go, his hopeless case and suspicious-looking scars were more than convincing enough to earn him a place on the Foxes that fall.

SEIZE IT WITH EVERYTHING YOU’VE GOT   

Wish me luck, someone on the team might say; I wouldn’t wish him on anybody, Wymack has taken to responding, not bothering to look up from the Exy plays of the week on his computer. Lucky has more than earned his reputation as a brawler, in odd contrast to his haughty manner off the court. He dives in to defend his teammates whether they’re right or wrong—he doesn’t care either way. Some small part of him even thinks that maybe if he gets knocked around enough, his memories will come flooding back. Despite his brawling tendencies, there is an old-money polish to him that does not often appear in someone labeled a Fox; even so, he possesses a hard glint to his prettiness, something that’s more akin to a diamond-edged blade than a decorative jewel. With his blue doe-eyes and pink bow-shaped lips, he seems more doll than Exy player, but the distinction becomes clear when his smile turns sharper than a knife as he steps on the court. Despite his often blasé attitude, he clings to his talent like a lifeline; after all, he’s a Class I player, Fox or not. He’s got his eyes set on the pros, on Court, on a lifetime of fame and glory: Lucky California is all he has. It’s all he knows, and if he can’t keep playing Exy after he graduates, he has nothing to fall back on. He’ll be awash in the sea of his fragmented mind, memories just as frustratingly out of reach as they always have been.

When he’s not practicing, he goes to see Betsy weekly, half hoping that he can prod memories into reappearing and half hoping that she’ll tell him they’ll never come back. Do you want to know who your family is? she asks him sometimes, always infuriatingly calm. My face has been plastered all over ESPN for years, he shoots back. If they wanted to see me, they would’ve said something by now. He pretends that it’s some kind of cosmic joke that he’s privy to, but the fact of the matter is that he doesn’t remember anything, and it bothers him. That hit to the head left him with precious few things to his name: his uppity mannerisms, the ability to talk circles around everyone he meets, the steady weight of a racquet in his hands, and a face that he doesn’t know whether to thank his mother or his father for. He has no idea, to this day, and that terrifies him more than he’d like to admit—so instead of facing the silence in his head, he triumphantly raises his racquet to spur on the fans in the stands, drowning it out with the roar of the crowd.

LUCKY CALIFORNIA is portrayed by DACRE MONTGOMERY and is CLOSED

[husid]

Wednesday Morning Punter - Super Bowl LIII Edition

How have you been the last eight years?

I, like most blog writers am just fine and not at all wallowing in existential doom questioning my own self-worth. But this isn’t about me, this is about you, the beloved readers. So back by the popular demand of no fewer than two people, is a special pre-Super Bowl edition of Wednesday Morning Punter!

Just in time for the final game of the NFL season before real football gets started, today’s issue will tackle a Super Bowl LIII preview, the all important Legacy Stakes, missing prop bets, the unenviable existence of a Patriots atheist living in Boston, and some NFL hodgepodge.

So without further ado, Let’s Punt!

What to Expect When You’re Projecting

What I can guarantee about tonight is that there will be nearly universal disappointment regarding the Super Bowl commercials, Maroon 5 will bring out a halftime show guest singer that will appeal to neither millennials nor baby boomers, and Twitter will have a much needed night focused on something other than Donald Trump, Howard Schultz or AOC.

What I cannot guarantee is just about everything else, starting with the winner of the game. Anecdotal research leads me to believe that most of the experts are picking the Patriots, which is incredible for a team that No One Believes In (more on that later), but it’s by no means a slam-dunk. We know that both teams deserve to be here (Saints fans may disagree, but one call aside, it’s impossible to conclude that both teams aren’t at the very least among the top two teams in their respective conferences). The Pats quickly worked out of an early 1-2 hole to reel off six straight wins and finish at a respectable if somewhat human 11-5, good enough for the AFC’s two-seed. The Rams were even more dominant, busting out of the gate with eight straight wins en route to a 13-3 record and the NFC’s two-seed. Both won their divisional playoff game relatively convincingly before squeezing out dramatic overtime victories in their conference championship games, thanks primarily to resilient offensive play. The two teams didn’t play other this year, but did have five common opponents, including the entire NFC North, and the Chiefs. I don’t put much stock into common opponents as a means of assessing a head-to-head advantage – both because strengths and weaknesses versus one opponent aren’t necessarily transitive, and because the highs and lows every team experiences in a season mean that an opponent one week does not equate to that same opponent on a different week – but for those of you who do, both the Rams and Pats beat the Chiefs in tight regular season games (and the Pats again two weeks ago), and each went 3-1 against NFC North opponents, with the Patriots losing a demoralizing week 3 matchup in Detroit, and the Rams falling in week 14 to Chicago in a defensive showdown.

Frankly, the Patriots are easy to predict. They’re going to show up with a solid game plan, Brady is going to be accurate and minimize mistakes, and the defense will play bend-but-don’t break defense to keep the Pats within striking distance at any point in the game.

The Rams, on the other hand, are a bit more of a wild card, despite being the more consistent team during the regular season. LA only has one offensive star (Todd Gurley), yet finished the year in the top-2 in total scoring and yards per game, and the top-5 in both rushing and passing. But Gurley disappeared two weeks ago (literally and figuratively), starting quarterback Jared Goff is still pretty green, and the Rams D is very much a middle-of-the-road unit.

So what will ultimately decide whether the scrappy Patriots will finally be able to celebrate in Foxborough, or LA pretends like it actually cares about pro football for at least an offseason? My best guess:

• The Gronking of Over-the-Hill House: No one’s worried about his post-game performance tonight at the Gold Club (I know it’s gone, but my knowledge of Georgia strip clubs begins and ends with that fabled establishment), but my confidence in his elite on-field level is not what it once was. Despite his ability to still make a big play, Gronkowski generally looks like a shell of his former self, and my money’s on Sunday being the last day he plays an NFL game. Of course when he’s playing to his ability, he’s one of the most unguardable players in football.

• Aaron Donald Has A Show: Donald was undoubtedly the best defensive player in the NFL this year (an NFL positional record 20.5 sacks for a defensive tackle), but oddly he’s still not quite a household name (the NFL’s refusal to market any defensive player other than JJ Watt could comprise a whole other post).  Fighting through double-teams and keeping Brady on his heels could be the key difference in whether TB12 is able to pick apart the Rams secondary, or is too uncomfortable to get into a consistent rhythm. There’s a good chance the whole country knows his name after tonight.

• From Dusk Till Sean: I can’t remember ever seeing a Sean this hot, and I live less than a mile from Southie. But lost in last week’s questionable victory was the fact that Rams coach Sean McVay was a missed pass interference call away from dealing with an entire offseason full of questions about his game plan. Since we still haven’t heard any indication that Todd Gurley was injured, his benching for most of the NFC Championship game is baffling. Giving your (and arguably the league’s) best player five total touches with a Super Bowl appearance on the line simply doesn’t add up – particularly since Gurley’s backup, CJ Anderson, was no more effective with his 17 touches – and a similar utilization of Gurley on Sunday will make Bill Belichick’s job a lot easier. If the rushing attack remains stymied, will McVay have Goff ready to shoulder the load? McVay is like that cool, mysterious guy who transfers to your high school for sophomore year but no one knows much about him. He might be the man, he might just be a boring introvert, but his parents are gone next weekend and he’s about to throw the first party at his place. Will he have enough booze? Will he invite those weirdos he went to school with last year? Will he freak out when the first Bud Ice (is that still a thing?) spills on the carpet? Will he trust his buddies enough to take care of things while he shows his crush where he practices his guitar? The spotlight is finally on. Be cool, Sean McVay, because high school kids can turn on you fast.

