News item: The Dallas Cowboys on Wednesday signed Tristan Vizcaino, a former University of Washington placekicker who’s 11-for-12 on field goals in his NFL career and last played this season with the New England Patriots, for whom he was 2-for-2 on field goals.
Vizcaino was signed as a backup to Cowboys placekicker Brett Maher, who missed four extra points last week in the Cowboys wild-card playoff win over Tampa Bay.
Well, that's great. Juuuust great.
Like the Cowboys didn't crush my dreams enough as a child when they were really good and won a few Super Bowls and we had to listen to all that America's Team crap from the world's most obnoxious fan base. Now they've gone and crushed another childhood dream by signing a backup for their placekicker, who's been afflicted suddenly with a raging case of the yips.
And, OK, so it wasn't exactly a dream. But it could have been if I'd thought of it that way.
Instead I just thought I was frittering away a little time when I took a football and practiced placekicking it over the hedge in the backyard. I was a champion fritterer, see. Nobody could fritter like me.
Besides, it wasn't like I could pretend I was Johnny Unitas or Gale Sayers. My average weight in those days was "hotdog wrapper." I had the athletic ability of a footstool. And when I ran, tortoises gathered to laugh and point.
So, I kicked. Kicked and kicked and kicked. Got pretty good at clearing that hedge, too. I bet I could still do it if my 67-year-old leg didn't fall off first.
Like a lot of America, I watched Brett Maher miss extra points last weekend, and like a lot of America I figured I could do better. Especially with my extensive background in kicking footballs over hedges.
Ah, but now that's all gone. The Cowboys have signed a backup, and have no use for a 67-year-old who might or might not have a little muscle memory left.
The reality, of course, is I couldn't kick a football 12 yards anymore. I probably couldn't when I was a kid, either, but childhood illusions are strong and precious and reality wisely keeps its mouth shut while we're indulging those illusions. Only later do we realize (those of us who aren't on our eighth beer in a sports bar somewhere, anyway) that not only could we NOT outkick poor Brett Maher, we'd probably be lucky to reach the end zone from the NFL extra-point distance.
But let's just see Brett Maher or Tristan Vizcaino kick it over the hedge in the backyard. Let's see 'em do that.
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