Category Archives: cranky old men

Beaten Army agrees to timetable for withdrawal from venerable Army-Navy Game

Army's punching-bag performance over the past seven Navy games have given Midshipmen loads to crow about.

Army's abysmal performance over the past seven Navy games has provided fun-loving Midshipmen plenty to guffaw about.

PHILADELPHIA – After succumbing meekly to another Navy blitzkrieg and suffering its seventh consecutive defeat to the hated Middies on Saturday afternoon, Army has announced that it has agreed to a 12-month timetable for withdrawing from the venerable service academy rivalry.

Army, which has lost the last seven outings by an average of 29 points and looked as hopeless as ever in Philadelphia on Saturday, says it will pull out of the series after the 110th and final edition is played Dec. 12, 2009, at Lincoln Financial Field in Philadelphia.

A blue-ribbon panel of current and former Army generals commissioned by the U.S. Military Academy, including Norman Schwarzkopf, Colin Powell and David Petraeus, concluded that the only dignified exit for the beleaguered Army team is to cease operations in the rivalry that dates to 1890.

“I know I’ve been an outspoken critic of premature withdrawal in the past,” Petraeus said late Saturday. “But when we assessed the situation and the mounting losses we’ve incurred, we came to one inescapable conclusion. Pouring more manpower and money into an ever-growing black hole is just … counterproductive. We’ve been caught in are a lot of storm clouds out there, and we don’t want to get hit by a lightning bolt.”

Thus will end the nation’s most treasured college football rivalry, which began with a 24-0 Cadets victory in West Point way back back in the 19th century. The series has produced enduring legends like Army’s Doc Blanchard and Glenn Davis, aka Mr. Inside and Mr. Outside, and Navy’s Roger Staubach.

Navy’s seven-game win streak marks the most lopsided period in the storied rivalry. The margin of victory has been in double-digits every time, with the closest being Army’s 26-14 loss in 2006. Army fashioned an 8-0-2 run between 1922 and 1933, but those games were much more competitive, with the Black Knights’ average margin of victory being 8.8 points.

The 74-year-old Schwarzkopf said he was “heartbroken” to see the demise of the Army-Navy Game, but that there was little else that could be done.

“Did you see the way they kicked our tails all over the field today?” said Schwarzkopf, who led U.S. forces in the first Gulf War. “It was (bleeping) pathetic. Running the ball up the middle when we’re down three touchdowns in the fourth(-bleeping) quarter? It’s (bleeper-bleeping) heartbreaking. Seeing those (bleeper-bleeping) Bluejackets own our asses, makes an old soldier want to break down and cry.”

With Navy’s 34-0 whitewashing Saturday, the first shutout in the game since 1978, the Midshipmen lead the series 53 wins to 49. There have been seven ties.


The Cup of Christ (or, Beach Football)!!!

As rivalries go, this one has been a lifetime in the making.

Literally, brother vs. brother.

As every chapter is written, with each victory and mirroring defeat, both sides live or die, rise or fall, smile or cry with one another in mind.

What was once a healthy competition, has evolved into an all-consuming disease. Neither side will ever truly satisfy their lust for victory or quench their ultimate thirst for domination. But they must continue to return, if only to deny their opponent even a minor moment of enjoyment.

And so it was this year in the annual battle for the legendary Beach Party Cup. For those of you who don’t know about it–fuck off. For the rest of you out there, read ’em and weep Gray Team.

Not only will we continue to drink from the sacred plastic gold chalice all year long, but you will never taste the goodness of a frothy beverage from its confines again! The Red Team rules! Beach Party ’08 Champs!

Box score:

Grayland Beach Bowl ‘08

Red Shirts 4, Gray Shirts 3 (3OT)
Gray 0 1 2 0 0 0 0— 3
Red 0 0 0 3 0 0 1— 4
Second Quarter
Gray—Parker 10 pass from Pollock.
Third Quarter
Gray—T. Smith 15 pass from Pollock.
Gray—Beck 5 pass from T. Smith.
Fourth Quarter
Red—J. Turnbull 15 pass from T. Turnbull.
Red—J. Turnbull 12 pass from T. Turnbull.
Red—J. Turnbull 8 pass from T. Turnbull.
Third Overtime
Red—Aguilera 7 pass from T. Turnbull.

Favre a J-E-T (reportedly)

There are reports! Finally, reports!

