The Odyssey of Tom Lewand

The big news this past week(well, other than the dreaded Willie Young signing his first contract) was Tom Lewand's drunken drive to oblivion. Yes, as soon as the story broke, I knew that I had to say something about it. You see, it's my responsibility as a Lions blogger to show you these things. It's not like I want to do it. I have to. It's in the Constitution. You can check. John Adams didn't think we needed it, but Thomas Jefferson was all "Oh no, motherfucker. That shit is the bedrock of freedom." Then they went whoring. Ben wrecked some plain old French lady, but old Tommy went buck wild on a Burundian whore named Sha'Quilla. But that is all a story for another time. Anyway, back to Tom Lewand.

Today, the dashboard video from the cop car was released and man, to be honest with you, it's pretty great. When I first heard about the arrest, I figured the dude was barely over the limit. You know, the whole "Well, officer, I had a couple of beers, but I feel fine . . . oh shit, I blew a .09? That's like four beers, officer. Come on, now, this is bullshit," kind of thing. Then I heard the dude blew a .21 and I knew this shit was wild. I mean, .21 is college drunk, you know? That's "Fuck it, just give me the whole bottle," kind of drunk, the kind of drunk that leads you to do stupid things like flicking on a lighter, taking a swig of Everclear and then accidentally burning your house down with a giant fireball Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat style. That kind of drunk.

So when I watched the video today, I think I was expecting some hilarious shit, like poor Tom Lewand stumbling all over himself, falling down, maybe puking on a cop. There are those who will tell you that that shit isn't hilarious at all, but tragic and sad, and well . . . sure, yeah. But those people need to lighten the fuck up. For our purposes, they are hilarious, and like I said, I have a responsibility as a blogger to dissect and point and laugh at this shit. It is my duty as an Ambassador of Truth and as a Defender of Freedom. I do not take it lightly. I mean, I could join the parade of sad sacks shaking their heads and scolding poor Tom for his unfortunate life choices, but that is the way of the average man, the way of the square. It is boring as hell and my chief responsibility as a blogger, even more than my responsibility to truth and freedom, is to be interesting.

Anyway, that is all spinning in a different direction than I meant to go and I apologize. Back to the Tom Lewand America's Funniest Home Video entry. Like I said, I was expecting some crazy hijinks with that level of drunk, but instead I was surprised by what I saw.

I mean, the tape starts up as you would expect, with Tommy Boy swerving all over the damn place and in my mind, I was thinking "Well shit, here we go." I admit, it was ghoulish, but I felt a sort of gleeful anticipation. It's wrong and shameful as all hell, but fuck it, there's no time for self reflection here, there's a drunk exec on the loose. Anyway, things continue in a hilarious direction when the cop comes to his door and is all WHOA. I mean, it probably smells like a brewery in there, you know? And things perhaps reach their peak when Tommy reasons that the officer must be smelling A BREATH MINT because he hasn't had anything to drink in a year and a half. Well, Goddamn. I mean, a breath mint, Tom? A FUCKING BREATH MINT?

Indeed. Apparently, Tom Lewand enjoys sucking on Jack Daniels flavored breath mints and hey, why not, you know? But really, come on now. The cop then asks him what he's been up to and Tom stammers some incoherent bullshit, some gibberish about picking some other chump up from a bar or hotel or restaurant or from the zoo or from who the fuck knows where. The cop of course then asks him to get out of the car and Tommy complies like the good citizen he is, and then things take a bit of a turn.

You see, Tom Lewand was drunk off his ass. You don't blow a .21 without being legitimately hammered. I mean, there's no mistake there. There's no "Gee, officer, I guess I must have had one too many." At that point, you are fucked up and you know it. But good ol' Tom gets out of the car anyway, knowing he's doomed and gets ready for all the dreaded field tests that half the population would fail stone cold sober. He takes them and it's still pretty obvious that the dude has been drinking, but damn it all, I was impressed by Tom's ability to maintain. He held his shit together the best that he could and didn't really do anything all that embarrassing. There were a few fuck ups but nothing so egregious as to suggest that this dude's piss could probably be set on fire.

That's where the story turned for me. I felt a strange sort of admiration for Tom Lewand. Look, I know that's wrong and irresponsible of me to say and a bad example for all of the kids who read this blog.(I'm sure you all sit around and read this blog as a family, don't you? Like back in the '30's, how they used to sit around and listen to the radio as a family. Sure, why not? I mean, you've got Dad sitting in front of the computer, reading this out loud to the wife and kids, trying his damnedest to approximate my voice, or whatever he imagines it to sound like - maybe Frank Booth after huffing a bunch of ether, I don't know - and the kids all laugh and clap and get excited whenever I bring up monkeys or werewolves and shit. It happens. I'm sure of it.) But even though it's irresponsible and wrong according to the accepted standards of this Great Society to admit something like that, I can't help it. It's the wild rebel in me. He doesn't come out all the time, and I can even reasonably pass for human most days, but he's in there and he can't help it.