• Master of Run: It’s no secret that Gurley’s production had tailed off a bit, even before last week’s unjustified benching. Gurley has now eclipsed 100 yards rushing just once in his last four games. Maybe last game’s light load was a gift, Todd, but if he starts the Super Bowl rushing like he has since late December, will Gurley be able to do enough through the air to make an impact? Given his overall season, it’s pretty shocking that this is even a reasonable question.

• A Series of Gameplanned Events: Beginning with his plan to take Marshall Faulk out of Super Bowl XXXVI, Belichick has earned his reputation as a master tactician, which shone through in the Patriots next two Super Bowls (both victories). His track record since then has only further solidified his status as the best coach in NFL history, reaching six more Super Bowls and failing to make the playoffs just once since 2002, when Brady was shelved for the season (and Matt Cassel still led New England to an 11-5 record). But he’s just 2-3 in subsequent Super Bowls, and in each of the three losses he was squarely outcoached in at least one major facet of the game: His failure to account for the Giants ferocious pass rush rattled Brady all game in Super Bowl XLII and forced him to play dink-and-dunk football in Super Bowl XLVI, which neutralized his big-play ability. In last year’s Super Bowl, Belichick’s defense couldn’t find an answer for journeyman Nick Foles, and his thoroughly mediocre receiving corps. We’ll never know if BB’s head-scratching decision to bench struggling but proven starting cornerback Malcolm Butler (a legitimate explanation for which we still haven’t received) would have been the difference in the game, but it’s nearly impossible to conclude that Butler would have made the Patriots secondary worse on that day. So the question remains, will Belichick have an effective plan in place to mask his team’s weaknesses (the secondary) and accentuate its strengths (steady rushing attack, relentless short passing game), or will he fall victim to an unforeseen Rams wrinkle, or worse, his own ego?

• Santa Clarita Quiet: When Jeff Fisher went to Jared with the first overall pick in the 2016 draft, there were more than a few skeptics, all of whom seemed vindicated by Goff’s rookie campaign. Since McVay took over as Rams head coach in 2017, however, Goff has been nothing short of a top-tier quarterback, culminating in a 2018 in which he finished with a 101.1 passer rating (8th among qualified QBs), 4,688 passing yard (4th), 8.4 yards per attempt (4th), and 32 touchdowns (6th, though it should be noted that of the quarterbacks with more TDs, none had a top-tier RB for the entire season). But the fact remains that despite how great a season the Rams have had, the media attention thrust on pro football players in Los Angeles has landed somewhere between “Sugarfish No Longer Finds Bluefin Tuna to be Ethically Sourced” and “Ponytailed, Meisner-Reading Papyrus Employee Doesn’t Actually Have Passion for Stationary,” allowing Goff, who has never lived outside of California, to live a relatively pressure-free life. Since the playoffs started, Goff’s numbers have gone down a bit, as can be expected against better competition, and that on the surface isn’t alarming. But he’s about to play the biggest game of his life on the biggest stage in American sports, after two weeks of the most intense media scrutiny he’s ever experienced. Some quarterbacks wilt under that pressure, some excel, and others are simply unaffected (see: Manning, Eli).  We’ll see which bucket Goff falls into.

My Pick: Rams 29 Patriots 27 Confidence level: 2 In the Brady/Belichick era, each of their eight Super Bowl matchups has ended in a one-score game, and most of them have looked a lot more lopsided on paper before kickoff than this one. I picked the Patriots to beat the Eagles last year, refusing to believe that Belichick could lose to someone like Nick Foles in a Super Bowl. But ultimately players play the games and I don’t see a clear improvement in the Patriots defense from the one that gave up 41 points to the Eagles last year. Now they’re playing a much better offense and likely a better quarterback than Foles,  so much like the Chiefs game, the Patriots defense will have their hands full.

On the other side of the ball, the Patriots have Tom Brady, so any argument for why the Pats will win could justifiably end there. His receiving corps, while far from elite, seems to be gelling at the perfect time, and could not have been more clutch than they were against the Chiefs. The Rams defense on the whole won’t strike fear into Pats offensive coordinator Josh McDaniel’s heart, but Aaron Donald will be the toughest individual force he (or anyone in the league) will have to game plan for all season. I think Donald and Ndamukong Suh will be able to minimize rushing success for the Patriots, and will get just enough pressure to force Brady to get the ball out quickly and allow the Rams’ back seven to sit on the short outs and crossing routes that have allowed the Patriots to move the chains all season long.

But ultimately, in a one-score game – which I’m betting this will be – one play can make all the difference, and all the pre-game analysis is worthless. I don’t expect a true shootout, but I do see an offensive battle that ends with the Rams defense getting that one crucial stop down the stretch that the Chiefs failed to get two weeks ago. That said, your guess is as good as mine.

Other Super Bowl Notes and Tidbits

• The Defenders: The Patriots finished seventh in the league in scoring defense, but much of that has to be attributed to the dreadful offenses of the rest of the AFC East. In their six games against the Dolphins, Bills and Jets, the Pats D allowed 6, 7, 13, 33, 12 and 3 points. In four games against top-10 scoring offenses on the other hand, the Patriots gave up 24, 40, 31 and 17 points, to the Colts, Chiefs, Bears and Steelers, plus another 31 to the Chiefs two weeks ago. You’d think this would be a bad omen for New England as it prepares to stop the league’s second-most prolific offense, but despite the gaudy numbers allowed to elite offenses, the Patriots are 4-1 in those games. Essentially, while we can be confident the Rams will put up points, the type of game that would dictate that flow wouldn’t necessarily put the Patriots at a disadvantage.

• Oldzark: “Experience” is always talked about as a factor in determining who wins a big game, but I’m not sure that has a ton of merit, given that players have to be able to win big games to even get to the Super Bowl. Looking at the last ten Super Bowls, eight featured quarterback matchups in which only one starting QB had started a Super Bowl previously. In those matchups, the team with the Super Bowl-experienced quarterback is 4-4. Looking beyond the quarterback, teams that had been to the Super Bowl in the previous five years (an objective number, but one that’s likely to incorporate the team having an experienced, returning corps) are 3-3 when playing teams that had not been to the Super Bowl in that same span. Draw your own conclusions.

• The Vinatieri Method: Both teams should feel very comfortable with their kicking situation going into Sunday. Stephen Gostkowski has established himself as one of the most reliable field goal kickers of his generation, while Greg Zuerlein just KICKED A 57-YARD FIELD GOAL IN OVERTIME TO SEND HIS TEAM TO THE SUPER BOWL. Zuerlein was unfairly robbed of national glory, due to a brutal combination of the refs overshadowing the Rams win, and Joe Buck, as he’s wont to do, delivering the call of an incredible feat in an incredible situation as if he was narrating his wife picking up her first alimony payment before leaving the house for good. “Meredith will attempt to steal my money along with my soul… she has the check, she’s getting into the Tesla of Miles, a 30-something brand ambassador… AND SHE’S GONE! We’ll see you later tonight at the country club gala so as to keep up the appearance that we’re amicable divorcees!” Zuerlein actually sprained his foot at halftime of that game, which is something to be aware of, but given how he kicked in the second half and overtime, it’s not something I’d be too concerned about.