It’s allegedly official. Reports are coming in. Stuart Scott says so. ESPN just ran a full screen graphic saying “Breaking News!”

Write it on your calender. This is the moment: Wednesday August 6, 2008, 11:50 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time. It is being reported by some unnamed, unknown, unidentified, anonymous source that Brett Favre is reportedly headed to the New York Football Jets!

According to ESPN’s Neil Everett, “It’s the news that a nation has been waiting for – a sports nation!”

Really? Where the fuck is the damn sports nation and why am I somehow not affiliated. ‘Cause honestly Holmes, I don’t give a flying fuck where the stupid prima donna bitch is going. And, if I did, I would want a little more than a report. More than innuendo. I’d want fucking fact, yo. So get off the damn TV, go talk to some motherfuckers involved, and come back when you know a little more than an alleged report from FOX news. …

Oh wait: 12:03 a.m. EDT. Neil Everett interrupts his speculative discussion with Chris Carter (after Mark Schlereth weighed in on the news and before Rachel Nichols would sum up how she missed the damn story) to say that, “ESPN’s Michael Smith has confirmed that this trade will go through!”

Now it’s official! No more speculation. No more alleging. Just the true and spectacular conclusion of the Greatest Story Ever Told: The soap operalike selfishness of a 38-year-old quarterback, his ridiculous suitors and a swarm of media foaming at the mouth for both sides every move!

And now it’s done, allegedly, officially and somewhat confirmed. So what’s left? Well, what else but blow out the whole damn show talking to everybody they can think of who has no relation to anybody involved in the trade and absolutely no knowledge of how it occurred! Sweet! If you got their number boys, give ’em a call, yo: Sal Palantonio, Trent Dilfer, Merril Hoge, Trey Wingo, Chris Mortensen …

Wait! Chris Mortensen does the unthinkable. He says he talked to people involved and has uncovered that the deal is not officially official. “It still could be held up,” he says.

Apparently Favre’s not happy (yet again). The great No. 4 apparently wanted to go to Tampa Bay and the Packers did him yet another disservice by trading him to New York! He could still say no! He could sit out! He could RETIRE!!!

If there is a God up there somewhere. Hear me now please. Tell me what I can do to make amends. Tell me what I can do to make this happen! Almighty overseer of life, please, please let the narcissistic son of a bitch retire. Let him cry. Let him weep. Let him blame everyone on Earth for not loving him enough to want him back. Let him crawl back in his Mississippi hole forever!

But no. No. Of course we’re all not that lucky, 12:45 a.m. EDT: the Packers release a statement:

“Brett has had a long and storied career in Green Bay, and the Packers owe him a tremendous debt of gratitude for everything he accomplished on the field and for the impact he made in the state. It is with some sadness that we make this announcement, but also with the desire for certainty that will allow us to move the team and organization forward in the most positive way possible.

“We respect Brett’s decision that he could no longer remain here as a Packer. But there were certain things we were not willing to do because they were not in the best interest of the team. We were not going to release him nor trade him to a team within the division. When Brett ultimately decided that he still wanted to play football, but not in Green Bay, we told him that we would work to find the best solution for all parties involved. We wish Brett and his family well.

“We appreciate the tremendous passion shown by our fans. We, like them, always will see Brett Favre as a Green Bay Packer and our respect for him never will change. Moving forward, we are dedicated to delivering a successful 2008 season for all Packers fans.”

Well that’s just swell. I’m sure Brett and your fans are just as happy as I am that the motherfucking motherfucker is still in the league and on his way to New York. Sweet.

But wait. What’s ESPN going to do now? How are they gonna react to this historic development? Any more talking heads to roll out of the closet? Oh wait, they found the reel of Top Ten plays in Favre’s career that they put together when he cried like a bitch and retired (And every year for the last five in the offseason when he cried like a bitch at the mere thought of retirement)! Hey wait, they also found a retrospective of the All-Time Passing Leader’s career, (also cobbled together five months ago when the arrogant fuck quit). Dust ’em off! Queue ’em up! Roll ’em! The gunslinger is back! This stuff is gold all over again baby!

And, hey, after that, Linda Cohn and Steve Levy just arrived, get ’em on stage, ask ’em what they think. Who else you got laying around? Anybody?

Football season 2008: Welcome to the beginning – allegedly!

