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Sage – or is it just old – advice about youngsters

Published December 19, 2006 at midnight

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Editor's note: These would-be columnists were whittled down from 146 hopefuls in our Last Columnist Typing contest. One columnist is eliminated per week — a la Survivor — until one is left at the NFL season's end. The winner will cover an event alongside the pros.

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It’s official. I’m old. I’m a grouchy old man who makes kids roll their eyes and desperately search for any possible excuse to stop talking football with me.

I was at a neighbor’s house on Saturday celebrating the holidays, hanging with friends and watching football. Among the crowd was Matt, a 12-year-old Broncomaniac with a history of face painting. I started jawing with Matt about his team, trying to put my finger on the pulse of the elementary school Bronco Nation. Once the name "Jay Cutler" was mentioned, it started to go downhill. Quickly.

Cutler’s going to the Hall of Fame. Guaranteed. Apparently, Matt has already been online trying to book a flight to Canton in 2029 so he can attend the induction ceremony. How, I asked, could you possibly be so certain of his greatness when at that point he’d played in only two games and had one respectable quarter to show for it? No explanation necessary. It just is.

But that’s not all. Cutler, Matt Leinart and Vince Young are the next Elway, Marino and Kelly. Add in the likes of Reggie Bush, Shawne Merriman and Laurence Maroney, and, according to Matt, the young guys are not just going to dominate pro football, but change the game entirely.

I really didn’t want to do it, but I had no choice. I was placed in the role of representing the old school and played the part with gusto.

"Matt," I explained, "you’re getting played. The NFL is marketing these young players hard to kids your age. They want you to think that they’re going to be the best ever so you’ll get your parents to buy their jerseys. Follow the money, little man."

At that point Matt was probably thinking, "I would rather be sitting in English class right now than listening to this clown."

I continued. "Reggie Bush? The do-it-all match problem in shoulder pads? He has fewer touchdowns than Kevin Jones, who plays for a team that couldn’t beat the Frankfurt Galaxy."

Now Matt had a look on his face that dentists see on their patients when they’re midway through a root canal. It’s a combination of pain and a fear that it’s going to get worse before it gets better.

"You can start ignoring Maroney and Marion Barber right now. Big Ten backs fail in the NFL. Give me one Eddie George, I’ll give you 20 Ron Daynes, Anthony Thomases and Ki-Jana Carters. Huh? You’ve got a computer, Google ’em!

"And we’ll see how good Merriman is when he’s not ‘enhancing his performance,’ if you know what I mean."

Matt had enough. It had already been excruciating, but when I made the air quotes with my fingers during the Merriman thing, he was out of there. I turned away for an instant, and he seized the opportunity by running upstairs to play Madden on his Xbox.

I was left pondering my new reality of being the grumpy old man. I’m Morten Andersen, but with no game.