By the time the field tests were all wrapped up, I was actively rooting for Tom. Fuck yeah, man, you're gonna do it! I knew it was ridiculous and wrong, but to hell with all that, I couldn't help myself. And then the cops had to go and haul the breathalyzer out. Game over, Tommy Boy. Shit.

Of course, this then leads into a comical "Oh shit, if I take it, I'm fucked," bit of legendary stalling from Tom, who even invokes the old "But what if I get a false positive?" That last desperate gamble of the doomed drunkard is brought into play, along with shit like "I'm just trying to figure out my options. I'm a lawyer." It just keeps going and going and going and the cops just keep getting more and more pissed off until Tom is finally all "Okay, shit, let's do it," and the cops are all "Man, you better. If you even hesitate, we're hauling your ass to jail and getting a warrant to test your blood." The moment of truth arrives and they get out the breathalyzer, stick it in his mouth and then Tom, my hero, is all "Well, I don't know guys." I laugh, and the cops say fuck it and arrest him. And that's it.

That was the twenty minute scene. But what led to that? I mean, it's pretty obvious that Tom Lewand probably has a drinking problem. First of all, there was the whole "I haven't had a drink in a year and a half." That sounds like the proud ravings of the recovering alcoholic. Then there is the fact that he decided to drive with a .21 hanging over his head. I mean, shit, you don't do that unless you've probably done it before, you know? You just don't get that level of drunk and think that you can pull it out without some experience. That was no rookie drunk on that tape. His ability to semi-maintain was near Jedi like. Only a dude who has spent great portions of time as a functioning drunkard can pull that off. I mean, again, .21. That's seriously fucked up. Dude is lucky he could even speak English by that point.

So, what we seem to have here is the case of a recovering alcoholic who slipped up and went for a joy ride. It happens. But as it so often happens, this wasn't a case of a dude having a drink or two and thinking "What the hell am I doing?" before heading out into the night. No, when a drunk falls off the wagon, he fucking falls forever. The wagon rolls over his besotted ass and then backs up and rolls over him again. The horses even kick him a few times for good measure. By the time he's finished, he's broken into a million pieces, dirty, wrecked, and in no condition to do anything other than lay there and hope someone scrapes his ass off the road and tosses him back onto the wagon.

But still, how does a dude who's managed to stay clear of the demon juice for a year and a half find himself blowing a .21 on the side of the road while cops search his car? Well, here, for the first time, I present to you a possible scenario:

[Open on a suburban bar. A neatly dressed middle aged man peaks his head into the door. He seems nervous.]

Bartender: Can I help you?

Nervous man: Uh, well, I'm supposed to meet some people here. I think I'm supposed to give them a ride home.

Bartender: Playing designated driver tonight?

[The nervous man chuckles uneasily.]

Nervous man: Uh, I guess so. I don't see them anywhere, though.

Bartender: What do they look like? Maybe I can tell you if they were here.

Nervous Man: Uh, well, they look like . . . ah, um . . . maybe I should just come inside and check around.

[The bartender shrugs.]

Bartender: Okay, sure, whatever you want.

[The nervous man enters the bar. He runs a hand through his hair. He's starting to sweat. He shouldn't be in here. He needs to leave. He doesn't, though. For some reason, he finds himself moving closer to the bar. He rationalizes that his friends might still be there, that he just needs to wait it out. He's tired though. He needs to sit down. He's had a long day and it shouldn't be a big deal just to sit at the bar for a while and wait. I mean, it's not like he's going to be drinking or anything. He nods to himself and then resolutely sits down at the bar.]

Bartender: Can I get you something?

[Oh shit, the nervous man thinks. He wasn't expecting this.]

Nervous Man: Uh, I'll . . . uh . . . [Get a grip, he thinks to himself. Shit. Just order something. It will be a test. Yeah. That's it. A test. If he can sit here and stare at a full glass without touching it, he'll prove, once and for all that he's beaten this thing.]

Bartender: Sir?

Nervous Man: I'll have a vodka tonic. Go easy on the tonic. [Shit. Why did you say that? Relax. It's just force of habit. It doesn't mean that you'll actually be drinking it.]

Bartender: Alright man, here you go.

Nervous Man: Thanks. [Jesus. This was a mistake. God, my heart is pounding. I'm so nervous. My finger tips are tingling. I just need to calm down. Relax. You're fine. Shit. It's not working. I just need to get it together. What if . . . no. That would be a huge mistake. But . . . no. I can't do it. That would just defeat the purpose, wouldn't it? Then again, I'm not doing anyone any good this nervous. I'm a wreck. Isn't that why you stopped drinking in the first place? Maybe just a sip. Maybe just something to calm the nerves. Okay, here goes . . . damn. I missed you, baby.]

Bartender: You got a name?

Nervous Man: Tom . . . Tom Lewand.

