Several things are meant to be and we don’t need any scientific answer as to why. Like why is the sky blue? It could be explained as “A clear cloudless day-time sky is blue because molecules in the air scatter blue light from the sun more than they scatter red light” but in reality, do we really care why? It just is. Like why is it when I go to turn right on my Harley at speeds over 15 mph I need to push the handlebars as if I am going left? It could be explained involving steering torque and angle or you could just say “It just does”. Or, how come when someone follows my directions to baking chicken it doesn’t turn out as good as mine? Can ya guess I am writing this as I am eating a chicken so good that it could hang 30 points on our vaunted “Gritz Blitz D” and over 50 on the 85 Bears? And yet, it is so simple to make (key is to have some coriander and curry in the spice get up as well as coating the boneless skinless chicken breast in olive oil before you put the spices on it).
So where am I going with this? We were supposed to stomp the Saints. After all, the Eagles whom we stomped the other week put up 221 rushing yards! That’s dos dos uno! Or zwei zwei eins! We were supposed to be able to run all day long! Turner was going to get 125 and Quizz would be just shy of 100! And Hoooleeeyo and Rowdy and Goon-zalez were all supposed to hang at least 1 TD and all be close to the hundy mark. Our D was supposed to allow around 125 yards rushing and Brees was supposed to pass all day and hang 300.
But that was not the case (well, the Saints got their yards).
Hoooleeeyo got hurt and missed around half the game and still captured 75 yards. Rowdy topped that with 114 but the star was the Goon at 122 and 2 TD’s! Even Quizz got in on the act and made some cuts that would make the 1997 Barry Sanders jealous! That is what was supposed to happen! Well, ok, Hoooleeeyo would’ve hit the century mark if he didn’t get hurt, so where was the problem on O? Turner would run to the holes but not through the holes (the holes are roughly the same as last year but last year he hit the holes with a death wish and punished whoever wanted to meet him head on, this year he wants to play patty cake with whoever meets him). Sometimes our O-line would give Matty Ice enough time to prepare a written essay on “War and Peace” and other times Matty Ice did not even have time to allow foul body odors to emanate from his back side.
Our D was supposed to harass Brees all day and make him too sore to even drink a Nyquil to help him sleep. We were supposed to beat him soundly enough that he would have to have a midnight meeting with Sean Payton to score some Vicodin. Or was it Percocet’s? Don’t matter. I think he spent more time on the toilet at half-time than we put him on the ground. Even when we sent 6 to get him, his 5 goblins kept him on his feet and gave him plenty of time. A stiff arm was even more powerful to our DB’s than kryptonite was to Super Man. And yet, we lost by 4. Just 4. On a day we were missing Spoon (which would have kept Graham in check) we were down by only 4. And if Turner would not have tried to jump back at the line and instead punished the gold covered helmet on the other side, we would have won. Maybe if there wasn’t any excessive celebration on Asante’s interception we would have gotten a TD and that could have demoralized the Saints being down by 14 instead of 10.
A lot of maybe’s and what ifs but at the end of the day, we played a tough Saints team and barely lost. Next time, Spoon will be there. And Hoooleeeyo won’t get hurt. Maybe on the 29th, Turner will have eaten his share of cranberry sauce and turkey and will light up the dome. Or Quizz will finally have that break out game we know will happen. Or we will (FINALLY) have a pass rush worth toasting a shot of whiskey over (ok, a shot of whiskey is like eating potato chips...you just cant do one). Or or or…don’t matter. We were supposed to win but we didn’t. That is why they play the game. Paper predictions don’t matter.
Time to finish our 18-1 season. But first…I need to finish eating my chicken.