Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Open Letter To Eli Manning

Dear Mr. Manning,

I know it has come to your attention that less than one year ago I posted on this very blog that you were in fact a draft bust. Well Eli, I stand corrected. I made that post prematurely.

Just a few months ago it looked like your boyish lack of confidence playing under the 'bright lights in the big city' would get the best of you. It wasn't only me either. The papers, the analysts, opposing teams and players said you'd never be as good as your brother or dad. We thought the Giants traded too much for you. We thought that your touchdown to interception ratio wasn't good enough. We thought you weren't loud enough. We thought you weren't good enough.

We thought your coach cemented a flight out of town for the two of you when you dared to play 60 minutes against the New England Die-Nasty. You could have won that game, but you reverted back to your usual self and let the clock run too low. You also lost a lineman in that game. It looked hopeless after that seemingly worthless effort on the way to Tampa.

Then something happened.

You stepped into the Matrix. With Ahmad Bradshaw as your Neo, you went on arguably the hottest playoff streak of any quarterback since Tom Brady. You destroyed Tampa. You shocked Dallas.

You made Terrell Owens, yes that Terrell Owens, cry.

You went into Brett Farve's backyard and emerged with another W.

Then you took down the Die Nasty.

You made Bill Belichick slither back to his hole, empty handed.

When you emerged from what looked like a broken play and hit David Tyree with what will forever be known as "the catch" my stomach dropped. I realized my favorite receiver Randy Moss wouldn't be getting a ring that year. I realized history was going to be made. Just not the history I expected.

Eli you are not a draft bust. You matched your brother in less than a year of his Superbowl win. You did something your father never did. Something Dan Marino never did.

You became a champion.

Is it too late to apologize?

D. Wash

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