Jesus! Save Us! (and the Sonics)


David Stern made it painfully clear to the world Saturday in his “State of the League Address” that the Seattle SuperSonics have all but packed their bags for Oklahoma City. The NBA czar and chief executive fuckface said it was an “inevitability” that the team will relocate, adding the atheistic sentiment that “there is no miracle” in sight for the team or its fans.
In these trying times, basketball-loving fans in the Northwest are searching for a higher power to save the Emerald City from the hellish fate of losing its 41-year-old franchise. Since all of us here at unsportsmanlike comment fall somewhere between heathen and agnostic in the theological continuum, praying is not usually our first option. But in light of Stern’s heretical rhetoric, and thanks to Rube Waddell’s recent acquisition of this nifty prayer rug, we thought it was about time to try it out.
So don’t be shy. Whether you’re used to the formality of kneeling before the Almighty in Heaven, or like us, you revel in your cosmic ignorance, please take a moment to join us in our quiet contemplation:
Our Father, who art in heaven,
hallowed be your name,
your kingdom come,
your will be done,
on earth as in heaven.

Give us today our NBA.
Forgive us our empty seats
as we forgive those who don’t sit in them.
Save us from Clay’s temptation,
and deliver us from Stern’s evil.
For KeyArena and the SuperSonics are part of your Northwest kingdom, power and glory for ever and ever.


American Evolution? If we’re all apemen, Jefferson Pepper is King Kong


i was loitering at work a couple of weeks ago, minding my own business, not hurting any small animals or assailing lonely widows with mitt romney mailers. was just surfing for meaning in the fathomless web, when the old rube finds this shameless plea soiling his e-mail queue:

Go to this link… right now and buy as many cd’s as you can afford. If you can buy ten, awesome! If you can buy five, great! If you can buy three, cool! If you can buy one, I’ll take that too. If you can’t afford to buy one, you’re worse off than I am, so I’ll be happy to send you a copy for free. Then, if you wouldn’t mind, send this email to all your friends and folks on your mailing list. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I know you’ll come through and I really do appreciate it.

a lot to ask? a lot to ask! he’s supposedly a friend, and he’s begging me to buy 10 of his cds? ten? check the link, you’ll see he’s not selling them from the remainder rack for $1.99 a crack.

before i venture an opinion as to whether you would be victim to a snake-oil pitch if you purchase even one copy of this american evolution disc, i must make a few things clear:

the rube’s no record reviewer, and he’s not without conflict of interest here. was gonna recuse myself on this one, but the damned e-mail got my dander up.

you see, i’ve known this jefferson pepper rogue for a few years. seen him wake up in the morning like a fallen angel and poke his head out of a sleeping bag full of potato-vodka vomit. also heard him cry like a little bitch while the rube humped his leg in a desperate effort to get him to move off my goddamn couch.

and i guess he worked like a dog on this project, which eventually will include three cds totaling 50 original songs. i know he’s been preoccupied, because he asked 48 times lately if i’ve seen “idiocracy,” which might be the number of times he’s viewed this shitbird film. never remembered my answer, even once.

nobody’s perfect.

alas, it turns out there’s more to jefferson pepper than i knew. i’ve been to his house many times and admired the rustic architecture and bucolic setting, but i never realized he lived in the mountains. i’m not the keenest observer, but still, that’s strange. nor have i witnessed one of those terrible blizzards that turn the place into a Currier & Ives postcard.

A typical winter day outside Jefferson Pepper’s mountain homestead

yep, while swilling some fancy schmancy liquor or other up at the bar in the beer can museum, the rube never had an inkling he was sitting on top of Walton Mountain. But that’s what i learned from jefferson pepper’s bio on cdbaby.

He spent the winters of 2006 and 2007 holed up in his cedar-sided home studio in the Conewago Mountains of southern Pennsylvania. As the snow piled up outside, he became more and more reclusive, sometimes going for several weeks at a time without leaving the house. For two years he worked feverishly on writing and recording the songs that would be included on his sophomore effort, the follow-up to his acclaimed 2005 post-industrial Americana debut album Christmas in Fallujah.

poor dickensian bastard. quintessential underdog fighting the losing battle against the soulless, overpowering powers that be. as a blizzard rages outside his mountain hovel, the creditors howl at his door and threaten to take away everything he owns.

