SB Nation User Blog: ryo1

O' Sullivan

ryo1 — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 03:00:29 -0000

I'm trying to find the right word.

You can't call him a gunslinger. gunslingers are known for their quick draw. by the time this cowboy reaches for his holster, it's five seconds past noon and the bullets are already flying out of his back. gunslingers are intrepid.    they fire away, for better or worse, and they never run out of bounds on 4th down.

You can't call him a game manager.   while at times he seems sterile, flustered - in constant fear of that shrinking window, of safeties lurking in blind spots that don't exist - a real game manager would dump it to the running back.   throw the ball away.   the game manager makes sure when the clock is running out in the first half, they at least get three.

You can't say it's all his fault. His running backs can't run. His receivers make for poor receptacles. His head coach is a dangerous lunatic who challenges made field goals, ignores obvious fumbles and thinks the voices in his headset are phone calls from extraterrestrials.   And his offensive coordinator has labeled him the chosen one, a cross he bears not by merit or potential, but rather because the coordinator masturbates to the idea that he is the fairy godmother of cinderella quarterbacks.

To me everything about J.T. O'Sullivan is an enigma. The bonehead throws, the sack lust, the perfectly thrown deep strike that ricochets off Vernon Davis' palms. Even as he walks off to the sideline, I can't figure out if he looks distraught or bored or confused or nonplussed.    I don't know where to direct my rage, at whom to toss my remote, if it's his fault or mine.   And while I fear the glass slipper is being shoved onto a fat, horribly misshapen foot, I can't say why.

Game Ball

ryo1 — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 02:37:50 -0000

FEELS GOOD TO GET A WIN, DOESN'T IT?

not just a win, but a road win, against a team with a hostile crowd, which is a phrase i often hear, and i assume it means a crowd filled with bloodthirsty murderers and rapists and machete wielding maniacs. thank god our men made it out of there alive, let alone with a victory.

and it was indeed a momentous victory, and with such victories comes a litany of heroes to explain the WHY. from the mercurial isaac bruce to the voracious patrick willis to even the resilience of joe nedney, there is no shortage of medals and game balls to be awarded. yet there is one hero who stood head and shoulders above the rest, many times before the ball was even snapped. That's right, the real MVP of the game is none other than Jonas Jennings.

this is the kind of production that doesn't show up in the box score. even the beat writers have buried the lead. but you'll find it there, nonchalantly scrawled in the morass of game notes - 49ers OT Jonas Jennings sprained his shoulder late in the first half.

This was just one of many critical plays that catapulted the 49ers to victory, but by far the most overlooked. Not only did it immediately help shore up the pitiful right flank of the protection scheme, it was the very sight of jennings, laying on his side like an elephant in the hot african sun, that likely infuriated, no, INSPIRED patrick willis to leave the locker room in the second half.

So as we celebrate the win this week, remember to salute one Jonas Jennings, right tackle, sackmaster, a name synonymous with addition by subtraction. It was he and only he that understood the mathematics of the situation. That in order to win, they first had to lose.

The Three Burials of Alex Smith

ryo1 — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 05:37:56 -0000

They say every athlete dies twice. For Alexander Douglas [Douglas?] Smith, this is the first of three.

First comes the death of Alex Smith the name. The name of a famous person, after all, is more than just a name. Montana. Rice. Lott. These are names that carry with them the emotions and memories of an entire era. Names that unite both friends and strangers with a common passion. It's not jerry rice, but HALL OF FAMER JERRY RICE, the vowels bellowing from the pit of your stomach, the consonants burnished with spit and FFFFF and drool. Alex Smith once had such a name.

Now Alex Smith is the name of a bust, the kind that hurts to say and tastes just as funny going down. J.T. O'Sullivan represents not so much his own success but Smith's failure, the death of potential, of Alex Smith Superstar. It is a death in name only, because he's STILL HERE, looming over your shoulder holding a bag of money and a clipboard.

From this point on the very sight of this name will cause you to rage. You can no longer even repeat it without finishing with a long, obligatory groan. You start to rehash the past three years, the $49.5 million, your mind stuck in a neverending rollout to the right followed by a hurried toss in the dirt. Suddenly you are overwhelmed with the urge to break something.

