Sorry About the Football Gossip Post.

As a 38 year old Black guy and Jacksonville Jaguar fan, my first reaction to hearing that Steve McNair was found shot to death in downtown Nashville was disbelief. He was a juggernaut – ask Kevin Hardy and Bryce Paup. This was immediately followed by anger. Why is it so difficult for Black NFL players to avoid gangstas doing gangsta (spit)? Yes, I jumped to that conclusion. Fool me once shame on you; fool me once a week for two decades shame on me. But as the smoke cleared, as the gun was found under the dead mistress and gun residue was found on her hands, as details of McNair buying stuff and putting her name on it came out, as I learned that she bought the gun a few days before, I was relieved. The mistress shot the lecherous former athlete because he was cheating on her with a second mistress. I wonder how many Cadillac Escalades in Nashville are registered to the late Steve McNair. This wasn’t The Wire, it was Desperate Housewives. I needed to take a shower. And that’s just awful. This is where I am with professional sports. I’m relieved that a 36 year old guy who died a violent death and who orphaned four boys wasn’t a tap dead center stereotypical statistic. I’m glad that Tom Brady and Matt Leinart most likely had “there but for the grace of God” moments. Remember Tom Terrific found out Bridget Moynihan was pregnant with his baby, and he went with the old “It’s not you, it’s me” routine. He’s lucky she’s at least a little more level headed than McNair’s little thing on the side (a). Chad Ochocinco – yes he changed his name to the numbers on his jersey in bad Spanish -- and Terrell Owens. frustrate me to no end, but I’ll take their antics over McNair’s, Sean Taylor’s, and Darrent Williams’s autopsies every day.