Miami Cries Out For A Neckbearded Savior

Lo, the echoing green of Sun Life Stadium. A scrimmage, Dolphin against Dolphin, for the hearts and minds of the Dolphin faithful. And who should presume to represent the faithful, their unshattered, unshaken loyalty, their loyal teal? A leader; a general; a man.

Yet men have come and gone, tried and failed. Miami has known glory in past ages, a perfection that none other has tasted. Still they gather to toast their perfection, men who would become gods. But do they not tempt the gods in their hubris? What else to explain a team once made great, now brought low by the frail, inaccurate arms of men.

The fields of victory, now a wasteland. And yet it is August that is the cruelest month on this wasteland, as pretender after pretender takes the mantle only to miss the checkdown receiver. Frerotte, Harrington, Lemon, Pennington: they were to be the names of heroes. But like so many before them, they were but jesters masquerading as kings.

Who shall be king, and when? The holy scriptures of parity say a king shall come again before the prophet Yepremian passes from this earth. The nobles say Henne is to be king. Henne, of the 75 passer rating. He was anointed last year, and the year before that, and has done nothing to show he deserves the crown. Yet it shall be Henne again!

But: rumblings from the West! The Dolphin faithful whisper amongst themselves that a savior dwells in the mountains. Twelve feet tall, his face hidden by the mane of a lion. A nomad, a man without a starting position, the promise-keeper to take them to the promised land. And yet he remains in the West — he cannot come unless summoned, his herald says. Just a small offering of gold would do the trick.

So Henne remains on the throne, and the 10,000 Dolphin faithful suffer his presence. But they do not suffer it silently. Another pass deflected, and the spirit wells up in their hearts, their lungs. They utter a cry to the heavens, the cry of the tread-upon. Henne cannot but hear it; perhaps the Man from the West will hear it as well. Will he come? Will he save them from the crushing torpor of 6-10? They have nothing left to lose. So they cry:

"We want Orton!" (Clap Clap Clap-Clap-Clap)