Just a few months ago, we had healthy draft picks and a defensive backfield. Steve Smith was a Giant, and Plaxico was a trustee. The Eagles hadn't signed an all-pro team, with $100 million left over to leash up Michael Vick. We faced only one more Coughlin collapse, then Bill Cowher would toss away his microphone and rescue New Jersey from the floods.
Then... the lockout ended.
Now, we've undergone more surgeries than Cher, we've got grocery baggers playing defense (Justin Tuck has a neck thing; anybody wanna bet his season is over?) and we have Coughlin for eternity. (Note: Every year of Coughlin = Six eternities.) The man will never retire. In the year 2030, his electrified corpse will still be throwing challenge flags from the sideline.
Worst of all, there will always be a new, blue-blooded, Connecticut hell brood of socked-and-sandaled Maras, just as WASPY and entitled as the last royal jelly-fed wave, treating players like cabana boys and ever-galavanting off to the Hamptons or Fiji in their togas, while the growth hormone-addled leviathans bash in their skulls in another realm.
Oh, yes, there was that wonderful time not long ago... back when the billionaires pretended to be millionaires, so everybody would feel sorry for them. They locked out those damn greedy players, who have it so easy. They said there would be no football this year. They were taking their ball and going home. Glory days for the Gints. Downhill ever since. (Watch your neck, Justin Tuck. It's the only one you'll ever get.)
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