you see, this is all part of the mythology he’s created in which to embed his songs. he’s even got his own record label. and he’s never been short on grand ambitions. the bigger, the better. he once spent an entire night regaling anyone who hadn’t tuned him out about his outlandish vision for an alternate version of capra’s “it’s a wonderful life,” one wherein george bailey really was never born and poor mary hatch ended up gyrating around a stripper pole, blowing mr. potter for table scraps and shooting heroin in Pottersville.

amev1.jpg pepper.jpg

But that’s not what i wanted to say. i wanted to talk about jefferson pepper’s new album. and i regret to say, the little sob has done it this time. naturally, you think i’m just singing the praises of an old friend out of loyalty. or maybe i once banged his wife in a moment of drunken indiscretion and i have an unrequited need to atone for my sins? not so. not at all.

let me tell you this: i’m not pleased to discover that jefferson pepper has turned out a remarkable album that demands a fair hearing, an impressive project that deserves a place somewhere beyond the collection of true friends. really, i’m pissed. i am a man of immense jealousies, you see. schadenfreude is my code. nothing hurts me more than the success of others.

and warts aside, this is a triumph. it’s the work of a talented bastard surging in self-confidence, shedding pretensions piece by piece and gathering command of his vision. sure, i got quibbles, but what do you expect when the prolific fucker turns out 17 songs in what’s just the opening disc of a trilogy?

for one, the guy’s a dogmatic SOB. no way around that. just check out this excerpt from track no. 11, “dam in the river of life”:

survival is every animal’s goal/so man’s big brain invented a soul/to save him from his terrible fate/damn near everybody took the bait

you get the idea. no matter where you fall on the eschatological scale, if you’re anything less than a what-the-fuck-are-those-idiots-thinking atheist, you’re a dumbass. as an agnostic, i sympathize. atheism, that’s just the flip side of religious zealotry. but this album is a more than the sum of its imperfections. and you shouldn’t let a heavy-handed phrase here or an historical half-truth there ruin the experience.

let’s start at the finish, with “primates swingin'” a rollicking gem that oozes an irresistible rockabilly groove. it’s fun, it swings and it educates. and it is loaded with witty rhymes. To wit:

Six million years ago today, hominids were on the way/the first known by consensus was sahelanthropus tchadensis. Two million years ago they weren’t no fools/those hominids started making tools

maxjpepper.jpgyou’re kidding me, right? no. and while you’re trying to decipher the latinate twists and turns the hominid chain has taken since god created man, from homo habilis (nobody’d ever seen a guy like this) to homo ergaster (who soon became the master) to homo erectus (who had a better prospectus), next thing you know, the bass line comes crashing in and you find yourself tapping your toes and dancing around like a deadhead on amphetamines. and the kids, they dig it, too.

track 12, “fine fine day,” is an infectious gem. it exudes an airy, old-timey ambiance that would make andy griffith smile. barney fife, too. caveat emptor: mr. pepper would have you believe he’s a luddite who thinks everything, besides war and discrimination and oppression, that happened long ago has to be better than this horseshit we’re dealing with now. but i’ve seen this guy drive 20 minutes out of his way to shop at wal-mart. he is one of us. don’t be fooled.

“fine fine day” is a sunny-day frolic that pokes at the soft underbelly of the miracle we call electricity. the foot-stomping, buoyant beat and carefree vocals provide ironic counterpoint to delightfully sardonic lyrics.

I knew a Texas undertaker who didn’t have a care/he went to meet his maker in an old electric chair/it’s a fine fine day, a fine fine day, a fine fine day, across the USA

as my colleague rookie wilson said, “I know this song is supposed to be about some serious shit, but I can’t help it, it makes me feel happy.”

and it does. alas, happiness is not mr. pepper’s stock in trade.

while “primates” makes for an optimistic sendoff (“when they took the census another branch was heidelbergensis/who evolved into homo sapiens and thus began the modern trend/if we’re smart while we’re in our prime/we’ll be around for a long, long time“), the album opens with the bleaker vision. in “can’t go home,” hope for a long, long time is long gone. a land blessed with majestic purple mountains and fecund fruited plains follows a tragic arc to post-apocalyptic wasteland.