Now imagine if that name was yours.

Imagine if you walk into a bar and everyone recognizes you. Things would be different if you were Steve Young, hell, if you were Jeff Garcia, but you're Alex (groan) Smith, and you have just died for the second time. With retirement there is no longer a chance for redemption. Your name is carved on the obelisk of sports failure, under Shuler, Couch, and Leaf. You are rich beyond your wildest dreams but the money cannot protect you from your own shame. Worse yet the money is the reason they resent you. It doesn't matter that you were capitalizing on market conditions, that any of these fools would gladly suck your dick for a million dollars. You represent their crushed hopes and dreams. It is THEIR money that THEY paid with TIME and FOAM FINGERS and RAGE and DEVOTION. It is blood money, and you are the reason why they are so miserable.

You see one of the drunks reach for a bottle.

Dissent is the seed of violence. Everywhere you go, the mob is waiting. HEY AREN'T YOU THAT TERRIBLE QUARTERBACK? WHY COULDN'T YOU HAVE BEEN AARON RODGERS? I SPENT MY ALLOWANCE ON THIS WORTHLESS JERSEY. The words echo in your head. Loser. Fraud. You try to tell them you did your best, that one glorious season you threw just as many touchdowns as you did interceptions, SIXTEEN of them in fact, but there's no reasoning with lunatics. They want your bobblehead on a stick. To burn you in effigy.

The pocket's collapsing. Your knees buckle. Your feet start to quaver. Instinct tells you to run to the right like you always have, run right to the sweet safety of the sideline, but they follow you out into the street. You see a police car patrolling by. If only you could get its attention. You pick up a rock and throw it as hard as you can, but it skips inconspicuously behind the rear bumper. Damnit. If only it wasn't moving. Now it's too late. You feel the hot breath of the mob flush the nape of your neck.

You turn around.

As the bottle cracks down on your skull, as the blood cascades from the hole on your face, your mind drifts toward your happy place. In your dreams you are Tom Rathman. You're not the richest man, you're not the biggest name, but you are respected. You go out on the town just to show off your Super Bowl rings. People rave about the good ol' days, your days, when you were a man's man, a ladies man, a man of the gridiron. A football man. Some come with pens and thank yous and handshakes, others stand awestruck in the background just to soak in your indomitable aura. Children flock, chicks dote because everyone recognizes a winner. In your dreams you are beloved. You don't pay for adulation, you don't pay sex. You're on national TV, taking pot shots at Dan Marino instead of hanging out with Tony Eason.

And as the light fades from your eyes, you embrace your third and final death. While your career may be history and your corpse belongs to the vultures, in your delusion you will live on. On the back of jerseys, in black and white photographs, on the inebriated breath of an old fan, there it lies. Alexander Douglas Rathman. Fullback. A name that will never die.

You Can't Believe Your Own Eyes

ryo1 — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 03:43:57 -0000

So I was watching the game tonight and I developed a theory. Before every game, Vernon Davis has a ritual. He dips his uniform in a bucket of oil, rubs it all over his hands, massages it into his arms and chest. It is the only explanation for what my eyes see, why in his possession the ball never seems secure. Because from what I understand, Vernon Davis is an impressive physical specimen. Vernon Davis has all the talent in the world. It hit me. He's increasing the difficulty. He's dropping them on purpose.

I was a fool to believe otherwise. As a casual fan I must rely on the wisdom of the experts, and they have long been beating the idea into my head. Every time Mr. Davis drops a pass, fumbles a ball, or limps gingerly off to sideline, every time I think to myself, "Here is a man destined for the glue factory," I am reminded by the voice on TV that VERNON DAVIS IS A HECKUVA ATHLETE who races cheetahs and juggles pickup trucks in his spare time. I am showered with anecdotes about this legendary combine workout where Vernon Davis broke the sound barrier and wrestled a polar bear while making sweet love to somebody else's wife. On and on I hear about the versatile Vernon Davis, tight end, wide receiver, gigolo, gentleman, catching touchdown after touchdown as he solves complex physics equations on the whites of his defenders' backs.

