Delightful. So festive! What else happened? Oh right, they cut their starting corner before he could get necessary groin surgery. The starting wideout took a public shit on the offensive line. Oh, and the franchise quarterback developed fifth-stage leprosy. All of this was bad enough to finally rid you fat humps of Chuck Pagano for good. I know I just said I’m gonna miss Ben McAdoo, but dammit here’s yet another terrible coach who I’m really gonna miss!


You can’t coach that kind of bad coaching. Either you’re born a clueless boob, or you aren’t. Bad quarterbacking is unwatchable, but bad coaching is riveting. Bad coaches are especially wonderful when they coach teams you hate, and boy did Chuck do his best to inadvertently sabotage one of the most insufferable teams in football. It was a glorious six (OMG!)-year run.


Good ol’ Chuck. Always drivin’ that truck into the ol’ tarpit. Chuck Pagano was like one of those fake readouts people post of two Alexas talking to one another. He was a wonder of incoherence. I’ll miss him terribly. I can’t believe ESPN hasn’t hired him to do radio with a Mike yet. “You see Mike, when I build a team, I don’t want players, I want WORKERS.”

In theory, you people could have had a couple extra rings with a healthy Andrew Luck and head coach Bruce Arians by now. Instead, Luck is two days from the glue factory and this walking concussion coached you into the shitter instead. How marvelous. Anyway, now that Chuck has fucked off into oblivion, let’s meet the new guy!


Your coach: Josh McDa… OH RIGHT!


Imagine being left at the altar by Josh McDaniels, and imagine being SURPRISED by it. Hard to believe such a high-character fellow would do such a thing! We’ll never get the real truth as to why McDaniels ditched the Colts, because McDaniels is a proven liar and shitbag. As it stands now, the story goes that he changed his mind at the last second after the Patriots gave him a fat raise and Bill Belichick promised to give him greater access to “the inner workings of the organization” (namely, the team’s Clomid lab and its Cave Of The Unspeakable). McDaniels also claims he was NOT promised the head coaching gig if/when Belichick finally retires to live in an abandoned lighthouse. Do you buy ANY of that? Of course you don’t. Only a credentialed NFL reporter would be dumb enough to believe that.

No no no, McDaniels bailed on Indy because the team is shit, the state is a dump, the owner is a slurring roadie, and the quarterback officially died two years ago. So he went back to the Death Star and your new new Colts coach is this guy…


Yep. Yep, Frank Reich pretty much looks like a Colts coach. He looks like a cereal company executive. I can already picture him ducking the question when someone asks him why he decided to punt at the opponent’s 36. He’ll fit right in. By the way, Reich will be working with a group of assistants he didn’t get to hire, most of whom took their jobs assuming they’d be working for McDaniels. I’m sure communication between all parties will be seamless. I hope you like delay of game penalties.


Your quarterback: DEAD.


Thanks to the Colts, Andrew Luck has already become the Derrick Rose of football. SWEET! Every update I’ve gotten on Luck over the past two years has been sadder than the last. “Luck ‘Optimistic’ Gangrene Won’t Set In.” “Luck Attempts Throwing Ball With Help Of Army-Engineered Exoskeleton.” “Luck Mysteriously Tells Gathered Reporters ‘Death Is But A Door, Time Is But A Window.’” He’s getting there, everyone! Give it two more years, and he’ll be ready to try chewing solid food again!

I know I tend to lay the hyperbole on thick in these stupid previews, but I am being 100 percent earnest when I tell you that I wish Luck wouldn’t come back, at least not for this team. Andrew Luck is a thoughtful, interesting man, but his shoulder is made of wet saltines and his organization is a meth hole. The line is still ass. The running backs are a bowl of pet store goldfish. And to make matter worse, Jim Irsay sat up from his Tunisian opium rug last season to hint that all of Luck’s problems were mental:

Jim Irsay made a comment to me about six weeks ago, ‘It’s inside his head now.’

That’s amusing, because the inside of Jim Irsay’s head is nothing but frayed dopamine receptors and mangled Billy Squier riffs. Imagine having your mental toughness questioned by a human pill dumpster. Andrew, please retire. I don’t mean even mean that in the snarky “retire bitch” kind of way. Just retire. Get away from this deranged team. Read. Travel. Partake of fine drink. Go design some tasteful XFL jerseys for your old man. Spend any more time around Irsay and he’ll wind up sprinkling your ashes on Jim Morrison’s grave. Jim, man… Jim really WAS the Lizard King.


