November 10-16, 2005

how they'll lose

Coda

Season Record: 4-4

Final Record: 8-19

by Brian Hickey

I had a weird dream Sunday night. A very weird dream. Out of the darkness, somewhere off of South Broad Street, I heard someone with a whiny voice quacking, "Anybody else want some?"

Of course, I instantly raised my hand. Next thing I knew, I was toe-to-toe with one Terrell Owens. I couldn't quite figure out why he was wearing a Cher "Farewell Tour" T-shirt, but I realized I was in trouble.

"Well, well, if it isn't the bitch-boy who poisoned another football team on his way to the Spoiled Brat Hall of Fame," I spat, faking some bravado in the face of a larger foe.

He giggled like a schoolgirl all hopped up on Skittles.

"As much as I'd like to beat you down on behalf of the fans and players of Philadelphia, Terrell, I have no grand illusions of being able to do so," I continued. "I concede that you could whoop me all over your $4.4 million driveway without breaking a sweat."

T.O. continued giggling as he put his Louis Vuitton man-purse, the one he got to commemorate his 100th touchdown, down on the curb.

"But here's the thing: By opting for weight-gaining over weight-training, I figure I can absorb a couple of your open-hand slaps," I went on. "If I can hang on long enough to get one good kick in on each of your knees, thereby ending your career..."

He looked up with an expression of utter confusion. I suspect "thereby" threw him for a loop.

"...I'll have accomplished everything I could have ever dreamed of in this life. You getting hauled out of town on a Michael Irvin cart, man, how beautiful would that be? It's exactly what you deserve. Like that buddy who goaded you into bitching your way out of town, you're a classless, greedy narcissist."

Well, I guess what they say about not being able to dream your own death is true because I woke up before the rumble got on. Which sucked, if only because it was Monday morning, and that meant the whole Redskins game actually happened.

And if the Skins game was real, so was the rest of this season. Which makes me an utter failure, as the whole reverse-psychology gimmick driving this column has been about as successful as Andy Reid's attempts to prevent T.O. from ripping the Eagles to shreds.

So, like Owens' NFL career should be, I'm done. D.O.N.E.

If this team's going to clean the slimy residue from its sloppy, failed conjugal visit with Owens off its wings and fly into the playoffs -- that ain't gonna be easy since their problems run much deeper than the former number 81 -- they're going to do it with me as nothing more than a fan.

Sorry, it's just the way it has to be, folks. Superstition can't save them now. I just hope there's something out there, maybe addition by subtraction, that can.

If there is -- and the fan in me thinks so -- I reserve the right to return to this space when the time is deemed right. Hopefully, that'll be the week before Super Bowl XL, the game in which Donovan McNabb proves they never needed Owens after all.