• Big Mouth: I could not be less interested in Media Day or any of the PR shenanigans that go on between the conference championships and the Super Bowl. I get why the NFL does it, and I’m sure journalists appreciate that they get something to write about beyond another position-by-position breakdown, but wake me up when it’s time to clock the national anthem length. That said, it’s worth taking note of all the players who basked in the glow of the media attention, because a good chunk of them will inevitably blame the media for stirring controversy down the road. Like it or not, the media has as much to do with sports being as popular as they are (and player contracts being as big as they are) than the players themselves. If you’re going to use it to your advantage when things are going well, you can’t bitch about the negative coverage when the good times stop rolling.

• Lost in Grace: Living in Boston and not being a Patriots fan sucks. Not because they always win, or because the Celtics and Bruins can be in the midst of playoff runs and the Boston sports media’s top story will still be which flavor Coolatta Gronk is going to be drinking in his upcoming Dunkin’ commercial, but because of all the faux-narratives that the team puts forth and the fans eat up. There was the “Patriot Way” which preached loyalty and selflessness, just to see Belichick ship off beloved stars and community staples like Lawyer Milloy, Richard Seymour and Chandler Jones (side note: I’m not saying these moves didn’t work out or were uncouth, just pointing out the disingenuousness of pretending to view your players as anything other than football players). There was the myth of only valuing team-first players, then signing guys like Corey Dillon, Randy Moss, Aaron Hernandez, Albert Haynesworth, Chad Johnson/Ochocinco, Brandon Meriwether and Josh Gordon. There’s still the idea that the team should never give the media any controversy fuel, while Belichick writes a letter of support to Donald Trump (that he had to know was going to be made public) and Brady displays a MAGA hat in his locker.

And now we’ve reached a new one, and possibly the most infuriating one. I understand that every team, at one point or another uses “no one believed in us” as a rallying cry or source of motivation, and sometimes its true and sometimes its not. But Xerxes and the Persian Empire had a more viable claim to the “no one believed in us” mentality after Thermopylae (read a book) than the Patriots do now. Brady and Belichick have presided over two separate dynasties in consecutive decades (for what it’s worth, I don’t think a team can go ten years between titles and still be considered a single dynasty) and are about as far from being an underdog year-to-year as any team since the 1960s Celtics. My problems with this whole charade are two-fold. First, it’s flat out wrong. Until this year’s AFC Championship game, the Patriots with Brady starting had not been underdogs IN 69 CONSECUTIVE GAMES. The chart below (courtesy of footballperspective.com) reveals as much, with the blue dots indicating regular season games, the red dots indicating playoff games, and the empty dots showing the four games Brady was suspended for to start the 2016 season. 

So not only is the narrative flat-out silly on the surface, it’s based on no evidence whatsoever. Yes, there are a lot of people who like to root against the Patriots, and there are some corny studio analysts looking for attention who will make exaggerated but transparent claims like “the Patriots era is over,” but not a single one of them is surprised that the Pats will be taking the field in Atlanta tonight.

The second part of this argument that really grinds my gears is that among the actual Patriots doubters, the vast majority live in New England. Listening to Boston sports radio all season, you’d think the Pats were flirting with a .500 record, and wondering whether they should just start tanking to move up in the draft. Sports bars around the region were filled with people lamenting Brady’s fall from best quarterback in football to merely top-5, wondering if the defense could stop a good offense in the playoffs, and pondering whether Matt Patricia was really the brains behind the whole operation (that last one is an exaggeration, but only slightly). So in essence, Patriots fans are projecting their team insecurity onto fans of the rest of the league –none of whom actually doubt the Patriots’ ability to win each game– and then criticizing the straw men they’ve created while they themselves doubt their team privately under the cover of a New England winter. It’s madness.

Listen, I get it. Winning is awesome, and it gets less awesome when that’s all that’s expected of you. No one roots for the house at a casino, no one is pulling for the shark in Jaws, and no one outside New England wants the Patriots to win, because they always win. So if you have to convince yourself that you’re not going to win because that makes it more fun when you inevitably do, go for it. But leave the rest of us out of it. Because even when we don’t think you’ll win, we still kind of do think you’ll win. That’s should be a badge of honor, not a knock.

Legacy Stakes

I usually like to do a section about what’s at stake for each team and its players from a legacy perspective. Sadly, this combination of teams doesn’t give me much to write about. The Pats can tie the Steelers for the most Super Bowl wins of all time (six), but Brady and Belichick are already the best quarterback and coach of all time, respectively, so another Super Bowl win pads their stats, as it were, but won’t do much in terms of validation. Sure, if they fall to 5-4 all-time in Super Bowls, it will give a little extra fodder for the people who say they’d rather be 4-0 in Super Bowls  (a la Joe Montana) than 5-4, but those people are woefully misguided anyway, so it’s hardly worth debate.

On the other side you have a team full of young stars, including its coach. Obviously winning a Super Bowl is a form of career validation regardless of when you win it, but no one on the Rams is even close to “can’t win the big one” territory, so the feel-good storyline of the wily old veteran finally winning a ring that we’ve had in years past (Charles Woodson with the Packers, Anquan Boldin with the Ravens, Demarcus Ware with the Broncos, etc.) is noticeably absent this year. The lone obvious exception is Ndamukong Suh, but he’s kind of an asshole, so I don’t think people are rooting hard for that story.

The Prop Bets That Weren’t

For those without a true dog in the fight, the best thing about the Super Bowl, aside from the food (bar food is the best food, don’t @ me), is the betting. Much like Adam Silver and ESPN, the general Super Bowl-watching populace has embraced casual betting more in recent years, leading once-cheeky prop bets like which Gatorade color will be poured on the winning coach or how long the national anthem will last to almost be considered passé.

Sadly, the creativity on prop bets has waned, forcing me to take matters into my own hands.  Place your bets before 6:00 EST (Just kidding…)

Ndamukong Suh Personal Foul Penalties Called (includes declined penalties) O/U .5

Tom Brady Berates An Official After Getting Knocked Over O/U 4.5

Tony Romo Accurately Predicts A Play Call Pre-Snap O/U 8.5

Age of the First Guest Singer to Join Maroon 5 O/U 38.5

Times I Consider Subscribing to the WWE Network During Halftime So I Can Watch Halftime Heat Instead of Maroon 5 O/U 5.5

Shots of Rams Fans Wearing Sunglasses Indoors O/U 326.5

Decibels Jim Nantz’ voice drops during the first CBS promo for the Masters O/U 46.5

References to Sean McVay’s Paid “Hold Me Back” Guy O/U 1.5

Commercials With Thinly Veiled Criticisms of Trump’s Immigration Policies O/U 2.5

Commercials For Movies Starring Dwayne Johnson O/U 3.5

Jim Nantz Refers to Romo as “Partner” O/U 5.5

Rams Fans at LA’s Super Bowl Parade (if applicable) O/U 13.5

Welp, that’s all I got for you today, folks. Next week we’ll have recap of the Super Bowl and its inevitable fallout, some non-football sports thoughts, and a little  TV/Oscars talk. Until then, thanks for reading, and keep punting!