What’s new that sucks: It will not shock you to learn that the Colts gave up more sacks than any team in the league last season, such is their zeal to get their own quarterbacks killed. So they drafted two guards in the first two rounds of the draft, which was a perfectly cromulent thing to do. But honestly, who gives a shit? Protect a dead quarterback all you like … he’s still dead! Quenton Nelson is gonna offer a hand to help Luck up off the turf and accidentally rip his goddamn arm off.

As always, the Colts’ roster is a bunch of set extras and hobos in dire need of a functional quarterback to mask its barrenness. General manager and flip-flop king Chris Ballard spent free agency on a mission to recruit only players who are openly despised by the fanbases they’re leaving behind. Here’s tight end Eric Ebron, who dropped 800 balls in Detroit. Here’s wideout Ryan Grant, who signed with the Colts only after failing his physical with the Ravens. When you have a chance to sign the least talented wideout on the Skins roster, AND he’s hurt, you do it. NO FEAR. They also extended tight end Jack Doyle, who you almost certainly added and dropped from your fantasy roster at least three times last season. None of this matters because Jacoby Brissett will still start at least half the games and the defense is still a puddle of mastiff diarrhea.


Edwin Jackson was killed by a drunk driver, although shockingly Irsay was NOT that driver.

What has always sucked: I’m sure the six remaining sober residents of Indiana will tell you that this is still a basketball state, but I know better. IU basketball is pure shit and will never return to prominence. No one cares about Purdue. The Pacers are playoff chum for the inferior NBA conference. Hoosiers has aged about as well as a full cup of urine.


Once Peyton gifted this state a title (in the most underwhelming Super Bowl victory of my lifetime), all the fat humps slowly migrated from being unreasonable hoopheads to being unreasonable NFL fanboys. They thought they could carry on as happy football lovers when the Colts replaced Peyton with Luck, but now Luck is trapped at the bottom of a well and the rest of the Colts have long since been exposed as frauds and conmen. Every NFL team is a rich asshole’s broken toy, but in Jim Irsay’s hands, the Colts are the MOST broken toy. All of your sports are garbage now, Indiana!

And frankly, that’s what you get for unleashing Mike Pence upon the rest of the country. Fucking Pence. Standing up and walking out of that game like a preening dipshit. I can’t believe Donald Trump managed to find the one person on Earth who would make a worse President to be his backup. Join us this season when Pence huffily burns his season tickets because he saw a lady’s exposed wrist on the concourse. Mike Pence can go deep throat horseshoes in hell.


Marvin Harrison definitely has had people killed. Gregg Doyel is a psychotic idiot.

What might not suck: Luck is actively throwing footballs now. Only five more years of licensed physical therapy and he might be able to run AND throw simultaneously. I’ve seen war veterans with better rehab prospects.


Let’s remember a guy who sucked: Dallas Clark, who was so clutch that I cannot stand him. Every time I thought Peyton was cornered, he’d weasel out some dickish 25-yard seam route to Dallas Clark for the first down. Every goddamn time. The worst. Dallas Clark’s hands were forged by Satan.



Josh McDaniels’ tenure as Colts Head Coach was still more successful and fun to watch than Chuck Pagano’s.



The only good thing about being from Indianapolis is the ability to be absolutely astounded by the natural or constructed scenery of literally anywhere else. I visited New Mexico for the first time this summer and was ready to move there within an hour.



It’s considered breaking news to report our $140 million QB is finally physically capable of throwing a slightly-smaller-than-regulation high school football.

Henry Anderson fractured his throat last year, an injury I didn’t even know was possible before this.

Ryan Kelly and Quenton Nelson look like poorly disguised undercover cops.

Please send help.




Indianapolis leads the entire nation in the category of football jerseys tucked into jeans.



When visiting Jaguars fans take pity on you during a lopsided Bortles smackdown, you know you’ve reached rock bottom. At least Mike Pence wasn’t there to ruin it.



Indiana is the Alabama of the North.


Months later and I still cannot believe that Josh McDaniels managed to find a new way to fuck the Colts, and then we accidentally fell into Frank Reich.




I got what I deserved after daring to feel relief at the firing of that mouth-breathing mug-selector Ryan Grigson.

Maybe, I thought, just maybe, since Jim Irsay was apparently still capable of putting down the Vicodin long enough to finally understand that his mullet-having big boy GM was hated by fans and players alike, the path forward was clear, and the pain would ease.

