I really tried to avoid writing an article about Crabtree—I swear I did.
I would much rather talk about how Manny Lawson's responsibilities have diminished to maximize his strengths or how Josh Morgan is looking like the next guy they'll feature on those "The Draft Matters, Go Deep" commercials.
But I have fallen victim to the media's obsession with his lack of a contract. They're acting like he's the only player who hasn't signed the dotted line yet. Adding poop to the monkey cage is Crabtree's cousin saying he'll sit out the whole year if need be. Good job homie, that'll really make the Niners shell out the cash.
I was (and still am) estatic about the selection. My two homeboys were with me during the draft. You can ask them, I jumped up and down on my couch like a fourth grader on his way to Disneyland when I saw the pick.
With that being said, let me make this clear, because I feel an explosion coming: I am not upset with Michael Crabtree. Dissapointed, yes. When following OTA workouts, I was under the impression that Tree was dying, I mean aorta severed, temporal crushed, asystole dying to get on the field.
Obviously, that's not the case.
I am not an expert on how these holdouts go. We all know Eugene Parker is his agent by now. I don't know if Crabs can simply call up Parker and say, "Ok I want to play now, let's end the holdout." I don't know if this cousin is the one persuading Tree not to sign because it somehow means more money for him.
For all we know, Crabtree could be begging Parker to end it so he can get on the field.
That's why, unlike everyone else, I won't jump to conclusions and say 'Tree is a diva. Because I don't know.
What I do know is I want my team to win more Super Bowls. Period. I don't care if Crabtree plays one snap or if he breaks all of Jerry Rice's records in his first year. I don't give a rat's #$%#$ how the rings come, just let them come.
One with logical brain progressions would think that the more talent on the field, the better. Crabtree is a special player, but if we can win without him, let him sit up in the skybox and moan about money (assuming, again, he's the one moaning).
Ironically, my college roommate, whom I am still best-o-buds with, happens to be the best friend of Eugene Parker's son.
I'm getting really tempted to take this matter into my own hands...