And while I continue to have my doubts, Mr. Martz has seemed to have bought into the hype, as he is the one often quoted when announcers wish to confirm their slobbering admiration of Vernon Davis' athleticism. I can see him at his desk now, teeth chattering, saliva welling in the rills of his mouth, pen nearly punching through paper as he draws fly route after fly route going straight to the endzone. Like a child with a fresh box of crayons, eyes beaming, breath whispering. Touchdown. Touchdown. Touchdown.

It is Martz who has been most instrumental in the idea that I am WRONG. I listened to all the rumors, the innuendo, that here was a man with an incurable pass fetish with no regard for time or down. I pictured this portly, giddish child strutting the sidelines with a playbook labeled MIKE MARTZ SUPER FAST HYPER ZOOM OFFENSE OF THE FUTURE, the letters decorated with flames. I imagined him picking quarterbacks from the produce aisle, evaluating homeless men flinging garbage on the street, delighted at the prospect that hundreds of scouts missed on what only he could see. I thought here was a man, a certifiable loon, whose favorite offense consisted of three quarterbacks, seven wide receivers and a cardboard cutout of an F-15.

How wrong I was. In the preseason he has been establishing the run, run run run and more run, to the surprise of everyone on the field and off. Perhaps I am wrong about both him and Mr. Davis. Maybe, just maybe, I was wrong about Mr. Nolan too.

It is, however, still the preseason, and while I am a bit excited, in the back of my mind I know the classic aphorisms hold true. Old men never change. Old habits die hard. Chicks dig the long ball.

And yet after years of mediocrity, I remain somewhat optimistic. So far the offense has looked fantastic. Balanced. Hopefully it'll stay that way.

The Mind of Mike Nolan

ryo1 — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 21:16:12 -0000

EDITOR'S NOTE 10PM - Whether you're for or against Nolan, this is highly entertaining. Enjoy.
_____________________________________

I am BOLD. I am FIERCE. I am Mike Nolan, head coach of the San Francisco 49ers, and somehow I still have a job.

I owe it all to my regimen. Every morning I do fifty squints, a hundred brow furls, two hundred glares. I practice my steely gaze in front of the mirror every night so people think I know what I'm doing. Now THAT's a guy with confidence, they say. THAT's a guy who has his team headed in the right direction. The truth is, I don't know what direction we're supposed to go. I don't even know how to read a compass, let alone use it for football.

Most games I'll stand there, find a fixed point on the field, like a patch of dirt or a blade of grass, and just stare. Stare at the color of the blade, focus on the length of its trim. Stare blankly, blindly, my stolid countenance never giving away the fact that I have no freaking clue what's happening around me. That's what it takes to keep your job at this level. Never waver. Never let them see your incompetence. Keep that gaze cold and hard as steel, affixed on a single, undulating blade. Wow that's a fresh cut. I should get the groundskeeper to do my lawn.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm too hard on myself. I'll go to face the media, look in their sallow, cherubic faces, and not see a single man among them. They ask me why I make such poor decisions on 4th down. That must mean I make great decisions on 1st to 3rd. After all, why should I value the opinion of someone who doesn't take the time to look professional, to strengthen the grip of his handshake?

Sometimes I'll stare into the ridge between their eyes and I get the feeling that if I stare long enough, I can see right into their souls. Maybe then I'll figure out what they want to hear. Maybe then they'll stop asking me so many questions about quarterbacks and challenges and fifth downs. Maybe then they'll stop asking me so many questions about football.

Not that I worry. I've worked too hard to be taken down by a few balding nerds with pencils. Too damn hard. So hard that at times I'll find myself doing my routine without thinking. I'll be at the dinner table, peering at the walls, patting chairs on the butt, or scowling at silverware. I'll jump in the jacuzzi and not realize I'm still wearing my suit. My wife says I do fist pumps in my sleep.

She doesn't understand. It's all about image. Perception. That's what it takes to be a coach in the National Football League. My face is what it takes. And I have it.