[golfwi52]

Round 50 –Snow Day For Jughead

Riverdale Country Club, Sheboygan, WI 53081 Par 36 (Back Nine) White Tees, 3,165 yards, 67.7 rating / 118 slope,  $0 Friday, December 15th, 2017, 9:30am, 23 degrees, 15-17 mph winds, cloudy

I had to push back this week’s round until Friday because I had a major food poisoning incident the prior weekend.  After losing around 4 pounds in 24 hours to that “creature” last Friday, there was no way I was going to tempt fate by heading out by myself on Sunday to a snowy, isolated golf course with a depleted energy level and no porcelain throne within sprint range.   So I waited until Friday for this week’s round, which provided time for me to regain my energy and for a little more snow to fall to officially start my second winter rules season of the year.    As I get closer to the end of my 52 week quest, I’m getting much more nervous about delaying weekly rounds until a Saturday.   Because if something goes haywire on that final day of my official golf week then my whole journey would abruptly fail.  I didn’t want a sudden illness or flat tire or family tragedy to derail my quest.   So I took a morning off from work on Friday to play a “quick” winter round.  The good thing about winter rules golf is that I only play 9 holes.  Trudging in the snow for 90+ minutes is more than enough for this old man.

I chose the Riverdale Golf Club in nearby Sheboygan as this week’s course.  I had checked it out alongside the more prestigious Sheboygan area courses (e.g. Whistling Straits, The Bull) earlier in the year, but I relegated it to the winter season schedule due to its simpler, less interesting course layout.   Of course, 99% of the courses in Wisconsin would fall into that category when compared against Sheboygan’s finest.  I scouted Riverdale on Thursday via Google Maps and determined that the back nine would be the more private of the nines and one that I would be less likely to get caught on.  I do have a bit of an irrational fear of being busted for playing on a closed course.  Outside of the disc golf mercenaries I ran into in round 3, I don’t think anyone has really cared that I’ve been hiking and hitting thru closed golf courses.  Scouting a new course layout also helps me navigate the course when I play, in case the tee box signs have been removed for the winter or the greens are hidden by snow.   Nothing worse than getting lost on a new course in the middle of a freezing cold round.

Snowshoes, tied rubber tees, and 3 inches of snow.  Priceless.

I decided to try a little snow golf this time with the “aide” of snowshoes.  I didn’t get a chance to wear them even outside of golf during the last winter season so it was about time to bust them out – and a first for golfing with them.  The snow evenly blanketed the course at about 2-3 inches so in theory it would be perfect for snowshoeing.  For this winter round I tied my long and short rubber tees together with heavy string to make it harder to lose a flying tee after taking my patented violent swing.   But losing my rubber tees would be the least of my worries today.   I never had this much snow in all of my earlier winter rounds so it was going to be interesting to see how quickly I went thru my 9 colored golf balls.  For clubs, I carried an old backup driver and a 6 iron I found earlier in the year.  I’d only use my 6 iron near the green (I mean white) when I wanted to get a bit more height on my shot.  I didn’t construct a clever holster or carry a bag for just two clubs.  I just carried them freestyle.  Old School.  Caveman style.  With snowshoes and rubber tees.  OK, Dork style.

I drove my opening drive from the 10th tee “box” off to the right of the fairway around 100 yards.  Fortunately it landed at the of a small group of trees that provided a good landmark for ball finding.   I teed up my second shot with the long tee and used my driver again.   I popped up my second shot and immediately lost sight of it.  I listened for it as I thought it was heading towards trees farther up the rough on the right side of the fairway.   But no sound so maybe it didn’t hit the trees.  Rule #1 in snow golf – avoid hitting your ball into trees because you easily lose track of it and it may ricochet off a tree towards any direction.   I spent around 10 minutes looking for my second shot and finally threw out another ball and took a penalty stroke.   Nothing like losing a ball on your second shot of the round.  Good thing I brought nine of these colored puppies.  

Looking back on 10th fairway from the "green”.  Crazy white-out.

I hit a decent fourth shot 100 yards back onto the fairway, but into a wide blanket of snow.  So who knows if I was going to find that one as well.  On my way to that shot I stumbled across some entry holes in the right side of the fairway and uncovered my real second shot.  It looked like my shots were going to produce two holes – a larger entry hole where the ball landed and then skipped about a foot to a second hole where it came to rest under the snow.   So I had hit two shots into the snow and had found both.  All while wearing snowshoes.  Incredible.  My third shot from 100 yards out plugged in the snow before the green.   I hacked up a couple of other chips and finally ended up on the green in 6 and took the winter rules auto-2-putt for an opening snowman - quadruple bogey 8.   How appropriate to shoot a snowman in these conditions.   Good thing this was virgin snow – hardly any animal or human footprints obstructing views of the golf ball entry holes.  Seemed like I was on a cable winter hunting show rather than a playing a round of golf.  Cool.

It was a bit breezy so my hands were getting cold with just my cold weather golf gloves on.  Halfway thru the first hole I switched to my mittens and decided to take them off for each shot so that I got a decent grip with my swings.  The mittens were golden.  Good to keep my hands warm 90% of the time and just expose them for a few seconds with each shot.  Sometimes I can get by with just regular golf gloves during a winter round but not today with the chilly and windy conditions.  Also, looking for my ball in the white blanket snow for a few minutes would cause me to start getting a bit dizzy and worrying about blacking out.  A lovely way to possibly end my round of life way too early.  No worries.  I just had to look up to the gray sky every once in a while to keep me from passing out.   Cable channel survivor dude.  Haha.

Par 3 11th.  Lost drive in trees to the right.  Argh.

The second hole was a short par 3 that provided a decent shot to hit the green on the drive.  Of course I shanked my drive right into another set of trees.  I must swing too quickly in the cold weather, getting my hands out to far and forcing my drives to slice to the right.  I spent another 10 minutes looking for entry holes around the trees but to no avail.   After my lost ball penalty shot, I pitched up a shot to the green to finish with a decent 5.  Things were getting a bit better it seemed.   But then I threw down a whopping 10 on the next hole, a long par 4 that I ended up navigating thru the driving range to the right of the fairway and then losing an approach shot into another set of trees.   Argh.  I may be challenged to break 80 on 9 holes today.  I had to keep reminding myself that I was playing in showshoes and there was a good 2-3 inches of snow on the ground.  Just finishing without losing 9 balls will be a big achievement.

Ball entry crater followed by usually buried resting ball

After the tiring third hole, I dropped off the snowshoes and my 6 iron under a group of trees that would provide cover until I picked these items up later coming back on the 18th fairway.  The great snowshoe experiment was over and I really didn’t need 2 clubs on this round.   It was a hell of a lot easier walking thru the snow in just my boots, so I “flew” thru the remaining 6 holes.   I surprisingly only lost one more ball, on the 17th tee when I sliced my drive into tall grass.   I thought I was going to lose more balls on the 17th fairway since a very large gaggle of geese had just trampled thru the fairway.  30+ geese walking thru a fairway can create a lot of little webbed footprints making it very tough to spot my ball entry mini-craters.   I carded a couple more snowman scores and finished with an abominable 61.    But a very different and entertaining golf experience.   I was also able to light up an Absolut cigar on the 17th hole to help warm me up thru the end of the round.  But I really need to invest in a nice humidor as my Absolut was very dried out and quickly disintegrating on me.  And I couldn’t put it down in the snow so I ended up choking down a few smokes while hitting my shots.   I really gotta work on my Parejo game in the offseason.

Contrast adjusted to show geese prints and my ball on 17th fairway

Final Score:  61.  0 pars, 3 lost balls.  The Riverdale course was nicely situated in the middle of a mildly upscale neighborhood and it had a nice combo of tree-lined fairways with a few strategically placed creeks mixed in.   The hole layouts weren’t too challenging so I could see this as a good course to take a run at breaking 80 in the future.   I stopped into the clubhouse for a tasty little burger and a pleasant chat with the lady bartender.  I explained that I just played a little snow golf on her course, but I don’t think that really sunk in with her.  Like my clubs in the winter, this snow golf thing is really hard to grasp for most folks.  And I didn’t even mention the snowshoes angle.  Crazy stuff.  And just 2 rounds to go…

[flauntpage]

Stay or Go? The Philadelphia Union and the Road to Relevance

The 2016 Philadelphia Union finished with 11 wins, 14 losses, 9 draws, a -3 goal differential, and a playoff appearance.

