(Editor's note: This is satirical piece we begged Gary not to write, but he wrote it anyway. We apologize in advance.)
If you have questions, get the answers yourself. That’s what I always say. So rather than depend on made for TV workouts, the All-22 and the latest mock draft, I decided to work out the top five quarterbacks prospects myself.
Justin Fields rang my doorbell right on time.
“Very punctual, young man,” I told him. “That’s a fine a quality. One I do not possess myself, but I find it admirable in others none the less.”
Prior to heading out to the backyard, he asked to use the bathroom. I told him to go down the hall, take a left and it would be on his right. He made it down the hall, then turned to me with a blank stare. I knew immediately what it was. The second progression. He moved swiftly and athletically down the hall but failed to recall the second step to turn left. I took note. Rather than allowing him to continue to struggle, I reminded him it was a left and then a right. I figured the kid was nervous and probably really had to pee.
We made it outside, removed our masks, became socially distant and then I got out the fungo bat.
“A fungo bat?”
Fields had the same reaction as you. You see, he was an outstanding baseball player as well as a football star. So, I handed him the bat and the ball.
“Why do I have the bat?” he asked.
“You’re hitting to me,” I replied.
“How come?”
“Because I would rather field than hit while playing fungo.”
“Ahhh, how does that help you evaluate my football ability?”
“It doesn’t,” I told him. “I just really love to play fungo. Now, stop wasting time. Lance is going to be here in an hour.”
Line-drives, bloop pop-pops, one hop, two hop, three hops grounders. Fields could really swing that fungo. Excellent hand eye coordination.
Then he asked with a hint of frustration, “Am I going to throw a football today?”
“Who’s running this workout?” I barked.
Then he tossed the ball in the air and swung as hard as he could. I ducked not wanting to die at the hands of a fungo line drive. When I opened my eyes I saw a true major league follow through. A poodle yipped like crazy when the ball landed in her backyard three houses over. Fields dropped the bat and picked up a football.
“Okay, we’re done with that,” I proclaimed. “Time to…”
“Just go long,” ordered Fields. I took off like a shot and ran a down and in just shy of the rose bush that borders my garage.
“No, no, go long!”
There was no other place to go other than the front of the house. So, I cornered the garage and headed for the front lawn and that’s when I saw the ball the rocket over my house like SpaceX. Oh no. It was headed for the street!
I could’ve lied and told him I caught it but decided to give this a shot. The ball had not crested, so I had time to look both ways ... no cars ... or now. I now knew how Gronk felt trying to catch that ball from a helicopter. That pigskin came zooming at me like a bullet. I was determined to make this catch. I had to. How else could I properly evaluate Fields if I couldn’t get my hands on one of his passes? The ball started to get bigger and move faster, bigger and faster, bigger and fa… “UGH!”
“I caught it! I caught it!” Only in my head were those words heard. The wind knocked out of me. My voice dormant. I lay in the fetal position in the middle of my street like roadkill. Fields jogged out from behind the house and tossed me on the lawn just as the mail truck rolled by. Whew, that was close.
“Are we good?” he asked. “I mean, I did just save you from getting run over by a mail truck.” Not being able to speak, I gave him the thumbs up and he was gone.
Trey Lance tapped me on my shoulder and asked if I was OK. With my wind and voice back, I told him I was simply stretching in preparation for his work out and directed him to the backyard.
Just then a cab pulled up and Kyle Trask got out. I informed him that this workout was only for the top five QB’s in the draft.
“Is Lawrence really going to show up?” he asked. I hesitated. Trevor Lawrence had left a voice mail that morning cancelling his work out because he needed a day away from the game. I told Trask he could take Lawrence’s spot, once the other four had worked out.
My mission with Lance was to stay in the backyard, so passes over my house were not allowed. We started with some short outs, drags and little hook to get warmed up. So far, so good. Now, I was going across the middle and I wanted to see if he had improved his accuracy with crossing patterns. Nope. With my right hand extended, I moved from right to left and good ole Trey once again threw behind his target as the ball landed in my left ear. Now, the argument could be made that I should have seen it coming but I was distracted by a fairly good size lawn patty compliments of my canine companion Frisco. Where was Frisco? Doggy Day Care. That’s where dogs in my town go for the day when they aren’t at the doggie masseuse.
