My only problem is this – did you stop to consider my feelings? At all?
It was easy for me to ignore your game against the Arizona Cardinals, who might be the worst team in the NFL. But after last week's victory in Seattle, against the division-leading Seahawks, I'm upset. You appear to be a player who will stop at nothing to embarrass me.
When you hit four of five passes to open the game with an impressive touchdown drive, what were you thinking? Don't you know the first quarter is supposed to be your worst quarter, that you had only thrown one touchdown pass and completed barely 50 percent of your passes in the opening period all season long? That strike to Dwayne Bowe in the back of the end zone? It hurt me.
You could have stopped there, but you had to force the issue. Despite your reputation as one of the NFL's worst third-down quarterbacks, you decided to irresponsibly move the chains over and over again without even thinking of how I might react. Did you even realize what you were doing?
With pressure right in your face, forcing you to throw off your back foot, you lobbed a perfect pass to Bowe for a 19-yard gain on your first third down. We both know the rules, Matt. That pass was supposed to sail far over Bowe's head and the Chiefs were supposed to punt. How dare you.
Do you have an excuse for the perfectly thrown quick out you hit Bowe with on third-and-two to start the second quarter? Is there a reason it wasn't thrown behind the receiver or perhaps at his feet? I'll give you a reason – you're a big jerk! And you proved it a few snaps later when you again hit Bowe on third down, this time with a gorgeous 22-yard back-shoulder laser. I'm appalled, because all of your receivers were tightly covered on that play. If you really cared, you would have panicked, held the ball and taken a sack.
But you don't care, Matt. All you apparently care about now is hitting Bowe in stride on third down, and you callously did so again a few snaps later despite the blitzing safety screaming right in your face. When he smashed you to the turf, it probably hurt. Now you know how I feel.
Cassel only cares about winning, apparently.
You're a cold-blooded scoundrel.
It's honestly the only explanation for the spectacular play you made in the second half. With the Seahawks trailing by only four points and the Chiefs needing to convert a third-and-six with all of Seattle screaming their lungs out, a considerate man would have succumbed to the pressure, as you did in Indianapolis, Houston, Oakland and Denver earlier this year. But this time you had to show off.
Not only did you escape from a sure sack, whirling around in the pocket like John Elway, but then you set your feet and fired a perfect pass (off your back foot, no less) with a defender jumping in your face. If you had an ounce of common decency, you would have done what you're supposed to do – panic, take a sack, or throw a terrible pass. Instead, you made a difference. Ben Roethlisberger couldn't have done it better. You didn't even flinch.
It was cold blooded.
I intended to hold my tongue, to wallow in my own misery over all of this, for at least another week. But when the league decided to get in on this and make you the AFC Offensive Player of the Month, I couldn't take it anymore! It's gone too far, so you really need to explain yourself. Just what the hell do you think you're doing?
You know what? Forget it! There's really no explanation for any of this, Matt. You have no excuse for your behavior. It's obvious you intend to publicly humiliate me and bring shame to everything I've written about you since last season, when this all began.
It's cool, I can handle it. Devard Darling, Larry Johnson and Herm Edwards made fools out of me, and I'm still standing. A few third-down conversions against two of the NFL's worst defenses? I can take this. In fact, despite what you've done, I'm willing to overlook it all. We just need an apology on your part.
I'm not asking for much, Matt. Just blow this weekend's game against the Denver Broncos, start misfiring on third down again, and we're square. We both know you're still waiting to bust out that four-interception game. If you want to put a cherry on top, go into San Diego in a couple weeks and show the world you're helpless against a real franchise quarterback like Philip Rivers. You play your role, I'll play mine, and everything will be right with the world.
But this cold-blooded scoundrel act? You keep it up and I'm going to look incredibly dumb, especially if I wind up buying your jersey.
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