Bill's Sports Binge: Eli's brother, reefer-Ricky retires and post pigskin depression

My predictably long-winded point is, the days of Eli Manning as merely "Peyton's brother" are over. As of Sunday, he doubled his older sibling's Super Bowl rings (and MVP's) and seems to be just getting started. Eli's brother, on the other hand (see what I did there?), is having a rough go with reality and is dangerously close to becoming Joe Namath with the Rams and Johnny Unitas with the Chargers. Then again, he could be the next Joe Montana with the Chiefs (Joe led the team within one game of the Super Bowl before losing to the Buffalo Bills in 1993 — the year the Bills lost their fourth straight! And those poor bastards had to live in Buffalo! Hooraaay, Rust Belt!), but then again again, Joe never had issues with his neck. Too bad Peyton didn't hurt his forehead. You couldn't break that thing with a shovel. Damn, show a drive-in movie on that cranium, you could see it from the space station. (Whoa, whoa! Bill, did you just compare yourself to Peyton Manning?) Look, I'm just trying to make a point here about younger brothers coming into their own, okay asshole? Yes, it's a stretch. He has eleventy-gazillion dollars and I have a normal-size mug. Life has its little trade-offs. Moving on.

Running back and cannabis aficionado Ricky Williams decided to trade Baltimore for bong-water and retire from football Tuesday (How many of you thought for a second, "he was still playing?"). Yep! The former Saint, Dolphin, Toronto Argonaut (wha?) then Dolphin again, and current Ravens back-up left his two-year contract after one to fulfill his lifelong dream of...opening a yoga and organic smoothie shop or something stupid like that, I don't know. The 1998 Heisman trophy winner had since been "diagnosed" with social anxiety disorder, avoidance disorder, and borderline personality disorder (borderline?), failed a drug test at least three times, is father to five children (by three women), and is a vegan. In other words, a sorry excuse of a man who truly put the waste in "wasted." See, kids? This is what happens when you don't eat a steak once in a while.

Quicker Hits: Speaking of worthless, during the Super Bowl halftime show, some rapper I've never heard of stole thunder from elderly-bag-of-STD's Madonna and shot all of us the bird (Right back at ya, whore. From now on can we have real musicians? Their hands are too busy with instruments to act like untalented school yard punks); Tom Brady's almost as pretty wife Gisele Butkus...Bunches, um Bundtcake? Anyway, Gisele shot her ignorant foreign mouth off by calling out her precious hubby's receivers as the reason the Pats lost. "My husband cannot f*cking throw the ball and catch the ball at the same time." That's right, my little foul-mouth floozy, he can't do both. Good for you. (Remember when supermodels used to be hotter? They didn't talk much. Hey, don't shoot the messenger. Remember when Kathy Ireland finally opened up?); Finally, capping off the female quicker hits hat-trick, GoDaddy spokes-something Danica Patrick in an interview empathized with Tim Tebow on the resulting polarization of fame and fan fascination. "He's playing in the NFL, as a quarterback, so obviously he has talent, but everybody wants to say he's not very good. I know what that feels like." (WHOA! I think Danica just said you throw like a girl, Timmy!)

Now that football has finished, much like the day after Christmas, the season had crescendo-ed, the lights, the parties, the hype, all lead to one magical day. Then it's over. The presents have been opened, the songs have been sung, and all that's left is a hangover and a much bigger ass. I miss football already. Not to worry, once the dust settles and my liver heals, I'll have plenty to bitch talk about next week.

When my little brother Johnny and I were growing up, we had a pretty standard relationship: I terrorized him, he tattled on me. I had three years, around four inches, and the upper hand which had a knack for finding the back of his skull or BVDs. He had the pipes to summon Mom from anywhere in the world faster than you could say Beetlejuice three times. And of course if justice wasn't served in-house by end of business day, Mother would yield the floor to Mr. Freitas, whose pissed-off dagger-eyes could light up your Orville Redenbacher faster than a Chernobyl microwave. Good times.

As the days of Star Wars, atomic wedgies and awkward boners gave way to varsity football, S.A.T.'s and negotiating bra straps, John, as he was officially later self-renamed, was known by most in the high school power structure as "Bill's brother." And why not? I was an upper-class BMOC. The sportos, motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wastoids, dweebies, dickheads, they all adored me. They thought I was a righteous dude. John still had a bowl cut. Then one day, he escaped my shadow, ditched the Flowbee, became a man, and is now a big-wig corporate muckety-muck, with a wife, kid, a big-ass house and can buy and sell families. As for me? Having peaked in high school, I'm now a part-time radio hack and 2-bit sarcastic sports blogger currently writing about how awesome I was 25 years ago. Irony can be pretty ironic sometimes.

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