Aaron Rodgers is the Great Pumpkin

408 yards. Six touchdowns.  Four by air. Two by land. One interception. Twenty-nine for thirty-eight. And an offense that put up forty-nine points, in a route of Denver. But none of that told the story.


Aaron Rodgers isn't just putting up numbers. He isn't just hitting the open man. He isn't just marching up and down the field. And he isn't just winning football games.

He's putting the ball into impossible spaces, making things appear where logic says they shouldn't, and it's been done before--he's not the first magician in a football helmet--but it's getting hard to say that it's been done any better.

When it comes to judging greatness, there comes a time when it's about personal preferences and splitting hairs, as if all great quarterbacks are possessed by the same gunslinging, flame throwing entity, and while breathing in the firs, crisp October weekend and sipping on pumpkin flavored beer, I couldn't help but think that Aaron Rodgers was something that cartoon characters wait inside of comic strips to see this time of year, that Linus, with his blue blanket and eternal search for the truth, would have found the world a glow in that ball that number twelve willed through the flesh of a Denver Broncos' cornerback, like a poltergeist through dry wall, or a flame burning within a great pumpkin, finding James Jones in the back of the endzone, apparently open when he looked to be anything but.




You can tell people what you saw Aaron Rodgers do, and they won't believe you. Statistics were invented for these kinds of testimonials, when reasonable doubt renders miracles impossible. Aaron Rodgers shouldn't be physically possible to do the things our eyes have seen, yet, he has.