the bridge delivers the gut punch. bird songs and blue skies give to the unromantic realities of post-nuclear survival mode:

now the hum of generators and artificial lights/you hear them switching off again as day turns into night/live the good old days in a dreamy haze till you wake and come around in your little concrete shelter seven stories underground

this opening salvo sets the tone for pepper’s sometimes vitriolic attack on the hypocrisies of the american experience. before it’s over, pepper takes aim at everything from the rapacious arrival of columbus on the shores of the new world to the ruthless rise of robber baron John D. Rockefeller to the 21st-century quagmire we’re facing in mesopotamia.

and if he takes a few liberties with the facts, his tuneful songcraft and grasp of overarching realities rescue him in the end. “rockefellers” might make take a questionable turn or two, but it’s hard to dispute the essential truth. unrestrained capitalism is an unmitigated disaster to all but the winners, a notion we ignore at our peril as we descend into a retro gilded age:

and he will say it’s child’s play to live the american dream/but if you begin in a hole my friend you won’t survive the game of monopoly

the music is where the day’s won, and pepper’s got a bent for genre-bending. alt-country sensibilities trade partners with power chords, rural blues go toe-to-toe with traditional string music. along the way, pepper enlists help from an array of able hands. fiddler/mandolin player joe allison and pedal steel maestro ray eicher give memorable performances throughout. their instrumental duet on the carpe diem anthem “can’t come back” is particularly pleasing, with allison’s lyrical fiddle dancing playfully with eicher’s soaring steel guitar.

two scotch-irish-infused instrumentals, “lewis and clark homecoming” and “appomatox,” provide welcome levity and give allison ample room to move. randy stewart’s loping banjo offers a jubilant accent to appomatox. you can envision union soldiers hurling hats skyward and cavorting in celebration as four years of bitter carnage comes to an end.

on track 10, the 12-bar “riverbank blues,” pepper turns in some tasty bottleneck work of his own against the backdrop of jon shain’s rock-steady acoustic guitar. somewhere along the line i felt the urge to shout, “go, jefferson, go. … elmore james got nothing on this baby!”

the musical antecedents are all over the map. with its layered rhymes and jaundiced tone, the tropical “only survivor” recalls the antiheroine of dylan’s seminal “like a rolling stone” (you got your coppertone on and you look so cool/by your in-ground pool and your thatched-bamboo cabana/but the voice in your head feels regret/you left me for dead in south bend, indiana). “dam in the river of life” echoes latter-day dylan with its caustic allusions to ambiguous icons, from tom sawyer to charles darwin to charlton heston and the planet of the apes.

with it’s socially troubled protagonists and undulating steel guitar, “paperback romance” offers a waltzing homage to john prine’s “donald and lydia.” only this time, in a decidedly unjeffersonian twist, there’s a happy ending.

speaking of endings, my assessment is bound to distress mr. pepper. because when he’s not declaring that organized sport inculcates man with an us-versus-them mentality, he’s telling me that music must do more than entertain, that there must be a moral to the story.

and while the arc of the storytelling is indeed grand, i’m continually beguiled by the music. sometimes the lyrics hit dead-on, and when they don’t, they are obscured in the unfolding tapestry of the music. that what it is, damned good music.

and on that note, there’s one other song that hangs in my head. it’s not a history lesson or a morality tale, not a folk-punk opera or a post-industrial progressive-country lament. “i don’t wanna be alone” is a winsome romance that lingers in the air like a sweet summer breeze and recalls harlan howard’s definition of country music (three chords and the truth).

cause home is where the heart is/it’s maudlin but it’s true/every lonesome highway that i travel/leads me back to you/i don’t wanna be alone/i don’t wanna be alone/cause it’s a mean old world without you girl, i don’t wanna be alone …

maudlin? maybe. but it’s true.

A Comcast Direct Political Crusade: Specter the Good Takes on Goodell, Big Bad NFL


“No man’s life, liberty or property are safe while the Legislature is in session”

The quote is often misattributed to Mark Twain, and it’s easy to understand why. Pretty much anything subversively acerbic and deliciously sardonic that emerged from the 19th century is usually credited to Mr. Clemens.

Which brings us to Arlen J. Specter, the vigilant eyes of the United States Congress.

Our Arlen, he’s a regular Cincinnatus. Answered the call to public service, and he’ll leave as soon as the job is done. No sense loitering about and collecting the spoils of corruption. That would be indecent.

Is it Arlen’s fault that, after 27 years, the job remains to be done?