Bartender: Huh. That name sounds kind of familiar.

Tom: Yeah, I work for the Lions . . . you know, the Detroit Lions. Team President.

Bartender: The Lions?

[A flash of disgust crosses his face. He tries to hide it, but can't help himself. Both men realize it and each looks away. Tom looks down and takes another drink. His life is tough. I mean, he should be able to feel proud of himself, but he gets that same damn reaction every time he tells people he works for the Lions.]

Bartender: Can I get you another one?

[Tom looks down and is shocked when he realizes that he's finished the drink. Wow. He needs to leave. Now. This isn't good. But without even thinking about it he motions for another one. The bartender is already pouring it and . . . shit, just drink it man. Just finish it and get the fuck out. You've already crossed the line. Don't be weird. Just maintain and then get home. You can deal with this in the morning.]

Tom: Thanks.

[Tom takes a drink. He just wants to finish this one and leave. He pounds it. Goddamn. Feel that burn. It's so familiar, like an old friend. I remember you. Feels good too. Oh, this is nice. Fuck it, what's the difference between two and three . . .]

[Several drinks later, Tom staggers off of his stool. He's finally willed himself to leave. It's too late and he knows it. He's fucked up. He shouldn't drive but he can't call a taxi. That would be admitting, both to himself and to the rest of the world, that he made a mistake. He's a public figure, a prominent executive, an important man. He's famous. He can't admit something like that. Shit. He's only a couple of miles from home. He can do this. He's done it before. It's been a while, but what the hell, it's like riding a bike.]

[Tom takes a deep breath as he starts his car. Shit, he thinks. Maintain. You can do this. He pops a breath mint. He belches and then exhales, slow and long. He turns the radio off. It's a distraction. You have got to focus, Tom. Maintain.]

[You're doing it, Tom! You're gonna make it. Shit, this isn't so hard. Tom starts to relax. He laughs. He just remembered the time Ernie Sims brought his monkey to the team Christmas party and it went wild and attacked Old Man Ford's wife. That shit was hilarious. The little guy shit on the floor and everyone got worried when Jason Hanson slipped in it because it looked like he pulled his groin but he came up laughing and so everyone else started laughing and the monkey started hooting and then tried to fuck Matthew Stafford's date. She looked horrified and Matt just laughed and said it wasn't like she hadn't done worse and she got all offended and stormed out and Dominic laughed at Matt and said it looked like it was "a night of self reflection" and then made a jacking off motion with his hand. Everyone laughed and Matt pretended to scold the monkey and . . . oh shit, oh fuck. Sirens. Maintain, motherfucker. Maintain.]

Okay. Maybe it didn't happen exactly like that, but then again, maybe it did. Who's to say? The only one who knows for sure is Tom Lewand. All I know is that it's June and thank God something happened. I know it's cruel and ghoulish of me to think like that, but these are strange and terrible times and we must find salvation wherever we can. If that is at the bottom of a bottle or in the story of a Lions exec run amok then oh well. I'm not proud of it, and I'm sure many of you think that I have behaved irresponsibly in this post, but this is the cross that I must bear as a Warrior of Light, an Ambassador of Truth and as a Defender of Freedom. I am a blogger, damn it, and as such I have a responsibility to provide both news and analysis. Some dude on Twitter said so. It may be ugly, but this is just the way of things. Vaya con dios, Tom Lewand. Vaya con dios.

My 5 Favorite Lions Teams

As Lions fans, there is precious little in our immediate past that can make us smile. That is a hysterical understatement. Really, for the last 50 years, Lions football has been a barren and uninhabitable wasteland. Only the truly insane and the masochistic would choose to live in such a world. Unfortunately, I - and many of you - did not choose to live in this wasteland. We were born here, and we have been forced to survive on a diet of shit and the bones of unsuspecting travelers. Wait . . . what? Never mind that last part.

But occasionally - very, very occasionally, we are allowed a modicum of joy on these hellish plains. They are not moments that would pass for joy in any other land, but we are like the child who has nothing and if he is given a couple of sticks and a marble, he gets embarrassingly excited. Everyone else has video games and iPods and concubines and all we have are a bunch of sticks wrapped in hay that we call a doll. Horrible, just horrible.

But they are our sticks and we love them for reasons that no one on the outside can understand. It is with that in mind that I have chosen my five favorite sticks, or to take this beyond the realm of dumb and tortured metaphor, my five favorite Lions seasons. Naturally, this will only cover the last 20 years or so. It wouldn't make much sense for me to rave about the 1983 team since I was three when that shit went down. And, strange and mystical as I am, the powerful Lions teams of the '50s are well before my time. No, this is about my own personal journey through this terrible world, and therefore, these are the five seasons that mean the most to me as a Lions fan. It is kinda sad - very, actually - and as usual, whenever I do something like this, it ends up strangely making me more depressed than when I discuss the bad shit, but what the hell, I am a warrior of light and a champion in my heart and I can take it. And besides, this is easy content, and there is nothing else to write about.(Well, there is Tim Toone, but even though he is by all accounts a very good guy, my procrastination when it comes to discussing him is so epic that it has given me a complex, and that complex has caused me to loathe him before he even gets a chance. So sad, but this is our reality and, after all, these are strange and terrible times and these things happen.) Okay, Jesus, enough rambling, let's just get on with this shit.

