I have a plan to make my future son a major-conference college quarterback.
It's really quite simple. Sure, I could waste my time teaching little Tommy, Timmy, or Billy how to throw a spiral. I could teach him the difference between a snap count and a hard count, show him how to tuck the ball behind his leg in order to sell a play fake, and how to read a defense like Peyton Manning (the Madden version, that is).
But I won't. You see, being a college signal-caller is easier than you think; all it takes is the name.
There are those who walk among us - if not us at Tufts, then certainly our brethren to the South - who are destined to be the leader of an SEC offense. With a name like Chance Mock, one's career choices are limited. A Chance Mock does not program software. A Chance Mock throws footballs or ropes cattle. There's a reason Kirk Herbstreit is analyzing the game these days instead of playing it.
So how will I put my plan into action? I'm sure it will start with a lengthy conversation/argument with my wife, who may be a bit hesitant about naming her son "Colt" or "Koy." To ease her concerns, I'll show her "The Replacements," starring Keanu Reeves as Shane Falco, the new quarterback for the fictional Washington Sentinels. After she's sufficiently softened by Keanu's California good looks and subtle eloquence, I'll get her consent to christen our child something akin to Major Applewhite or Cody Pickett. No one ever wins the big one and gets the girl with a last name like Herberich.
When young Colt enters childhood, I'll sign him up for Pop Warner football. Upon seeing his name on the roster sheet, the coach will have no choice but to install him at QB. Can you imagine someone named Johnny Unitas playing offensive tackle?
My little Brett Favre will enter high school with years of seasoning at quarterback. Since he has a father with only a mild degree of athletic talent, he won't be the strongest-armed quarterback in the state, or the one with the swiftest feet. Still, he'll play well enough to get a college recruiter to come to his games. Soon, head coaches all over the nation will be deciding whether to take my son instead of kids named "John," "Tim," and "Peter". Those poor boys. They never stood a chance.
Once in college, my kid will face stiff competition from the other quarterbacks on the team. But when the starter goes down midway through the season opener, the team's head coach will be forced to make a difficult choice. Go with the junior backup or my son?
The choice is easy, because the quarterback of Texas/Tennessee/Alabama is not named Daniel Bergman or Brian Chelminiak. He's named Brodie Croyle, or Casey Clausen, or Mitch Mustain.
After college, my little social experiment will enter the NFL Draft because, well, that's just what people with names like his do. Of course, he'll be a high draft pick. And don't get me wrong, I say this not because fatherly pride has blinded my eyes, but because of irrefutable, empirical evidence. Take a look at the names of QB's drafted in the early rounds of the past few drafts: Matt Leinart, Jay Cutler, Carson Palmer, Vince Young, Peyton Manning, Philip Rivers. I could go on all day.
Now look at their counterparts taken in the second day of the draft. Bruce Gradkowski. Ingle Martin. Josh Harris. Gibran Hamdan. They don't exactly roll of the tongue quite as well, do they?
So I suppose I could work my tail off for four years, go to graduate school, and make money the hard way. Or I could marry young, name my kid Koy Detmer, and retire at 40. Tough choice.