The 2017 Philadelphia Union finished with 11 wins, 14 losses, 9 draws, a +3 goal differential, and no playoff appearance.

So.. they improved? Or they didn’t..

Wait, what?

Jim Curtin’s team clobbered Orlando 6-1 on Sunday evening, a visiting team that phoned it in so badly that I could have sworn they were match fixing. It was the Union’s biggest margin of victory in franchise history and only the second time the team had ever scored six or more. C.J. Sapong set the record for most goals in a single Union season and the retiring Brian Carroll was sent out in winning fashion.

In a way, that performance was the perfect end to another bland campaign, meaning that they played well when it didn’t matter. The Union needed results from March through September and didn’t get it done, beginning the season with zero wins through eight games and slumping to a miserable 1-10-6 road record. Questions of Jim Curtin’s job security were casually brushed off even as teams with similar records were axing their managers.

It was business as usual in Chester, where the season’s inevitable outcome was determined less than halfway through. Young players were benched, others regressed, and the team played the same damn formation before finally getting experimental when the season was lost. One step forward, one step back for a franchise that can’t seem to get out of its own way.

The positives are few.

Rookie Jack Elliott surprised everyone with his intuitive and veteran style of play. Sapong, who started the season on the bench, had a career year. Haris Medunjanin wound up being a great signing and Andre Blake again proved his case for a European transfer. Folks continued the treck to Talen Energy Stadium despite onset apathy and continuing mediocrity, showing me that this fan base remains recession-proof and dedicated.

The future is foggy because of owner Jay Sugarman, who simply does not spend the money required to create a competitive team. Sporting Director Earnie Stewart does not have the resources required to assemble a playoff-caliber squad. The Union tried to play Moneyball in 2017 while expansion Atlanta spent millions of dollars on talented players and shattered MLS attendance records en route to a year-one postseason berth. Philadelphia has played (and lost) three playoff games in eight seasons.

If this team is going to get it done, they need to shed those middle of the road, $500,000 contracts and play the high/low game with academy talent backing up three game-changing designated players. Using DP slots on a million-dollar midfielder and striker should be doable if their backups are $65,000 youngsters like Anthony Fontana and Adam Najem. That’s how you skate through on the cheap while pushing your academy model and fielding a competitive team at the same time. You kill three birds with one stone and give fans something to be hopeful for, but it starts with gutting half of the existing roster.

.@BigAfrika88 is now the top single-season scorer in club history with his 15th!#PHIvORL // #DecisionDay by @ATT https://t.co/n0kMKJXV5H

— Major League Soccer (@MLS) October 22, 2017

Go:

Maurice Edu, Roland Alberg, Ilsinho, Chris Pontius, Warren Creavalle, Ray Gaddis, Andre Blake, Ken Tribbett, Charlie Davies, Brian Carroll, Fabinho, Jake McGuire, Oguchi Onyewu

I believe Alberg and Ilsinho both have option years coming up. I’d decline both and let them move on. Neither showed enough during the past two seasons to warrant a 2018 roster spot.

Charlie Davies confirmed he’s out on Twitter. His Union tenure ends with eight appearances and zero goals, which makes his trade one of the worst in franchise history. I’m just glad he’s okay after beating cancer and dealing with health scares involving his children. Some things are bigger than soccer.

Brian Carroll retired, so good on him for an underrated, trophy-winning career.

I’d sell Andre Blake, assuming the red tape is cleared up, and use the money on one of the DPs.

Chris Pontius can become a free agent, Fabinho’s contract is up, and I’d move on from the rest on that list if possible. I don’t know the contract status of some of those guys, like Gaddis, Creavalle, and Onyewu.

Maurice Edu should go to expansion Los Angeles on a safe deal to try to get his career back on track.

Stay: 

Jack Elliot, Josh Yaro, Auston Trusty, Richie Marquez, Haris Medunjanin, Alejandro Bedoya, John McCarthy, Keegan Rosenberry, Fabian Herbers, C.J. Sapong, Aaron Jones, Marcus Epps, Derrick Jones, Fafa Picault, Jay Simpson, Adam Najem, Anthony Fontana, Giliano Wijnaldum

I’m pretty sure they’re locked in on another year of Jay Simpson, since most foreign guys sign 2+1 deals. His second year I believe is guaranteed.

You still have a nice young core of defenders, even if this year did absolutely nothing for Keegan Rosenberry, Richie Marquez, and Josh Yaro. Those three didn’t help themselves at all, nor did the coaching staff, but they are still going to have to be part of the conversation moving forward.

McCarthy remains the backup and I believe everybody else I listed is under contract for next season. Marquez I’m not sure actually, so we’ll see what happens there. I’ve had one foot off the beat for at least six months now.

No clue: 

Eric Ayuk

He spent the season on loan. Maybe he comes back as wing depth if Pontius becomes a free agent.

The Sons of Ben disagree with me on Blake’s future, but THEY’RE WRONG!

Re-Sign Dre reads the @sonsofben tifo. http://pic.twitter.com/95hrJR1252

— Union Soccer Talk (@UnionSoccerTalk) October 22, 2017

Offseason signings – 

DP attacking midfielder, DP striker, TAM-level center back, starting goalkeeper, right wing depth, backup left back

The biggest need is a DP #10, assuming they’re married to this 4-2-3-1 formation that never changes. They flirted with Elias Aguilar and Nicolas Martinez in the summer but decided not to sign either one. They need to be in the one million to 1.5 million range for this player and let Najem and Fontana be the cheap backups. You just can’t skimp on a playmaking number ten.

Striker is another story, because you’ve already got Sapong and Jay Simpson eating up $800,000 in this slot, and the Union only play one striker anyway. If you signed a $1,000,000 DP attacker, you’re spending $1.8m on a position where two of the guys are going to be on the bench. It’s a problem area created by the $500,000 Simpson signing. I don’t know what they do here.

If Blake goes, you can find a decent goalkeeper for $150k or $250k. We actually produce decent stoppers in this country, so no need to go the foreign route.

You’ll need another LB to replace Fabinho. Maybe you bring up Matt Real from Bethlehem Steel. If Gaddis goes, Aaron Jones can back up Keegan Rosenberry. I think you can get away with a wing combination of Picault and Herbers in 2018, assuming the former improves his finishing and the latter plays like he did at the tail-end of 2016.

At center back, I’m not sure. I still believe in Yaro or Marquez as a third CB, but a veteran TAM-level guy would be a nice complement to Jack Elliott. Onyewu had a really nice season and proved a lot of doubters wrong, but he’s not the future.

Way too early 2018 depth chart:

striker: new designated player, C.J. Sapong, Jay Simpson

attacking mid: new designated player, Adam Najem, Anthony Fontana

right wing: Fabian Herbers, Marcus Epps, Eric Ayuk

left wing: Fafa Picault, Marcus Epps, Eric Ayuk

DM #8: Alejandro Bedoya, Derrick Jones

DM#6: Haris Medunjanin, Derrick Jones

Left back: Giliano Wijnaldum, Matthew Real

Center back: TAM-level signing, Jack Elliott, Richie Marquez, Josh Yaro, Auston Trusty

Right back: Keegan Rosenberry, Aaron Jones

Goalkeeper: new signing, John McCarthy, new signing

I wrote this up assuming it’s the same old 4-2-3-1 again. You’d have Sapong backing up the new DP, who is playing in front of the other new DP. Picault and Herbers on the wings with Bedoya and Medunjanin behind them. I don’t know what Derrick Jones does next year, since having both Medunjanin and Bedoya on the roster keeps him on the bench, unless they decide to try that 4-1-4-1 again and flip the triangle. They tried a Jones/Bedoya/Medunjanin trio earlier this year and it didn’t work since Bedoya is not a number 10.