5. 2008

RECORD: 0-16

PLAYOFFS? UH . . .

KEY PLAYERS: DAN ORLOVSKY, DAUNTE CULPEPPER, KEVIN SMITH, CALVIN JOHNSON, THE FAILURE DEMON, THE HOUNDS OF HELL, LENNIE SMALL

HEAD COACH: ROD MARINELLI

Wait, what the fuck? I know this doesn't make any sense. This was 0-16, the Year of Unnumbered Tears, Hell on Earth. What the fuck am I talking about?

Okay. There is really no way that I can justify this, and it is a dark and shameful thing to admit, but 0-16 was indeed my fifth favorite season as a Lions fan. I will wait for you to stop rioting and throwing shit at your screen before I explain why.

Okay, done? Good. Also, you shouldn't throw shit at your screen. It just marks you as a barbarian, and besides, that is your monitor. Unless you are reading this at a friend's house or at the library or whatever. In that case, go nuts. Piss on the keyboard while you're at it. Fuck it.

But after you're done with all that, sit down, shut up and listen to me. 0-16 was not a good feeling. Let's just get that out of the way. Really, it was also my least favorite season as a Lions fan. So what the hell is it doing on this list? Well, you see, 2008 was when I began this absurd little adventure in blogging. The first game that I wrote about was the epic and terrible shitkicking the Lions received from the Falcons to start that season. Go back and look. My first post on this site came in August, on the eve of that terrible and savage season. And now, here I am, almost two years later, and I'm still writing about the Lions despite all reason.

In a way it was fun. That may sound heretical, but what the fuck, the rules are different for Lions fans. That is where everything began for me here, where all the weirdness, the fucked up imagery, the stupid nicknames, the irrational love for certain players, the unreasonable hatred for others, began. Through writing about the Lions, I became almost obsessed with them. They became a dragon I had to chase and then slay. I'm still chasing that fucking dragon and I'm still trying to drag it down and kill it. It opened up a whole world for me to explore, a whole story that is absurd and terrible and strange and fascinating and heart wrenching and complex and simple all at the same time. I love telling it, even as painful as it is to actually live it.

Perhaps that doesn't make sense to anyone else but me, but that's because I'm the one wrapped up inside of it. I make no apologies. Throughout the 2008 season, I felt like Slim Pickens riding the A-Bomb like a bucking bronco in Dr. Strangelove. If I had to sum up what that season felt like, that would be it. It was strange and dark and terrible and also bizarrely fun. It was a hell of a ride, and even though I knew we were all just hurtling towards certain and terrible doom, I rode that fucker to the bitter end and I am both proud and mortified by that fact.

Not only did I live through 0-16, but I feel like I comprehensively told the story of that season better than anyone else out there. That is a powerful statement to make, bold and egotistical as all hell, but fuck it, I don't pat myself on the back often, and I feel like it's true and I don't mind saying it. 0-16 was unique, singular in its notoriety, and I told that story while the world burned. If you were here then and you came along with me on the journey, then you know. If you didn't - and most of you probably weren't here yet - you missed out on something that was both terrible and oddly enjoyable. I was on fire. Again, this probably all sounds like the ravings of an ego driven asshole, but fuck, I never do this so hopefully you'll indulge me here a bit. 0-16 was unique and strange and terrible and utterly without redemption. And somehow, someway, in the midst of all of that, whatever this is that I do here was born. And that's not nothing, you know?


4. 1999

RECORD: 8-8

PLAYOFFS? YES

KEY PLAYERS: GUS FREROTTE, CHARLIE BATCH, GREG HILL, GERMANE CROWELL, JOHNNIE MORTON, DAVID SLOAN, STEPHEN BOYD, ROBERT PORCHER, LUTHER ELLIS, JEFF HARTINGS, RON RICE

HEAD COACH: BOBBY ROSS

The 1999 season was a strange one, an oddly noble last stand before the world collapsed. The Lions had gone 5-11 the season before, and St. Barry floated out of town on a river of tears, riding a raft made of broken dreams. The mood was decidedly grim. On top of St. Barry's untimely demise, Herman Moore also chose the 1999 season to fall apart. With the Lions two iconic weapons of the '90s dead and dying respectively, it seemed fitting that the decade would come to a close with a funeral for the team that never quite made it over the hump.

