(Author's Note: I would have gotten to this post sooner but I was worried about accidentally creating a reverse jinx or some sort of hole in the space-time continuum. I know that seems like a thinly veiled excuse for not wanting to attempt any form of original thought; but the truth remains that I am literally frightened by the enormous power I wield. Plus, I'm a lazy son of a gun [Author's Note Part II, The Author's Note Strikes Back: I'd use the other word but I love my moms; you got a problem with that?].)
I hate Hines Ward. I don't know how to make it any more clear than I have throughout my writings on this site; I literally hate everything about him. Hell, I'm pretty much anti the entire Steelers organization, from Mickey Rooney on down; they're all bastard-coated bastard with bastard fillings.
Therefore, it was with a heavy heart that, during a conversation with Alex, I was forced to admit that I would love to have almost any member of that Steelers team wearing Ravens purple. Even if just for theoretical purposes: i.e., we are grooming Flac to be a gritty, AFC North quarterback along the lines of Big Jackass. Helen of Troy Polumalu is sort of like a post-op Ed Reed straight after undergoing experimental surgery to have his balls removed and replaced with unbelievably impractical hair extensions, except Helen has a better publicist . As we've admitted before, games between these two upper-tiered teams come down to who executes the same game plan better.
The only player about whom I do not feel this hidden man-love is Mr. Hines Ward. Why, you may ask? Because I hate him. I don't believe Alex feels the same abject hatred towards the man that I do, but that's because everybody's favorite writer Alex apparently loves the satan and any demonic imp that would further his dark designs for the universe.
The only other player in the NFL about whom I have this special brand of abject loathing played against the Baltimore Ravens a few weeks ago; that's right, just like most of the non tight-denim encased percentage of the American population, I hate Terrell Owens.
I hate what he stands for: the whole me-first, give me the ball, my quarterback and tight end are having secret meetings in hotel rooms mentality that is pervasive in the National Football League today, or at least the Dallas Cowboys locker room. I hate that the media devotes so many words to feeding his ego, then his legend, then his hissy fits, and finally his contract negotiations in a never ending cycle that has left quarterbacks, franchises, and, most importantly to me, fan bases out in the cold.
This selfishness was never more evident to me than when he was lined up on the opposite end of the field from one of our own, Mr. Derrick Mason. Mason has been playing this season with a serious shoulder injury that, during a particularly well noted touchdown reception, caused him to be going through his route with one arm pinned up and rendered practically useless. The Cowboy game was a big game, and therefore Mason was going to be on the field during all the important situations. The Ravens needed every single win to punch their ticket to the post season and number eighty-five was there to see them through at the risk to the twilight of his career; selfless.
Could you imagine if Owens was in a situation where a quarterback he had shared a career path with (in Mason's case Steve McNair) had retired and he was presented with a rookie quarterback who was dispensing the rock according to the offense of a new o-coordinator? After a trade demand was initiated through a “heartfelt” interview with Michael Irvin, T. O. would systematically quit on routes and berate Flacco on the sidelines (while always angling himself out towards the camera hanging above their heads) until he got his own line scrolling across the bottom of the 24-hour sports networks. Not Derrick Mason though, the only line he seems to concern himself with is the one that gives you six points (known to Owens as the line that gives you more attention).
Despite the fact that a wide receiver with T.O.'s physical build is exactly what the Ravens need to take their offense from hard-nosed and scrappy to hard-nosed and explosive, his poisonous presence grants him the mantle of the only other superstar in the NFL who I would never want in Raven's purple for any conceivable reason. That aversion despite incredible talent (I'm not even going to touch on Owens' career-long case of the dropsies) is what defines my total and abject loathing of a player. I can't believe Cowboys fans thought that things could be different in Big D, but I don't blame them for their eternally springing hope;I blame Terrell Owens for his shitty attitude that hurts not only his team's locker room, but the culture of football across the country where Pee Wee football is threatening to be overtaken by the same Me-Me mentality that has already enveloped our popular culture. I hate you, Terrell Owens; enjoy spilling popcorn all over your face while watching the playoffs from the living room, try not to cry about it. Too much...
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