Randy Moss surprised the entire galaxy yesterday and announced his retirement at the sweet, tender age of 34. What does this mean? It means I’ve been weeping into a pillow silently for about 24 hours now, and no, it’s not because Brandon Bertrand is coming up behind me.
Randy Moss is, without question, my favorite Vikings. Fran Tarkenton? Eat a pile of horse shit, you old wind bag. Ahmad Rashad? I thought you played basketball. Cris Carter? You smug a-hole, get your face off my TV screen. If I knew what the internet was back in 1998 (I knew what it was, shut up) I would have named this blog “The Super Freak Escapades” and would have had a hey-day writing about this antisocial, personality disorder football player that was leaving buttholes gaping. It would have been fantastic. Instead, I’m left with a guy who plays like Jesus. Oh well.
People understandably got in a tizzy last year when the Vikings traded for him and paired him with The Land Baron. Yeah, it was exciting, like loin encouraging exciting. For many, it was all because of what Moss meant to the team on the field, but for a select few of us (Moss Apologists, Moss Rubes, or just people who don’t take this stupid game with a bunch of rich diaper rashes too seriously) Moss coming back to the team was more, something nostalgic. I wanted to hear Randy talk about Minnesota. I was excited to see him in purple, with the number 84. I didn’t give a shit if the team lost the rest of their games in 2010 (I’m pretty sure they did …) I just wanted Moss back home. And yeah, predictably, he went off the deep end and got himself fired, largely because Childress is a huge gash, but for those three weeks, even when we were losing, I was having the most fun as a Vikings fan since … well, maybe 2009 when we almost went to the Super Bowl. But before that, easily since the last time Moss was on the team.
Personally, a lot of this is tied up in when I knew I actually cared. I didn’t always watch football, because I didn’t always care. But when Moss came around, and when he eventually got traded to the Raiders, I knew I cared. I knew that what happened to a player, a team, a franchise, all of a sudden mattered a little bit. Hahaha, nostalgia. Now I don’t care and I hate everyone because they make ungodly amounts of money unfairly, but hey, we’re all naive a little bit. But having a personal tie like that to someone, or something, often helps identify parts in people’s lives. Ken Griffey Jr.’s early career run did that for me, so did Tommie Frazier’s. Kevin Garnett is another one that Minnesotans were lucky to have, and then there’s Moss. Is it living vicariously through someone? Is it trying to emulate an idol or role model? I don’t know. I don’t really think so. I just thought the shit they all did was pretty sweet, for different reasons, at different times.
All I know is that when Moss gets his call to Canton (and I think he will, although I’m not so sure any more if it’s a guarantee with such an early league exit) I will be god damn heart broken if he doesn’t enter as a Viking. Heart broken. Like I was three years old and you just wiped your bloody wiener on my favorite teddy bear. DEVESTATED. But I think he will. And I’ll be happy. Of course, I’d be happier if stupid fucking Eli Manning hadn’t ruined Moss’ one chance at a Super Bowl. As if you needed another reason to hate that white privileged family …
Enjoy some Moss highlights as we remember just how bitching he was (of course, until he comes back in September when a team finally ponies up what he was expecting to receive):
Brian Billick is total bad ass, by the way. “No, no, no, you can’t do … you know what? Keep doing that.”
That one should have most every Viking highlight. *tear*