But then a funny thing happened. The Lions went out and they fought their asses off. They played hard all season, despite a lack of star talent, and they didn't stop fighting until they were finally dropped by the Redskins in the first round of the playoffs. It wasn't a great season - hell, it was very, very average - but everyone involved with the Lions knew that death was at hand, that the day was coming, and coming soon, the day when the world would cave in on itself and the only thing that would remain would be the stench of death and the buzzards picking the scraps of the corpses of the fallen. It was unavoidable. It was going to happen, but these dudes stood up anyway, and every week they marched onto the field and in the twilight of hope, they stood on the precipice of doom and they lived another day.

Gus Frerotte and Charlie Batch were both adequate at quarterback. Neither was spectacular but they survived, and that was all anybody on the team could do that season. Germane Crowell came out of nowhere to replace Herman Moore and for a brief moment, he stood proud and tall in the sun before he was dragged into the shadows and forgotten once again. The few blue chip talents still on the team, like Robert Porcher and Luther Elliss, helped will the team to remain relevant against all odds, while Stephen Boyd played like an absolute warrior in the middle of the defense. He was overmatched and undertalented, a shadow of the great he replaced, Chris Spielman, but that made him the perfect avatar for this team. He managed to overcome all of that, and in the face of overwhelming darkness, a darkness which would finally descend two years later, an inevitability which could have paralyzed the entire Lions world, which could have - which should have - beaten everyone, he and the Lions survived, and with that survival came a grim sort of pride. And that's something that we can look at today, and although it won't make us smile, it will let us lift our heads high and remember that there is worth in fighting, even when there is no hope.

3. 1989

RECORD: 7-9

PLAYOFFS? NO.

KEY PLAYERS: BARRY SANDERS, BOB GAGLIANO, BARRY SANDERS, RODNEY PEETE, BARRY SANDERS, RICHARD JOHNSON, BARRY SANDERS, CHRIS SPIELMAN, BARRY SANDERS, JERRY BALL, BARRY SANDERS, BENNIE BLADES, BARRY SANDERS, LOMAS BROWN, BARRY SANDERS, KEVIN GLOVER, BARRY SANDERS, ERIK ANDOLSEK, BARRY SANDERS, HOPE, BARRY SANDERS

HEAD COACH: WAYNE FONTES

From the end of an era to the beginning. The Lions only finished 7-9 in the 1989 season, but it was the first season where I really started to understand the bigger picture, where I started to pay attention to how the Lions fit into the overall picture of the NFL. This was also Barry Sanders' first season, and with him came a knew emotion: hope. It was the first time, as a young Lions fan, where I felt that twinge, that "maybe we can do this" feeling. It was the first time that I really invested myself emotionally in the team, a time when I stopped being a fan of the Lions simply because I was born into it and started being a fan of the Lions because my heart made me.

It was a bad season, really. The Lions started an atrocious 2-9, but behind St. Barry, they won their last five games of the season to finish 7-9. I remember thinking that they were on their way, that no one could stop my favorite team and that the next year they would surely kill everyone and become the best team in the league. After all, they were my team, and so they had to win, right? And they had the most exciting player in football, Barry Sanders, St. Barry, the player who was so good that he almost seemed like an alien. He was quiet, humble, so outrageously good that as a rookie he had to pull himself out of the last game of the season so he wouldn't win the rushing title, which would have embarrassed him. Who does that? I mean, really? In a way, Barry's humility only made him seem even more badass. He was the gunfighter who would draw before his opponent could even move his hand. And then Barry would stalk his opponent down, stick the gun in his face and then turn around and walk off while his opponent stood there with piss running down his legs. In a way, Barry's humility was almost arrogant. He was so good that he embarrassed other people by letting up. He beat them, made them think they were going to die and then just walked away, leaving them to live with their own shame. That shit is fucking cold.

It was with that in mind that I thought the next season was ours for the taking. Hope was born in my heart. Of course, the Lions ended up going 6-10 the next season and the young me learned my first lesson in Lions fandom and the nature of hope. But the seeds were planted, and for the next decade, it always seemed like it was possible, it always felt like we were so close to turning the corner. That's what made the 1999 season so grim and yet so noble - that hope had finally died - but in 1989 that hope was born, and it sustained me for a full decade as a Lions fan.

2. 1995

RECORD: 10-6

PLAYOFFS? YES.

KEY PLAYERS: BARRY SANDERS, SCOTT MITCHELL, HERMAN MOORE, BRETT PERRIMAN, CHRIS SPIELMAN, BENNIE BLADES, WILLIAM CLAY, LOMAS BROWN, KEVIN GLOVER

HEAD COACH: WAYNE FONTES

1995 was arguably the height of the Barry Sanders era, a season where the Lions, for the first time, emerged as legitimate Super Bowl contenders, a season where the promise of the past had finally ripened into present possibility.

