Dear New England Patriots, Pats Nation, my colleagues here at The 300s, and anyone I’ve failed to recognize,
For almost three decades now I have been a dedicated fan of all four major Boston sports franchises without fail. The lows of the Bledsoe/(Dee)Brown/Bourque/…Valentin? slumps of the 90’s. The highs of breaking the curse, the Big 3, the Cup in 11′, and, of course, that slew of Super Bowls.
The Patriots obviously hold a special place among special places. They are our dynasty. They are our safety blanket. We worship at the Church of the Immaculate Hoodie and at the Statue of the Perfect Cheekbones. We were a down, downtrodden fan base and the Pats gave us hope.
With that said, Baker Mayfield is the balls. There is something about his chip-on-the-shoulder, “Fuck you I’m too small” self-confidence, electric style of play, and just pure competitiveness that is completely absorbing. He sometimes gets compared to Johnny Football, but Baker is a fucking mad dog QB1, a gunslinging sonofabitch who happens to be on the shorter side and can use his feet, as opposed to Manziel who always had a questions mark when it came to his arm and competitiveness.
So with that my dear, dear contemporaries I must confess that should the Cleveland Browns, the worst franchise in the history of anything – and I mean that, there were militias that were quite frankly paved by the Roman conquerors that looked better in comparison – draft Baker Mayfield, I must switch teams. I can’t root against Baker. His elusiveness as it pertains to law enforcement may not pass the sniff test, but he has the ability to drive the ball downfield and into my heart.
I hope you understand this is out of a love gained, not a love lost,