The only other thing I could see is that Bedoya goes back over to right wing and Jones plays next to Medunjanin. They won’t do that, but it’s a way to get Bedoya into better crossing and attacking positions while putting a true #6 on the field and allowing Medunjanin a little more space to roam.

Preferred 2018 lineup assuming no tactical changes:

If you go through the suggestions I listed above, this is what your team looks like next season. They can get into the playoffs as the 5th or 6th seed with this grouping if they don’t whiff on the DP signings.

It’s the same 4-2-3-1 that we’ve always seen, this time pairing Elliott with a veteran CB and improving the #9 and #10 positions.

“Go big or go home” lineup that will never happen: 

It’s a 3-5-2 using Wijnaldum and Rosenberry as wingbacks to amplify their attacking ability and mitigate their defensive liability.

Medunjanin can play the Andrea Pirlo regista role and spray the ball around from deeper positions while Bedoya and a new midfielder play box-to-box roles ala 2013 Juventus. Medunjanin, Bedoya, and the new DP would basically function like a poor man’s trio of Pirlo, Claudio Marchisio, and Paul Pogba. Sapong stays on the field with the new DP to get a pair of attackers on the field and justify dedicating that much cap space to the striker position.

Something different, but feasible

If you really can’t find a DP #10, don’t play with a DP #10.

Here you’ve got a 4-1-4-1 with Jones behind Medunjanin and a box-to-box DP midfielder. Bedoya goes over to his natural right wing and Picault is on the left behind a DP striker. You saw them have a little bit of success flipping the triangle later in the season, and something like this could at least be a nice adjustment if Curtin insists on playing with a back four and a single striker for the entirety of 2018.

Anyway, it’s a start. I think the Union created some good offseason momentum by obliterating a pathetic Orlando squad yesterday, so they should drop that press release with the roster moves ASAP and keep the train rolling.

Stay or Go? The Philadelphia Union and the Road to Relevance published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[sultrysstash-blog]

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[chadnevett]

Random Thoughts (March 18, 2017)

* It's been a week... Michelle and Ryan are out of town, so I've been taking the bus to and from work, which, given that we decided to buy a house on the complete other side of town has not been tons of fun. Plus, we've been short at work, so I've been working extra, both at the office and at home. Just... tired. Not trying to complain, because the week actually went much better than I had anticipated coming into it. Lots of things broke my way. Just saying that I'm tired and, as much as I miss my wife and son, the fact that they're not back until tomorrow night is lovely. Some time to rest up and relax. For now, that means just typing out these random thoughts...

* Last Sunday, I watched Captain America: Civil War and Star Trek Beyond (I still have Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice for later today). I enjoyed the latter much more than the former. As I said on Twitter, Star Trek Beyond was a dumb movie that didn't try to act like it wasn't; Civil War was a dumb movie that thought it was a smart movie. I mean, fuck, it was incredibly dumb. That's not a bad thing. That's what giant action movie tentpole flicks are. But, it's amazing to me how, over the course of the last few years, they managed to build to Civil War in such a way where the natural sympathies are completely reversed from the comics. I said it after Age of Ultron, but a possible weakness of these movies that no one probably thought about ahead of time is that actually seeing this level of destruction changes the way you view these heroes. They're destroying cities and killing people and, yeah, they didn't mean to, but... Plus, they weren't exactly setting up Cap as sympathetic when his main goal was making sure his old buddy who's a brainwashed killer isn't arrested -- and, then, at the end of the movie, basically locks him away himself... And everyone fights and changes sides and it's all over the dumbest shit. I guess it's a bit more realistic that way, because people are stupid, but it's just dumb to watch. Star Trek Beyond, on the other hand, started with the best premise ever: "Thank god this isn't a TV show anymore, because we're three movies in and already bored!" But, they stop being bored by riding motorcycles, which you can't do in space usually, so, good on them. I also dug how they didn't even bother to give the main villain a plausible story until there were, like, ten minutes left in the movie and, even then, it was just "His ship crashed and he can't war anymore and he's gone crazy."

* On the music front... three new albums for me over the past month or so: Prisoner by Ryan Adams, Solidarity by Bill & Joel Plaskett, and Wild Cat by Danko Jones. Prisoner is tops of that list for me. It probably says nothing good that, for a while there, "Breakdown" by my favourite song. Tough week that week, y'know? It's the sort of album that I need when I want something a bit quieter but with some rock -- whereas Wild Cat is what I need when I want something loud and kinda dumb in places. I mean, the two spots where I tend to sing along are the lines "Come over here, baby, and let me love you like man" (off "Success in Bed") and "Revolution... but then we make love!" (off "Revolution (But Then We Make Love)") I mean, it's Danko Jones... it's dumb cock rock with lyrics that you're sometimes embarrassed to sing along to, but it rocks. The Plaskett album is a collaboration between father (Bill) and son (Joel) and seems to follow a folky sort of root based on blue collar/socialist ideas. I'm a fan of Joel's and wasn't sure what I'd think of this one going into it, but it's rather good. "Blank Cheque" is the track of choice here. Good albums so far this year.

* A week or so ago, I finished reading 4 3 2 1 by Paul Auster. It's a big book, especially for Auster, who usually is more of a 150-300 pages kind of author (with the former being more common than the latter). It's, what 866 pages. It starts with a prologue chapter, of sorts, detailing the grandparents and parents of Archie Ferguson prior to his birth. Then, he's born, and we get four versions of him, depending on which town in the same region in New Jersey his parents pick to live. Every chapter goes through the cycle of each Ferguson in order as we see their differences and similarities and all of that. It's an interesting book that takes a while to really get into a groove with as it takes a while for all of the different details to sink in. You almost need a little chart to remind you which Ferguson is dating Amy, which Ferguson has her as a cousin by marriage, and which has her as a step-sister -- which is autobiographical Ferguson, which is reporter Ferguson, which is prose Ferguson, etc... Auster denies the autobiographical elements, but they're hard to miss. At least in broad ways. The details are no doubt fictional, but the broad experiences of growing up in New Jersey, longing for New York, going to Columbia, being a writer, going to Paris, etc. are all from his life. Even the types of writing the different Fergusons do seems to be the various types Auster has done over his life/career and each one given to one of the Fergusons. It's like he splintered himself to a degree and then added a lot of "What if...?" type stuff to it. Which is what a lot of fiction is anyway. For such a long book, I never really felt like it was a slog. A lot of critics harp on Auster's prose style, but it's such easy-going... writing that encourages you to keep reading. It's a pleasant experience. My only complaint is that I'm not sure any of the Fergusons would have made a strong novel on their own (maybe #3?). Much of the power each narrative has is in comparison/contrast to the others. I mean, that's the gimmick of the book, but I guess I would have liked it if they stood on their own a bit better. But, I could also see me waiting a decade or so and, then, reading each Ferguson narrative on its own to see how it stands up. (I've considered doing something similar with James Ellroy's Underworld USA books... just because...)

