A conversation about the 2015-16 NFC South

Aisander Duda and I converse lightly and, at times, seriously about football in the NFC South. Divisions previously discussed include: AFC East, NFC East, AFC West, NFC West, AFC South.

In honor of Vick's heyday, this post treats football as an elusive topic.

Atlanta Falcons 

Gonzo Receiving: The Fear and Loathing of Tony Gonzalez

We were somewhere around Fredericksburg, not on the edge of the desert but of suburbia. Our cars had been loaded down with Miller Lite and Yuengling six-packs, football magazines, and notebooks. We sat around the kitchen table in quiet. Then one of us would speak. . . there would be a roar. . . And then it would get quiet again, and that ebb and flow of noise that was fantasy football at the beginning of the 2000s for a group of callow college kids has now become a microcosm of one fantasy League’s journey to the abyss of a decade come and gone: a volcano erupted with message board taunts, hateful voice mails, and back room deals now lies dormant, and drafts are carried out electronically and with less profanity.

Deion Sanders: Tearing Down and Raising Up

Dancing. Bandanna flapping. Highstepping electricity. The first time I discovered football was about more than crossing distances in consistent increments was when William Lattimore blew by me on a burnt grass field behind Gaines Elementary School, taunting me with his tongue wagging and the ball extended to me in his right hand like a baited hook. His celebration was quicker than my sprint; his laughter stronger than my arms; his your mama jokes a more decisive reflex than any futile synapses firing between my tired brain and dying limbs. William Lattimore was just better at football, simultaneously tearing down and raising up stereotypes.

Green Bay vs. Atlanta Preview: How to Cool a Sabretooth's Fire?

After burning through the only physical specimen in the League that is his equal, Clay Matthews tossed his mane and snarled, "See you later, bub," the carcass of Michael Vick resting under his cleats, with its claws not even extended--the battle was more one-sided than one would expect. Clay unleashed his savagery without regret, without restraint, and Michael played like a domesticated animal asking when to sit and when to roll over. Now, the Sabretooth prepares to hunt inside a dome, that in the Atlanta skyline resembles an ice cube staring blankly into the sun. The temperature never rises and never dips; its set to the cool beat of Matty Ice's heart: it does not falter. Perhaps the best way to slow a creature shaped by fiery furnace and heated hammer is with a flurry of play action passes and a Beast of a runningback, Michael Turner. Perhaps the only way to stop a fire is to freeze it.



Then again, what good will snow drifts and blizzards do when the anger of one's adversary was born out of the Ice Age? Could it be that the football fury that is Clay Matthews was born solely to make quarterbacks like Matt Ryan feel what it's like to shiver, to quake, to fail, to know the coldness of their flesh and veins?


The game may be indoors, but it is still a battle of elements. It is still a game of violence. And it is still about survival on a cold, desolate plain.

Michael Vick's Cover of "Redemption Song"

I'm actually slightly tied into the Michael Vick comeback story, or at least in my own mind I am. This goes much further than us being around the same age and from the state of Virginia.   I'll get to that in a moment. Vick did something terrible, or at least allowed his boys from the 757 to do something terrible with his money and from that he could not escape. He paid his price, both physically (through time served) and financially (through the loss of millions of dollars from his contract and endorsements). While I have my doubts that he was in the ring feeding Fido raw steak before his big match, he probably knew more than he admits about what was happening. I've always been a dog person, so the concept of fighting dogs for money is absolutely sickening. But who am I to judge?