Down For the Count

I wonder, do they sell corn pudding in Denver? Does mango juice drip from the Rocky Tops in a little place I call Aspen? Can you get rice djon-djon at the Pepsi Center, pain patate at Coors field, or Calalou at Invesco? Because at this rate, it's only a matter of time before Sammy D, my beloved hero, daily inspiration, and best friend in life, relocates to the Mile High City. A Haitian on skis? It almost seems inevitable we will come to find out.

First you took AI, ripped him from my bosom and wrestled his clutching arms from my broken heart. It feels like just yesterday that the Sixers of old were replaced with the Sixers of new. When the face of the organization changed that cold winter day, I feared I'd never recover. I immediately and openly discussed the option of moving to Denver. How else was I supposed to handle my guy playing for the other team? Low and behold I got over it, realized I was freaking people out, and discovered new ways to keep myself occupied.

But just when I was lifting myself off the mat, getting my wind back, and assuring the ref I was sturdy enough to continue, Denver bites my ear off and I find myself gasping for air, wiping the blood from my nose, and staring up at the arena lights once more. There was a time I was once largely indifferent to Denver, its fans, and its professional athletes. Now my hatred rivals that of Michael Richards. Damn you, Denver, Colorado, damn you.

B Dawk will always be an Eagle; he loves us, and we love him. Never have I been less annoyed by a bonified Jesus freak, and never have I wanted a Zinman fur more in my life. His billboard on 76E always reminded me that well-groomed black man can pull off just about anything when it comes to looking jiggaferred. I will miss those temporary moments of comfort. I will miss the flying tackle, the borderline scary pre-game ritual, and the post NFC Championship (loss) tears. Quite frankly, I'd be lying if I said I understood the way in which NFL contracts are structured, and what drives management decisions. Re-signing B Dawk was a no-brainer. If Brian Dawkins was thirsty, I expected Andy Reid, Jeff Lurie and the rest of the higher ups to collectively respond in their thickest Puerto Rican accent: "B Dawk, I, too, know what it's like to be thirsty. I, too, know what it's like to have a dry mouth." Don't go get the man a cup of water, give him your sympathy and understanding. In other words, don't let this happen. I understand the deal is pretty damn ridiculous, and the Eagles weren't going to match for that long and that much, but I gotta believe Dawk would've stuck around for something respectable. After all, God would frown on making decisions for money alone. And God frowning on B Dawk is like me frowning on a 2 for 1 deal on Breyer's Mint Chocolate Chip -- it just ain't gonna happen.

Lucky for another Broncos signee, I am pretty darn certain that Buck can buy weed in Denver, as AI undoubtedly discovered. So for now, I am left with the beautiful, yet tear-jerking image of my favorite Eagle driving a moped through the ice, wind and snow of the Rocky Mountains, and my favorite backup RB's arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Thankfully my Bobby Abreu t-shirt, Duce Staley green away, and Placido Polanco authentic can keep my Dawkins home jersey company in the lonely drawer at the bottom of my dresser. Oh wait, Spillz had the Polanco...once again my jealousy undermines my perception of reality. But you get my point.

So will Sammy be a Denver nugget? We know he loves hockey, but must I begin searching for jobs, homes, massage parlors and cheesesteaks in the Mountain timezone? That possibility is almost too painful to consider.