* Watched all three Major League movies this week, because baseball is coming. Conceptually, there's a lot that I like in all three. I could see a remake being done of the first one where it's not an owner tanking to move the team, but a front office tanking as part of the rebuild process -- and how the players react to that concept. The sequel looking at the effects of success and budding stardom on players was interesting. The part that really stuck out to me was when Willie Mays Hayes comes back form the offseason bulked up a bit and looking to be a power hitter instead of the leadoff guy and the manager just berates him about knowing his role and not deviating from it. We're supposed to side with the manager, but I found myself siding with Willie. Find another leadoff guy -- if a dude can hit for power, you don't hold that back. Especially because he later showed that he still had speed. That sounds like a guy who just added another dimension to his game.

* For reasons that only make sense to me, I'm in the middle of rewatching everything Randy Orton did in 2009 that I have on DVD. I will write about it. Shit, I should go watch some of that, because I haven't all week. With the extra time on the bus and working and being TIRED, I haven't wanted to do this... I think I left off with Ortin beating Triple H in the awful Three Stages of Hell match at the Bash. Onto the next night on Raw for a Gauntlet match against Evan Bourne, Jack Swagger, and Mark Henry...

[auburnfamilynews]

  For 60 divine minutes, we had an answer. (90, if you count the first half in Starkville.) The question, of course, had hung in the Auburn air since at least the 2010 Arkansas barnburner, and maybe since Chris Todd was slinging darts in the rain against West Virginia: How good could a Gus Malzahn team be if he developed a top-tier, Tuberville-caliber defense to pair with a peak-performance offense of his own? 

Against Arkansas this past October, we found out. Kamryn Pettway and the offensive line ground the Hog defense to dust; Carl Lawson, Montravius Adams and the rest of Kevin Steele’s defense permitted the Hog offense less than nothing. The final tally of rushing yardage was Auburn 544, Arkansas 25. The final scoreboard read Auburn 56, Arkansas 3. Not even Cam’s national champions, not even the 2013 team in its white-hottest moments registered anything like the kind of scorched-earth obliteration of a bowl-bound SEC rival the 2016 team registered against the Razorbacks.

Which is why, when I took my seat in Jordan-Hare’s north end zone bleachers two weeks later for the Vanderbilt game, I fervently believed Auburn had a puncher’s chance to defeat Alabama, win the SEC, and possibly — it wasn’t totally crazy — get another national title shot. The defense hadn’t been as superb against Ole Miss, but Chad Kelly had made Alabama look silly for stretches, too, and they’d been due for an off-game, and the rushing game had been murderous anyway, and the freshman wideouts were coming along, and Steele would be more comfortable against pro-style offenses anyway, and, and, and, and. The ceiling was that high. This team had shown us. There was no reason it couldn’t keep on showing us.

Then, I don’t remember if it was just before kickoff or just after, my phone told me Sean White wasn’t starting.

I do remember watching John Franklin III take the field and thinking Uh-oh. And at no point for the remaining two months of the season was the status of Auburn football anything other than Uh-oh. That ceiling we’d waited six, seven years for our Tigers to touch? When poor White dropped back in the Sugar Bowl and uncorked the duckiest duck that’s ever ducked, man, that ceiling felt as far away as the moon.

It’s not a scientific assessment, but I’d judge Auburn fans as a whole to be more unhappy at the close of the 2016 season than 2015’s, an assessment that if accurate doesn’t make a damn lick of logical sense. Instead of going 2-6 in the SEC and finishing last in the West, Auburn went 5-3 and finished second. Instead of going 6-6 overall and playing the Birmingham Bowl, Auburn went 8-4 and played the Sugar. Instead of finishing 35th in S&P+ and 29th in Sagarin, Auburn finished 13th and 14th, respectively. And Auburn accomplished that improvement while breaking in its third defensive coordinator in three seasons, adding an eventual playoff finalist to the nonleague schedule and suffering the aforementioned crippling injury to its starting quarterback. By any rational measure, the future looks far brighter than it did a year ago.

So why do I feel like Auburn’s glass is half-empty, even when it’s clearly half-full? Why do I empathize with the criticism avalanche aimed at Malzahn even when I disagree with the overwhelming bulk of it? Why did a season that was so much better than the one before it leave us feeling collectively just as bad, if not worse?

The simplest answer is that the one thing we could expect 2016 to provide us was clarity. Was Gus the coach that in the space of one season brought a 3-9 team to within seconds of a national championship? Or the coach who without the security blanket of a JUCO superstar under center was incapable of even breaking .500? By year’s end, we’d know … except that, whoops, it turns out Gus can be both those coaches not only in the span of a single season, but over the span of a single month. (Auburn fans, you thought you got emotional whiplash going from 2010’s triumphs to 2012’s misery? For our team’s next trick, it’ll go from the Arkansas win to the Georgia loss in all of four weeks.) If you believed coming into this season Gus was the long-term answer, you got plenty of evidence to back you up. If you believed Auburn was better off moving on, you got plenty of evidence to back you up. 2016’s high points were high enough that the team unquestionably moved forward. But the low points were low enough that — much as it hurts to admit — there’s legitimate reasons to doubt how far forward it can keep moving under Gus’s leadership, too.

They’re not��all legitimate, of course. There’s things it makes sense to be angry about. There’s things it doesn’t. In the interest of unpacking exactly how we came to be collectively unsatisfied by what should have been a satisfying season, here’s my list of those things, piece-by-piece.

I AM MAD ABOUT: LOSING THE GODFORSAKEN GEORGIA GAME. The Iron Bowl is the game I most want to win. But given the unfortunate state of Crimson Tide affairs these days, the Deep South’s Oldest Rivalry is the game I least want to lose. And that went double entering this year’s edition, what with the Dawgs a mediocre mess that narrowly escaped Nicholls State, lost to Vandy, couldn’t even compete with Ole Miss or Florida, still ranks 58 places lower than Auburn in S&P, etc. And that went quadruple, octuple, hexadecouple when the defense went into Athens and stuffed the Dawg offense in a sack.

I can’t make myself care about how injured White may or may not have been. Can’t about what he may or may not have told the coaches. Can’t about why or why not Franklin or Johnson never saw the field. If all you need from your offense to win the Georgia game is to score more than a net of zero points, for the love of everything holy find a way to score more than a net of zero points. Backup quarterbacks. All-Wildcat offense. Triple-reverse flea flickers. Just please, please, please don’t waste that defensive performance, in this game of all games.

I believe that if Gus’s team cobbles together enough offense not to, no one really much minds losing to Alabama or Oklahoma. But waste it they did. And I’m still angrier about it than any loss since Tony Franklin hit his nadir against Vanderbilt.

I AM NOT MAD ABOUT: GUS GOING 1-3 AGAINST ALABAMA. Quit saying “Malzahn is 2-6 vs. Georgia and Alabama, and almost lost in 2013, too.” The Tide’s rank entering the four Iron Bowls Gus has coached: 1, 1, 2,  and 1, and that No. 2 team won the national title. Gus won the greatest game in college football history in 2013, rolled up 630 yards in Bryant-Denny in 2014, and stayed kinda-sorta competitive in 2015 and 2016 despite starting Jeremy Johnson in both. Gus’s track record against Georgia is a major issue. His against the Tide just isn’t.