The season actually started off kind of shitty. The Lions lost their first three games. But then, on Monday night, against the badass 49ers, the Lions won 27-24, hinting at what was to come. The 49ers managed to shut down St. Barry, but for the first time since Barry had been in Detroit, the Lions were able to respond. Scott Mitchell threw the ball all over the field, to a receiving corps led by Herman Moore, who set the NFL's all time single season reception record with 123, and Brett Perriman, who caught 108 passes of his own. It was the first time that the Lions made people pay for ganging up on Barry Sanders.

The Lions continued to stumble after that game though, and after nine games were only 3-6. It seemed like a typically frustrating Lions season under Wayne Fontes. But then the Lions went crazy, winning their final seven games, and winning them in a way that made them suddenly seem like they were destroyers of the world. They just started whipping on everyone. They weren't just winning, they were beating teams. There's a difference. The last two games of the season, the Lions combined for 84 points and gave up only 10. They beat Jacksonville 44-0, a game that was so lopsided that Fontes ordered his team to start taking a knee with several minutes left to go in the game so that the score wouldn't be even worse. It humiliated the Jaguars. They bitched after the game, saying that what Fontes did was even more embarrassing to them than if he had run up the score. I loved it. This was my team, just playing with people.

It was our moment. We were there. We had arrived and now it was time for us to kick down the door and finally ascend to the throne that had been waiting for us from the day that St. Barry arrived. The playoffs started, the Lions played the Eagles, and . . . lost, 58-37. Whoops. Well, shit. It turns out that Scott Mitchell was, well, Scott Mitchell. His implosion in the first round was spectacular, and so utterly Lionsesque, that it has become a part of the team's legend. It is ingrained in our collective psyche, imprinted on our brains forever. Scott Mitchell is what happens to us when we allow ourselves to believe.

Still, after the playoffs were over, and the Cowboys had won the Super Bowl, I remember an analyst on ESPN talking about how the Cowboys had gotten lucky, about how some were questioning whether they really were the best team in the league. After all, in the playoffs, that didn't have to play the 49ers and they didn't have to play the Lions. Wait . . . what? The Detroit Lions? Indeed. It is the only time, in my entire life as a fan, that the Lions were put in that category, the one time that they were treated as anything other than a punch line to a bad joke. I'll never, ever, forget that moment. It didn't happen on the football field, and really, it was just a throwaway line by some dude in a studio in Connecticut, but for the briefest of moments, a moment so brief that it never even translated to the actual field of play, the Lions lived in that world, that strange and beautiful place that has always seemed so unreachable, so unknowable. The Lions were winners in spirit, were winners for a moment so ephemeral that it barely existed, a moment that sparked to life, flickered and then died before even a second had passed. And yet, it existed. There is both a lingering sense of pride and a terrible sort of wrenching pain caused by that moment, and it is in that, that mixture of pride and pain, of hope and sorrow, that the story of the Detroit Lions in my lifetime becomes all too clear.

1. 1991

RECORD: 12-4

PLAYOFFS? YES. THEY EVEN WON A GAME!

KEY PLAYERS: BARRY SANDERS, ERIK KRAMER, RODNEY PEETE, BRETT PERRIMAN, ROBERT CLARK, WILLIE GREEN, MEL GRAY, CHRIS SPIELMAN, BENNIE BLADES, JERRY BALL, RAY CROCKETT, LOMAS BROWN, ERIK ANDOLSEK, KEVIN GLOVER, MIKE UTLEY, MIKE UTLEY'S WHEELCHAIR, MIKE UTLEY'S THUMB

HEAD COACH: WAYNE FONTES

Well, here it is, my favorite season as a Lions fan. 1991. The Lions had finished 6-10 the year before, but this was only Barry's third season, and hope was still young and still fresh. The Lions lost their first game 45-0 to the Redskins, which foreshadowed the disappointing end to the season, but in between, the Lions won and they won often, finishing 12-4 thanks to both the amazing grace of Barry Sanders and the emotion spawned by the crippling of Mike Utley and his famous thumbs up from the stretcher. That grace and that emotion combined into one overwhelming wave, a wave which crested with the Lions winning the NFC Central division and serving notice that they planned to be the new lords of the league, the team of the '90s.

Of course, that all turned out to be wishful thinking, an illusion spawned by that cruel trickster known as Hope, but for a season at least, anything and everything seemed possible. There wasn't rampant cynicism, no feeling that death was imminent, no lingering suspicion that the whole thing was a fraud. Even in that 1995 season, people were well aware that Scott Mitchell was in fact Scott Mitchell and we had already been burned by hope enough times by then to not fully trust it. But in 1991, hope was a new thing, a beautiful and pure and innocent and wonderful thing and we embraced it wholeheartedly.

It all culminated on January 5, 1992, in Pontiac Michigan, at the fabled Silverdome, where the Lions dismantled the young Dallas Cowboys, 38-6, in the NFC playoffs. The Lions had earned a bye thanks to their record, which was the second best in the NFC. They awaited the winner of the Wildcard game in the second round, which turned out to be the Cowboys. It was a match-up of young teams, of two teams with star running backs, Barry and Emmitt Smith, It was the battle for the future of the NFL, a battle which promised to tell us, once it was over, who was for real and who was just a pretender.

