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Face It: The Detroit Lions Are Snakebitten

Peppers knocking Matt Stafford into Nov.
Peppers knocking Matt Stafford into Nov.Jonathan Daniel/Getty Images
C DeGetmonCorrespondent ISeptember 14, 2010

Face it, people: The Detroit Lions are snakebitten.

Bobby put the curse on years ago, and Freddy Krueger gets the last laugh.

Slash and burn, one can always see the axe falling with its clever impunity, unrestrained devastation, and impromptu devotion through the decades.

If there is one constant over the last 47 years, it is the unpredictable slight of hand that reaches out of the black hole of Detroit Lion football and predictably delivers defeat from the jaws of victory.  

How else can you explain it?

General manager Martin Mayhew did his job.  He delivered the players; he made one fine move after another over the course of the last year, bringing to Detroit some outstanding veterans and—more importantly—some no-name rookies like Berry and Phillips.

Of course, fan favorite Jeff "Sackus" forgot to slow down the moving freight train, a man named Mr. Julius Peppers, who was on a mission from hell or the black hole from whence all failure surely arises; eyes glaring and a wisp of smoke emitting from his nostrils, one could see a grin on Mr. Peppers' face as he drove QB Matt Stafford into the month of November. It always goes that way, does it not?

In what other parallel universe can the Lions lose a game they clearly won and walk away minus a promising QB hobbled by another prolonged injury that not only added insult to injury, but also reaching further into the roster and grasping another promising rookie, Eric Berry, who looked like the real deal, whispering softly, “Not this time, boys and girls.”

In fact, I had a flashback to the character played by Javier Bardem in No Country for Old Men; Bardem is the quintessential evil that materializes out of thin air, lifting the Lions up like a rag doll and then applying a death grip, sucking the last drop of fresh air from the lungs of another season.

Face it—what’s his name is surely not the answer to the loss of Matt Stafford. The Cat has been hanging on for a paycheck and perpetual second fiddle, finding himself in more cities than Linda Lovelace had on her resume.

What, pray tell, is the solution?

Maybe Jim Schwartz might turn to the spiritual realms, calling on one of his Jesuit mentors to do an exorcism. Or perhaps he can roll the dice and find the best available QB wandering the hinterlands of the wilderness.

Whatever they do, they better do it quickly before another season slowly sinks into oblivion.

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