A lot of people are talking about Richard “Don’t-talk-about-me-unless-you-want-me-to-make-every-guy’s-favorite-sports-personality-Erin-Andrews-really-uncomfortable” Sherman due to his somewhat animated post-NFC Championship interview when he not only claimed to be the greatest cornerback in the NFL but also claimed to know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried. Although I can’t dispute the fact that he has played very well in his league, I happen to know that there are not only one, but two, corners that truly are the best in the game: my two sons. Of course I’m not claiming that my two and six-year-old sons could beat Sherman on the football field but when it comes to breakfast my boys are an unstoppable force. For example, this morning my boys had consumed approximately 15 boxes of yogurt, three boxes of waffles, two bottles of syrup and 2 1/2 gallons of milk by the time I woke up one half hour after they woke up. This by itself would be quite a breakfast – and one that Richard “I-don’t-like-it-when-people-talk-about-yogurt-either-though-I-don’t-know-why” Sherman might be able to match – however, it was only the beginning. Approximately one hour after they consumed enough food to feed a small army, or B.J. Raji, I decided to make myself some breakfast; a waffle and two Morningstar sausage patties. As I heated up the sausage patties and put the waffle in the toaster, my two-year old son magically appeared by my side and said, “I want sausage patty.”
The battle had begun.
I know the route I need to run and I know this defense, I think to myself as I step to the line and face my defender. I may have never beaten his coverage before but at least it’s man-to-man coverage so I may just get to eat my breakfast yet. At the beep of the microwave signaling that the sausage patties are done I start with a stutter step and fight off the jam that my two-year old puts on me as I start my slant route across the kitchen. I gain a step on him midway through my route and the sweet taste of success (and sausage patties) is so close I can taste it. Until…”I want a sausage patty too. And a waffle.”
Despite knowing that my chances of getting to eat my breakfast now are nill I attempt to adjust my route in a desperate attempt to achieve some success; “Wouldn’t you guys like some eggs instead?”
“I want eggs”, my two-year old says, he stumbles slightly on the break.
“Me too! I want eggs too!”, my six-year-old exclaims as he slightly overplays the ball.
With the plate of sausage patties in hand I pivot hard to the right and make a spectacular one-handed grab on the waffle as it pops out of the toaster. With nothing but my breakfast in front of me I hear…
“Eggs and a waffle and sausage patty.”, the two of them slam into me in unison and I feel my breakfast squirt out of my fingers from the impact of this statement. I struggled to regain control of the waffle. I fought to get a hold on the sausage patty. I clawed desperately for just a crumb to fall back into my possession, but it was too late. I have turned my breakfast over to these shutdown corners (yes I know that it would probably be a safety and a corner in a double coverage situation but I’m struggling enough to maintain this breakfast/football metaphor to worry about it so cut me a break, huh?) again.
I look around in desperation for a flag assessing a penalty of breakfast interference or at least a coach’s challenge that may negate my fumble and give my team back the breakfast but, alas, there is none to be seen.
As I crack the eggs and begin the humiliating process of making yet more food that I will not get to eat because I have no real cause to send either of them to time out, I can’t help but be a little proud of these two young men as there is no question that they are undoubtedly just ’bout that action, boss.