With the ball firmly planted deep into my ear canal and my right foot sliding across Frisco’s relatively fresh lawn ornament, I soared horizontally until gravity squashed me back to earth.
With poop on my foot and a football coming out of the side of my cranium, little birds circled Lance’s head as he leaned down and yanked the ball out, “OWIE!” I screamed and then informed Lance that would be all for the day.
When Mac Jones showed up I thought I was seeing double then I realized that was just his chin.
“Did you know Trask is in your driveway?” he asked.
“He hasn’t made it to the front steps yet?” I whined.
“Nope.”
“What kind of middle name is McCorkle?”
“It’s my mom’s maiden name.”
“Oh, crap. I can’t dump on you now.”
“You got any snacks?”
“Yeah, I got some Cool Ranch Doritos in the cupboard.”
Into our second big bag of Cool Ranch, he asked why my ear was bleeding. I told him that small timer from the boondocks, Trey Lance, almost pierced my eardrum when I ran a down and in. Talking with a mouthful, McCorkle, nodded and said something about not leading guys across the middle. Then I got a side ache and told McCorkle he was good to go.
“But I didn’t throw a pass,” he said.
“No, but you have great taste in junk food. Cool Ranch rocks,” I said. He showed himself out and I took a nap.
I was awoken by the roar of jet engines. I sprang from the couch and ran to the window to see a JetBlue Airbus A320 parked on my street. It’s front wheel in the same spot where I almost demolished my spleen catching that Fields’ rocket. Was I dreaming? Was this really happening? Then I smelled the dried Frisco poop on my sneaker and realized I was wide awake. Man, hell of a job to land that plane on my street while not sacrificing any mailboxes. Not one. Then I saw Zach Wilson, who is supposedly heading to the Jets, - get it – I kill me – walked down from the plane and into my yard.
Oh, Zach’s Uncle owns JetBlue. You didn’t know that? The dude didn’t arrive in a jet because he expects to be one. Come on, that would be stupid.
“Hey, Trask,” Wilson yelled. “What are you doing here? I thought this workout was only for first rounders, you loser.”
Trask held steady, kept his cool and kept plugging away as he finally reached the steps ... of my walkway. He still had a ways to go to reach the front door.
I had heard Wilson could be a real jerk. A spoiled brat. Yeah, he had 33 TD passes and only three picks but against the likes of the USTA Roadrunners and Western Kentucky Hilltoppers, not to mention their 49-23 win over UCF in the ROOFCLAIM.COM BOCA RATON BOWL. A bowl game in Boca? I assume the game had to end by 4:30 so the crowd could make the early bird buffet.
“Zach, you have move the plane,” I told him.
“No, dude. My pilots are waiting for me. Soon as I’m done showing you how great I am we are cleared for take-off.”
“Yeah, but you’re blocking the street. My neighbors aren’t going to be happy with me.”
“That’s your problem, bro.”
“No, it’s not my problem, bro.” I wasn’t in the mood for this clown. “Get back on your unckies plane and get the heck out of here!”
“What are you going to do? Work out Trask?”
“Yeah, at least he played and won against real teams.”
Wilson, a defeated man with no comeback, lowered his head, turned around and shuffled back to uncle’s plane.
“Plus, the Jets are going to pick you,” I said. “So, you must really suck.” Geez, Gar. Way to kick a man when he’s down.
Just as he arrived at my front door, I told Trask we were working out in the back of the house. He gave me a nod and slowly, I mean s-l-o-w-l-y turned around and began walking in that direction.
As I lay in bed, reliving my day and trying to determine the best quarterback candidate in the draft there was a knock at my bedroom window. I rose to investigate. I threw open the window to see Kyle Trask finally in my backyard ready to work.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said looking up at me. “I just did a soft toss. I didn’t want to break your window.”
I smiled and said, “ Go home, Kyle. You have earned my recommendation.” He smiled back, gave me a thumbs up and turned to head out. Fields, Lawrence, Wilson, Lance and McCorkle are all better – I guess – than Trask on paper. But how do you evaluate perseverance on a scouting report? Trask is not fast, but he can throw, and he just doesn’t quit.
Trying to determine what quarterback is the right one to pick in the upcoming draft is as silly as what you have just read. However, who cares? Speculation is fun. So isn’t writing a dumb column like this one.