Goodbye, Godboy
Carter's gone. Now what do we talk about?
Now that Carter is gone, the side-taking and the certitude that went with it have been abandoned for a far less entertaining, all-encompassing understanding. We know what's going to happen next as surely as we know that Mayor Laura Miller is never going to keep her pothole promise. It's going to be Testaverde's team for as long as the 'Boys are winning. After that, Drew Henson takes over and the future becomes the present. Maybe Tony Romo will make a cameo appearance, but only if there are injuries. So we know how things are going to go from here, and where's the fun in that?
After all this bullshit about Quincy Carter and what drugs he did or didn't do, and what tests the Cowboys did or didn't administer, and why they cut him, the fact that we're now deprived of a little fun and spontaneity is the greatest disappointment. His overindulgence combined with the team's hypocritical self-preservation have deprived the rest of us of another end-of-summer drama. By the time you read this, I'll be at training camp in Oxnard, California, and I'm quite positive it'll be a total bore.
Only the Pokes' record and postseason fate remain in question now. Which, in turn, leaves Dallas backers with only two options: Either pray or party.
On second thought, given Carter's example, fans might as well do both.
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