Last month, Green Bay free agent Matt Flynn was the homeroom crush. Last week, it was Peyton Manning.
We are turning into the dog from the movie “Up.” Someone blurts out, “Quarterback,” in this town, and we jump. Our tails vibrate for hours. We don’t know what we want; we’re more fickle than Michaele Salahi.
We’ve met the enemy, Washington; it’s us. We were supposed to keep Daniel Snyder sober from his shopping addiction, from throwing away draft picks and mortgaging the future on one player.
Remember the Shanaplan? Build. Build. Build. We were supposed to advocate for stability, the notion that slow and steady wins the race.
But as soon as the first shiny object runs by, we can’t help ourselves.
Pre-Shanahan and Bruce Allen, everybody skewered Snyder because he treated every player he wanted like a new bike in the toy-store window: I want that one.