In a desperate attempt to figure out this whacky NFL season from the local perspective, I went right to America’s most popular source for answers to puzzling questions. I went to Google and punched in “teaser.” In only .35 seconds, I received 23,400,000 possible answers, and I began sorting through them to find the right one. My discerning eye immediately was drawn to website addresses for several Teasers Men’s Clubs, with locations in Twin Forks, Montana; Flint, Michigan; Key West, Durham, North Carolina, and elsewhere. The Teasers of Phoenix even awards its customers a pint of draft beer for $3 to go along with, well, you know, its other treats.
Stop me if I’ve told you this one, but after I accepted Jim Finks’ offer to join him in New Orleans in the summer of 1986, my old boss at the NFL Management Council, Jack Donlan, told me to find my replacement before I left New York. I thought it would be an easy matter finding an enthusiastic young up-and-comer to join Donlan in the NFL’s labor relations department. The Collective Bargaining Agreement, which came as the result of a 57-day players’ strike in 1982, would expire in another year, and Donlan needed a spokesman to represent the position of NFL owners. Surely, the first person I asked would jump at the opportunity.
The last time I agonized over a Saints loss was on December 16, 1995 when the Green Bay Packers left the Superdome with a 34-23 victory.
Random thoughts on the Saints’ woeful start while wondering what is happening to the game I love?
by Jim W. Miller
My mother-in-law, the Saints fanatic, has been talking about selling her very nice house in the Lake Terrace community and buying a high-rise condo. Thankfully, this decision has been tied up in the committee of her four daughters and their four slobs of husbands who are allowed to listen but not speak. If a decision had been made prior to Sunday’s 37-34 Saints’ loss at Atlanta, then the eight of us and probably selected teams of the New Orleans Fire Department would have spent Sunday night and probably most of Monday coaxing her off the ledge.
It was reassuring to see Drew Brees in uniform and playing at a high level on Saturday night, even if it was just for two series. In his first action of the preseason, Brees made his short stint look like skelly drills when he methodically took his team down the field against little apparent opposition from the Colts' first teamers. He was passing, he was handing off and, ye gods! he even was running the ball to gain key yardage. I could have done without the latter, and I am certain that most of Who Dat Nation felt the same way.
It’s amazing how much you can learn about the local team by reading out of town sources. Did you know the Saints’ defense was cutting edge and on the verge of setting a new standard among NFL ball-hawkers and pigskin pilferers? Neither did I until I read a story in Friday’s Wall Street Journal titled “The Future of Defense in the NFL." With offensive output, as measured by total yards gained, increasing steadily the past three years, something had to be done to curb the trend of offensive domination. And that something is about to hatch in Who Dat Nation.
Two stories in the newspaper this week guaranteed to me that NFL training camps are under way. The first, of course, is the only story that New Orleans football fanatics are talking about, that the Saints descended upon the Greenbrier Resort in West Virginia to begin another positively certain Super Bowl quest. The second story meant the same thing in my own peculiar linkage of thoughts when swarms of mayflies descended on the Midwest in their annual suicide mating rituals!
I don’t believe either the Saints or Jimmy Graham want an arbitrator to decide whether the talented pass-catcher is called a tight end or a wide receiver. If the arbitrator rules Graham is a tight end, the Saints’ qualifying offer of $7 million stands, and team gains some immediate leverage in the bargaining of a new contract. If Graham wins, he would stand to receive a one-year qualifying offer of more than $12 million that represents an average salary of the top wide receivers.
The Jimmy Graham franchise tag dispute reminds me of a Disney movie. You remember Dumbo the Flying Elephant whose oversized ears gave him the ability to soar like an eagle? Well, imagine Dumbo going to Walt Disney asking for a raise. It might go something like this: