People Insisting 'the Fix Was in' on Antonio Brown are Making Life Worth Living

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Oh, yeah. Do it for me, Mike Greenberg. That’s the stuff, Max Kellerman. Dance for me. That’s what daddy likes.

Nobody was more full of doubt and trepidation on the shocking news about Antonio Brown coming to New England than me. And I mean nobody. But the more I hear these guys howl at the moon in agony over the move, the more I like it. It was one thing to hear Al Michaels tell the story about Tom Brady saying he was “100%” on board. Then “1000%.” Then coming back later and saying “one million%.” Brady is a team player. He’ll go along and find a way to win regardless. Besides, he’s too generally positive and optimistic about his fellow man to be a good judge of character. After all, that book he lives his life by isn’t called “The Four Disagreements.” So you can’t really go by his opinion.

But for sure you can go by what these others are saying. The best way to gauge a situation is by how the people who wish bad things happen to you react. If they’re triggered by it, it has to be great news for you.

I mean, just listen to the hurt in Greenberg’s voice. He’s a out and proud Jets fan. And you can just feel the seething resentment coming through the screen. The anguish at the unfairness of it all. So much anger that he’s calling it the “most unprofessional” thing he’s ever seen an athlete do. In a world where Lebron James quit on the Cavaliers in a playoff series and tried to trade all his teammates in LA. Where Albert Hayneworth was making $100 million but would lie down on the turf and not try to get up until after the whistle. Where Pete Rose bet on games he was managing, fercrisssake. I don’t approve of Antonio Brown refusing to wear the helmets they gave him or calling Mike Mayock “Cracker.” But I’m not going to call it the “most unprofessional” thing I’ve seen so soon after I watched Aaron Hernandez get convicted of murder. We’ll just have to agree to disagree.

The bottom line is that the more these people bitch and moan about the unfairness of it all, the more I warm to Mr. Big Chest. I feed off their negative energy like a Sith Lord. Their fear is my hope. Their sorrow, my joy. Their pleasure, my pain. And their salty tears of unfathomable sadness are sweet, sweet nectar of the gods.

I swear if this keeps up, I might have to buy myself a Pats No. 84 jersey, fly a hot air balloon to a French cryo-treatment center and get my feet done. This is going to be an amazing week.