It was an awesome game, a game which is the apex of my fandom. I was there. I was at the game, and I remember the unbridled excitement in the crowd, the feeling that we had arrived, that the future was ours, that our fandom in the Detroit Lions had finally paid off. I remember watching Barry disappear completely into a pile, only to reemerge like some sort of magician on the other side. He was stopped, the play was over, and then there he was, running wild and free towards the endzone. He was amazing, and he was ours. Fuck Emmitt Smith. That grinder wasn't special. He wasn't a magician like our Barry. Barry was mystical. Barry was on loan from heaven. He wasn't a football player, he was St. Barry, our patron saint, our savior.

That is how we felt, watching him and the Lions on that day. The question was answered. The Lions were the real deal, the Cowboys were the pretenders. The future was ours. As always, reality ended up laughing at us and then punting us in the balls over and over and over again. A week later, the Lions went into Washington for the NFC Championship game and were annihilated, losing 41-10. At the time, it just seemed like a blip, a stumble on a long and beautiful road to glory. After all, we were young, we were good and our time would still come.

Of course, it never did, but such is the tragedy of the Lions in my lifetime. The story is long and complex, but these five seasons were all important chapters in that story, necessary to understand if anyone has any hope of comprehending the larger story. They are seasons that all affected me deeply as a fan, seasons that are burned into my brain, for good or for bad. I called this my five favorite seasons, but in retrospect, perhaps I should have called this the five most important seasons in my Lions fandom.

This post ended up being long, full of heartache and pain, and in many ways, like I said at the outset, it is infinitely more depressing to do something like this than it is to point out all the bad. The sheer mediocrity of the so called good does a better job of anything else of telling the story, of explaining just why things have been so horrible for us over the years. I mean, the combined record of the five teams above is 37-43. That's fucking horrible. True, the 0-16 season does skew things a bit, but two of my other favorite seasons include an 8-8 campaign and a 7-9 season. That means that there are only two winning seasons in my entire lifetime that stand out to me as memorable. That's depressing as all hell, right?

In any event, I actually enjoyed writing this post. Once it got going anyway. It was meant to be a filler post, something to throw up here in lieu of anything substantive. But, I think, in its own way, it ended up being an important post to write. That may sound absurd, but to hell with all that, being a fan is in itself an absurd thing most of the time. Really, this post explains a lot of what it means to be a Lions fan. I am surprised by this. But as this post has shown, I am often surprised by the Lions, in ways both good and bad. Maybe what we should take away from all of this is that sometimes, when it seems like the future is shining bright, there is a horde of failure demons waiting just over the horizon to ambush us. And sometimes, when the world seems utterly black, light can emerge from the strangest of places.

Oh well. Vaya con dios, mi amigos. The journey is still ongoing, and while it may be strange and terrible, at least we are all in it together.

This Post is Meta as All Hell

Before I do anything, I should apologize for having not posted anything here in the last two weeks. That is the longest I've gone without writing something Lions related in the two years I've been doing this, which is a sad and terrifying statement now that I see it in front of me. The truth is, is that I was feeling a bit burned out. I love writing about the Lions - when there is something to write about. But there is nothing going on right now. I mean it. There is jack and shit to write about right now. I think it seemed more interesting last year because everything was new, Matthew Stafford was a rookie, we were coming off of 0-16 and everyone was desperate to see how things would shake out. This year, it is just the usual pap about players being hungry and quotes about how people are going to be surprised and blah blah blah.

Frankly, I think twitter has started to get to me. The mind numbing repetition of boring ass quotes and anecdotes has caused a sort of resentful fuck this attitude in me. I don't want to write about this shit because I'm sick of hearing about it. That doesn't mean that I don't like writing about the Lions, because God help me, for some fucked up reason I do. It just means that I don't want to get dragged into writing a bunch of stupid empty bullshit because there's nothing else to write about. I could have probably written another "And that's why I'm a fan, folks" posts, but fuck, I can't just whip those out assembly line style or else they just end up fake and processed. The reason I enjoy writing those kind of posts from time to time is because I feel like the things said in them are worth being said, not because I have nothing else to write about. I also have a Tim Toone breakdown to do, but following that weird piece of business with Willie Young, I have no idea how to approach that shit. I mean, I think I need to play this one fairly straight. The Willie Young thing should stand on its own, you know? The only problem with that is I'm just not all that interested in doing a straight breakdown of Tim Toone.