I AM NOT MAD ABOUT: “NOT BEATING ANYBODY.” Among the anti-Gus brigade, the most frequent method of dismissing Auburn’s post-Texas A&M, pre-White injury run seems to be dismissing the level of competition faced during said run. There’s a number of problems with that approach, first and foremost that ignoring a statistically dominant win over LSU — which is LSU, and which also wound up the SEC’s second- or third-best team, and a good deal better than that according to some — is the opposite of fair. Second, as has been noted already, it’s not as if 53-point home wins or 24-point road wins in SEC play have been commonplace even for the very best teams in Auburn’s recent history. Lastly, those margins-of-victory matter. No, they don’t change the win-loss record, and yes, LSU aside, the teams faced between A&M and Georgia weren’t the cream of the SEC’s less-than-bumper 2016 crop. But pretending a 56-3 win over Arkansas doesn’t tell us anything more about how good Auburn is than a 16-3 win over Arkansas hasn’t been in fashion since before Phil Steele first started tracking close-game records and yardage margins. In the early days of 2017, it’s straight-up willful ignorance.

How much credit to give Gus for a single month is (ahem) debatable, but don’t pretend that for that single month Auburn was anything less than a force.

I AM NOT MAD ABOUT: LOSING THE SUGAR BOWL WHEN SEAN WHITE BREAKS HIS ARM ON THE FIRST SERIES OF THE GAME. The moment White threw that “pass” — you know the one I’m talking about — the only question was how many points by which Oklahoma would win, and if Musberger could talk himself out of a job before the fourth quarter.

I AM MAD ABOUT: NOT HAVING A VIABLE BACKUP PLAN IN THE EVENT OF A SEAN WHITE INJURY. An incomplete list of people and/or creatures and/or objects that expressed concern over White’s durability this past offseason:

Auburn fans

Detroit Pistons fans

The ghost of Harriet Tubman

Squirrels

Atlas moth caterpillars

An asteroid circling the sun at a distance of 600 million miles from Earth

“White showed enough last year that Auburn might be OK with him as their starter,” a sapient paper clip told me last August, “but health-wise, I gotta see him last the year before I believe it. JF3 had better be ready.”

I’m assuming that, being football coaches and thus a good deal more knowledgable than most sapient paper clips, Auburn’s staff shared the same concerns. But in the end, did it make any difference if they did? Their efforts to address them amounted to “sign Franklin,” a decision that proved so successful Franklin 1. remained on the bench even as White’s arm transmogrified into pudding before our eyes in Athens 2. watched Johnson get the nod in the Iron Bowl, a move even the non-sapient paper clips could tell you gave Auburn the odds of winning I have of assembling my own Volkswagen.

Maybe that’s because Franklin proved incapable of running the offense. Maybe that’s because Auburn’s staff was incapable of teaching the offense*. Either way: Gus went into this past offseason knowing an injury to White had ruined a promising end to the season. And he still failed to prevent an injury to White from ruining an even-more-promising end to this season.

*The “Gus can’t develop quarterbacks” line you’ll hear trotted out in relation to this — or to express skepticism that Jarrett Stidham will alter Auburn’s fortunes at the position — is bunk. Tulsa’s quarterbacks got better under Malzahn. Chris Todd got better. Title game weirdness aside, Cam got better. Once-and-future defensive back Nick Marshall threw for 456 yards at Alabama. White’s gotten better every healthy game he’s started, to the point he was the most efficient passer in the SEC when he got hurt. If Gus couldn’t develop Johnson or Franklin into workable starting options, the evidence-to-date suggests that’s more a Johnson or Franklin issue than a Gus one.

I AM NOT MAD ABOUT: LOSING THE CLEMSON GAME. Those guys are pretty good, it turns out. Can’t wait to play them again in Clemson next year!

I AM MAD ABOUT: THE WAY IN WHICH THE CLEMSON GAME WAS LOST. Perhaps I should have let go of my anger over Gus’s Carousel of “Progress” by now. I haven’t. Not because it’s that much of an opportunity lost, really — if Auburn wins that game*, a 9-3 mark with a win over the eventual ACC champs vaults them all the way into … the Sugar Bowl — but because the remainder of the season made trotting out Franklin and Johnson alongside White as three-headed quarterbacking equals look stupid beyond all previously accepted measures of stupid. Could the gulf between White and his backups really be that obvious on the playing field and that obscure on the practice field? Is it too much to ask that if every fan knows this is Sean White’s offense to operate by Week 3, that Auburn’s offensive braintrust know the same before Week 1?

The charitable view is that Malzahn entered this season desperate, and desperate people sometimes do dumb things they wouldn’t otherwise do. The uncharitable view is that if the carousel itself was a one-time mistake, the A&M, Georgia and Oklahoma performances proved the resulting offensive implosion more feature than bug. And ultimately, that’s what makes me maddest of all. Let’s be clear:

I AM NOT MAD ABOUT: WHERE THIS PROGRAM STANDS GOING INTO 2017. Marlon Davidson and Derrick Brown are set to become the new Carl Lawson and Montravius Adams. Carlton Davis and Javaris Davis share as much All-SEC cornerback potential as they do a last name. If losing Alex Kozan and the dreadfully underrated Robert Leff will hurt, returning Austin Golson, Braden Smith and Darius James — oh, and Herb Hand — will heal. The freshman wide receiving crew won’t be the freshman wide receiving crew any more. Kamryn Pettway and Kerryon Johnson will continue to only make the other that much better. Kevin Steele knows what he’s doing, it turns out.

Then there’s Jarrett Stidham, likely the highest-ceilinged Auburn quarterback prospect since Cam, whose arrival means Gus now has — it’s worth repeating — the SEC’s highest-rated quarterback at midseason as his fallback option. Woody Barrett may not keep quiet, either. Auburn’s biggest problem for two years running has been its depth at quarterback. Its depth at quarterback now appears to be one of its biggest strengths. This alone should be cause for unalloyed optimism, even before discussing the positives from the paragraph preceding this one.

That even I can’t summon too much of that logically justified optimism speaks to how much of a toll the past two seasons have taken on our collective faith in Gus’s offensive acumen. Maybe there’s sound reasons for what we saw against Clemson, A&M, and Georgia, sound reasons to believe we won’t see the same things again at the worst possible times. But I can’t shake the feeling that the Gus of the Chizik era would have had his offensive identity on firmer footing before breaking out the Chandler Cox wildcat gadgetry, would have wizarded up something to salvage that trip to Athens, certainly would not have punted on fourth-and-damn-inches with a reeling defense in the second half of the Sugar Bowl. If the past two seasons haven’t felt anything like the Malzahn salad days in the win column, they’ve felt even less like it in terms of creativity, of chutzpah, of the damn-the-huddle-up-torpedoes mentality Gus brought with him from Tulsa. There wasn’t any shortage of spread gurus even in 2009, but as recently as 2014, all the evidence suggested Gus was cut from a unique — and uniquely talented — cloth, even among his HUNH peers. Far too often in 2016, it felt like Auburn was just another middle-of-the-road SEC team, like Gus has become Dan Mullen with better players.

There’s far worse things to be, of course. Mullen took Mississippi State to No. 1 and the Orange Bowl two seasons ago. If Gus giving up a portion of his old bravado was somehow necessary to put together the kind of defense we saw in 2016, it’s probably worth it. No one, myself included, gives a crap about how fast Auburn snaps the ball or how often it goes on fourth-and-short when it’s beating Arkansas 56-3.

I’m not mad Gus will get the chance to prove that performance is what the future of his Auburn tenure will look like. I’m happy 2016 gave us reasons to believe it will. I’m glad to enter 2017 with hope. But 2016 was supposed to take us past belief, past hope, to the point where we know — for better or worse — where Auburn stands with its head coach. I’m mad that it didn’t. And until that point is reached, it’s going to be hard to look back at this season and feel any other way.

Photo credit: @OUDailySports

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