The casualties in Iraq continue to mount, the end nowhere in sight. Ditto Afghanistan. How will we fight the Iran War? The national debt is racing through the trillions careening headlong for the quadrillions. The economy is wobbling like a one-eyed, four-sheets-to-the-wind drunk wandering through potholed urban streets at dawn on two broken legs. Global warming? We’ll see.

And Arlen, he gonna to bring the big, bad robber baron NFL to heel. Arlen wants to know why NFL kingpin Roger Goodell destroyed those “Spygate” tapes, the ones that caught Bill Belichick and the Patriots cheating. First the CIA, now the NFL. Arlen couldn’t whip the CIA or the administration into shape, so he’s gonna discipline the NFL and put a smile on the face of the common man. Him and those $600 rebate checks!

Give him a nice little triumph at the end of his career to provide some symmetry to the singular genius of his Single Bullet Theory.

The cynics, Arlen, they say you want to sack the NFL because your sugar daddy is pissed.

They say you’re in bed with Comcast, and you’re a foot soldier in the corporate bully’s war with the big, bad NFL.

Screw them. So you’ve taken in more than $500,o00 in Comcast-related tribute, but a U.S. Senator gots to eat, right?

And let’s face it, you’ve been around since the days of Barry Goldwater. When you last a quarter-century, you’re going to feel the pangs of hunger every now and then. It’s only natural.
Mind you, nobody’s saying you overstayed your welcome. Hell, your fellow Pennsylvania Republican, that raging octogenarian Joe Paterno, he’s older than you. You won’t even turn 80 until your next election. So stick around.

Come to think of it, that’s a fine distinction to shoot for: Better the Joe Paterno of Pennsylvania politics than the hired gun of Comcast.

Just deliver a national championship before it’s too late, OK?

Joe Paterno to top recruit Terrelle Pryor: You might think Penn State’s not for you, but what the heck do you know?

pryor2.jpg jopa.jpg

Joe Paterno, the college football coaching Methuselah from Penn State, dusted off his traveling sales routine and took a quixotic run at the nation’s No. 1 recruit today.

Paterno, 81, traveled to Jeannette, Pa., just outside of Pittsburgh, in an 11th-hour bid to recruit quarterback Terrelle Pryor, who has shown great ambivalence about the Nittany Lions and seems headed to Big 10 rival Ohio State.

Once there, Paterno wasted little time in getting his point across:

“I’ve heard you say you don’t think Penn State’s the place for you, and I wanted to ask you this: What the heck do you know, young man?”

Paterno’s approach apparently caught the youngster off guard.

“I’m very humbled that you came to see me in person and all, and I respect all that you’ve accomplished at Penn State, but … ” Pryor stammered before he was interrupted by the surly octogenarian.

“I asked you a question, young man, and when an elder asks you a question, you show respect and answer politely: What the heck do you know? You ever heard of Sammy Baugh? Bobby Layne? Sonny Jurgensen? Y.A. Tittle? I didn’t think so. Did you know I played quarterback – and defensive back – when I was at Brown? I know a thing or two about a thing or two, young man. Trouble with you kids today, you’re coddled and spoiled and unwilling to listen to anybody who says something you don’t want to hear.”

“I’m sorry. I just don’t know about the area up there,” said the flummoxed teenager, referring to State College, Pa., a rural hamlet isolated in the center of the state.

“You don’t know about that area? Let me tell you something about that area, young man,” Paterno said. “That area is a place where a young knucklehead such as yourself can grow into a man, learn to be a good citizen and, if you pay your dues and are patient and have a little bit of luck, can develop into a pretty fine college quarterback.”

Pryor, 6-foot-6, 235-pound phenom who has narrowed his list of colleges to Ohio State, Michigan, Oregon and Penn State, couldn’t seem to forestall Paterno’s attack.

“Another thing you might not know, young man, but we got another pretty fine quarterback from around here a few years back,” the coach said. “His name is Anthony Morelli, and he didn’t think Penn State was for him, either. But we changed his mind. And he stayed patient, waited his turn and was our starter for his junior and senior seasons. A lot of people like to talk about Tim Tebow this and Tim Tebow that, but Anthony showed a little bit about what maturity can do. He threw 31 TD passes in his career, only one fewer than Mr. Heisman Trophy had (last season).”

Pryor thanked Paterno, wished him luck and said it it’d been a great honor to get a visit from a football legend.

“An honor? An honor? Give me a break,” Paterno said. “What the heck do you know, young man?”