That's the thing. I'm not interested in reporting/breaking the news. That's Sean at Pride of Detroit's thing. I'm not even that interested in doing analytical work. Ty at The Lions in Winter does that better than anyone else writing about the Lions.(Yeah, yeah, I know, get a room.) I'm still not sure exactly what it is that I do, but I don't want to become a slave to convention. I don't want to fall in line and start writing about the Lions the same way everyone else does. I mean, why bother? If I can't bring something original to the table, then I should just stay the fuck out of it all together. The good news, I think, is that I do bring something original and fun and compelling to the table. It might not be all that reputable and people might think of me as the drunken asshole of an uncle of the Lions family or the half-mad cousin who lives in the attic and nobody talks about, but to hell with all that. Basically, I don't want to do this just because I feel like I'm compelled to do it by anything other than my own desire to write and I don't want to write about certain things just because I'm supposed to write about them. I want to write about what interests me, and only when I think I have something worth saying.

Okay, that's a lot of bullshit, but I think the air needs to be cleared from time to time if we are to have a healthy relationship. The good news(or bad news depending on your point of view)is that soon, things will ramp up and I will start writing more and more about the Lions. During the actual season, I plan(probably somewhat ambitiously and insanely but what the hell) to have something up here every day of the week. I almost pulled that off last season, but I would usually fall a day or two short every week. But fuck it, if it's not there, it's not there. I think that, this season, I'll have enough to talk about and enough original and regular features that I can make it work. Hell, I'm hoping and praying that Willie Young makes the team so I can do a weekly serial following his adventures through time.

This has been meta as all hell, but like I said, sometimes these things need to be discussed. Just as an aside, even if I don't put up anything new for a couple of days(or weeks I suppose)here, I'm still around. I post on twitter. You can follow me there. My user name is armchairlb. Sometimes it's about football. Other times it's about weird nonsense, which shouldn't be all that surprising. I have noticed that I tend to go on weird runs that span anywhere from 5-10 tweets(Jesus . . . tweets. I feel like a fucking goon writing that word, but this is what society has come to.) Anyway, follow me and we will conquer that world together.

I also get paid real, legitimate currency to write regularly for heavy.com, so you can check me out there. I have several articles up each week there, about a variety of subjects. Seriously, I have written about everything from Brian Cushing getting nailed for being, well, Brian Cushing to shit about Betty White to stories about British Parliament to stuff about the Continental/United merger. They are all vaguely ridiculous, all pretty funny, and, well, basically everything you would expect an article written by me to be.

Okay, okay, okay. I didn't mean for this to turn into a public attempt at self fellatio and if you are annoyed, I don't blame you. I hate self promotion. I'm not comfortable with it and I'm not good at it. Unfortunately, for a blogger this is not a good thing. I much prefer to just put my shit out there and let it speak for itself. So when I do hype my shit, it often ends up coming out in a vomitous fountain of drivel rather than as anything smooth and/or relevant. I just close my eyes and start bellowing. It's unseemly and I apologize.

On to slightly more relevant shit. As I said before, the season is fast approaching. Keeping with the meta nature of this post, I though I would take this time to ask anyone reading to please feel free to e-mail me if you want to write for this here site. There is no reward, monetary or otherwise as we are a tiny little thing. We are a gang of heathens, a small pirate ship floating along, scaring the hell out of proper folk, raising hell and having a good time as we careen towards oblivion. If you would like to be a part of that, hit me up at neilabfree@gmail.com. I'm pretty much open to anything. I mean, obviously we don't want ten people all writing about the same team, but a duplicate here and there isn't going to hurt anything.

We're pretty laid back here, despite all appearances to the contrary. I mean, I'm not sure if we need another dude ranting and raving about the Lions, but what the hell, you know? I'm not territorial and if you can bring something different to the table that you think people might want to read, then shit, say something. Of course, if you are a fan of a team that is not covered by anyone here then fuck, send me an e-mail ASAP. I don't care if you just want to post the occasional paragraph bitching about or celebrating your team. It doesn't need to be some grandiose expression of your fandom or whatever. It just needs to be words about your favorite team. That's it. Say how you feel. Don't worry about what anyone else is doing and just do your thing.

Well shit. I originally set out to write about the Lions in this post and never quite got there, did I? But there were some things that needed to be said, some air to be cleared and some site business to attend to and I'm glad we got that out of the way. The Tim Toone breakdown, whatever I decide to do with it, should be coming soon, and then I'll probably come up with a couple of different things, some quick top five type posts that I kinda want to do(My 5 favorite Lions seasons, 5 favorite players, etc.), and then the season will be upon us and there will be a flurry of bullshit every day.

If you take away anything from this mess of a post, I suppose it is that I want this upcoming season to be a fucking blast, and part of that is getting more people to holler about shit. So, yeah, if you want to write about your favorite team, e-mail me at neilabfree@gmail.com. Hell, e-mail me if you just want to tell me that I suck. I don't care. This whole thing is about community and about getting each other through our own tortured relationships with our teams. E-mail me, comment on the posts, write your own damn posts. Armchair Linebacker is a pretty laid back place. We're just dudes who like football and like writing about that football from time to time. Join us.