It’s always amusing when football - the sport that gave us the clothesline, the head slap, the crackback block and Dick Butkus - gets an attack of politeness. Or rather, it’s funny for a few seconds, and then it’s as annoying as Ochocinco.
The object of my wrath this morning is the Record That Wasn’t Broken. Perhaps you’ve read about it. Early in the third quarter Sunday against Tennessee, the Patriots’ Tom Brady threw his sixth touchdown pass of the game, putting him one shy of a mark that has stood for 66 years. But Bill Belichick, sitting on a 52-0 lead, decided to show the Titans some mercy and took Brady out. In the 25 minutes that remained, Tom Terrific almost certainly would have tied or even surpassed a record that’s shared by, among others, Sid Luckman, Y.A. Tittle and George Blanda.
I’m beginning to wonder whether Sid, Y.A. and George are safe for all eternity, whether no quarterback will ever get the chance to dislodge them from the record book, whether conscience will keep coaches from letting their QBs make history. This, after all, isn’t the first time this has come up in recent years. It happened twice to Peyton Manning, who threw for six TDs against the Saints in 2003 and for six more against the Lions in ’04, then spent the fourth quarter on the sideline in a baseball cap.
Of course, Manning was pulled by “Everybody Loves Tony” Dungy, who never met an opposing coach he didn’t empathize with. Belichick isn’t quite so tenderhearted. Bill’s the guy who, when the Patriots were rolling to a perfect regular season two years ago, never left a touchdown on the table. (In the space of five games, the Pats racked up 48, 49, 52 and 56 points.) The Hooded One has never been too concerned about how many Christmas cards he gets.
Belichick is also a history buff who once let Doug Flutie drop-kick an extra point - for the sheer anachronistic pleasure of it. If any coach would allow his quarterback to keep chucking TD passes - seven, eight, however many the QB’s arm could stand - you’d think it would be him.
So when even Bill Belichick says, “No mas,” well, it’s a bad day for record aficionados everywhere. And this is a pretty cool record, you have to admit. It’s cool because of who holds it. It’s cool because of how long quarterbacks have been shooting at it. It’s cool because chicks love touchdown passes as much as they love the long ball. (And they might love long touchdown passes most of all.)
But there are some NFL records you can break, it seems, and some you can’t. The record for rushing yards in a game, for instance, is eminently breakable. In fact, after lying undisturbed for 25 years, it has been broken three times in the last decade - by Corey Dillon (278), Jamal Lewis (295) and Adrian Peterson (296).
Of course, there’s a big difference between rushing yardage and TD passes. A rushing yard is a rushing yard; a TD pass is seven points. When Dillon had his big day - and Lewis and Peterson, too - the game was close going into the fourth quarter. The defense was being embarrassed, sure, but the score wasn’t embarrassing.
But 52-0 is another story. You’re entering piling-on territory there. And if you leave in your quarterback to chase a record, you’re exposing him to untold horrors at the hands of a wounded and vengeful foe.
And for what? That’s what it always comes down to for coaches. How could I explain my QB getting hurt with five minutes left and the score 56-21?
To which I reply: For what, you ask? Why, to go where no man has gone before. If seven TD passes is landing on the moon, eight would be touching down on Mars. Sports is all about exploring limits - the four-minute mile, the 2,000-yard rushing season, the Triple Crown in baseball - and pushing through them. Backing off when you get close to something for fear you’ll hurt somebody’s feelings - or maybe just your own neck - is about as inspirational as playing for a tie.
Don’t misunderstand. Running up the score - to no end except to humiliate the opponent - is one of the worst crimes you can commit in athletics. But pursuing a meaningful record in a one-sided game is another matter entirely. I mean, when Yo-Yo Ma plays the cello like the rest of the world wishes it could play the cello, does the conductor stop him as he’s about to hit a high note and say, “Take the rest of the night off, Yo. You’re making the string section feel bad”?
On Sunday, Tom Brady was Yo-Yo Ma, throwing to Randy Moss and Wes Welker through the snowflakes, playing quarterback the way it was meant to be played - the way it almost never is played. And then, suddenly, he wasn’t. And it wasn’t because he busted a string. I believe the medical term for this is Quarterbackus Interruptus.
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