Since Grigson and Pagano had somehow managed to turn a once-in-a-generation quarterback talent (albeit one who looks like a muppet who ingested too much HGH) into somebody who needs a shot of fentanyl in his jugular after throwing a miniature football 10 yards in shorts, I thought maybe Irsay would jettison them into the canal faster than Pat McAfee after three long-island ice teas, and the Colts could get back to winning some FOOTBAW games.

Turns out, I was wrong. Andrew Luck is dead, and so are the Colts.

Fuck me, fuck Ryan Grigson, fuck Chuck Pagano with a gallon jug of Grigson’s hair grease, fuck the medical staff with Peyton Manning’s forehead, and triple-fuck decrepit-ass Jim Irsay with the shattered and twisted remains of Andrew Luck’s shoulder and dignity.



Jim Irsay paid $2.4 million for Bill Wilson’s manuscript of the AA big book.

Andrew Luck’s shoulder is the consistency of a pulled pork sandwich.

Fuck Hank Baskett until the end of time.


We beat Rex Grossman to win that Super Bowl, and the most exciting play came on the opening kickoff.

Also, our owner is nearly 60 years old and still posts song lyrics on his social media.



Forever fuck Hank Baskett with every guitar in our coke head owner’s office.


You know they also raised prices for season ticket holders? Josh McDaniels and his stupid little visor can go get fucked.



In the last two years I have been forced to watch Houston and Jacksonville cut through my team like Jim Irsay’s credit card through a line of crushed Oxy. I came within one game of mentioning Blake Bortles and Super Bowl in the same sentence without irony. That was a close one.

This off-season we did our usual “One Right Thing” and shitcanned Chuck Pagano. This was of course followed by us getting clowned by Josh McDaniels. Fuck Trent Richardson, Fuck Ryan Grigson, Double Fuck Josh McDaniels, and I hope Jim Irsay ODs in his luxury box.



I’m sure this defense will give up 500+ points this year and Luck will be a walking cadaver by the end of the season. If he even makes it that long, he’ll tear some other body part due to trying too hard.



Andrew Luck is 6'4, 240 lbs and still missed the past year because of all the hits he took playing behind an O-Line softer than mayonnaise.

Thank God we didn’t draft RGIII because Ryan Grigson would currently be indicted for murder.



Is the red planet Mercury

like the crimson eye of Cerberus?


Everything and everyone

is made of star stuff.

Each a fat hump

rotating around the sun.

Our large adult son.



Our fanbase is still in love with our GM, Ballard, despite an objectively shit first year. So far on his watch, the major decisions by the Colts, in order:

Keep Pagano to ruin another season

Draft a talented, high-injury risk player in the first who was promptly injured

Draft literally no other notable player (despite Colts fans obsessing over Marlon Mack, who is generously the 10th most talented RB from that class)

Not bring in a qualified QB as a back-up until the preseason was over

Watch as, somehow, a bad team regressed in almost every position and category from the year prior

Get nationally pantsed by McDaniels, who, as shitty a move as that was, remains one of the most talented coordinators of the last decade

Pissily declare “The rivalry is back” which might be a more pathetic look than the initial pantsing

Hire Pagano 2.0, a coach so useless that the Eagles considered just not even filling his position next season

Oh, also, because of the McDaniels thing he forced all of us to admit Mike fucking Florio was right. God damn it.

At least we still have Andrew Luck’s book club. A part of me wants that titanically rich nerd to just quit football and go be happy in Europe while his brain still works. The Colts don’t deserve him.



The biggest Colts fans you know are also the biggest Notre Dame fans you know.....they likely went to Ball State for 3 semesters.



The play that most embodies my childhood as a Colts fan was Nick Harper scooping up a fumble and running in the open field after Jerome Bettis fumbled at the goal line with a minute left in the playoffs. Ben Roethlisberger, who in 2005 still had the same maneuverability as he does in 2018, made an open field tackle while running backwards against our DB. Mike Vanderjagt would go on to miss a 46-yarder by 2 miles, and I had to watch the Steelers go on to win a fucking Super Bowl. The good thing is that the Colts have become so irrelevant that this moment has been relatively forgotten as the years have gone by.

For my birthday, my dad took me to my first game at the RCA dome. While we were tailgating, a standard Indianapolis woman (in her mid 30s) invited me over to their tailgate, where everyone was sufficiently drunk. She kept chatting me up, asking a bunch of questions like “Did you come here with anybody” to which I replied “Just my dad.” I didn’t know it at the time, but this woman was hardcore flirting with me. Finally, I told her the game was my birthday present, so she asked how old I was. I was turning 12. Her friends laughed and she ran away in shame. Oh, and the Colts went on to lose to the Jaguars. Go Colts.



Go to a game at LOS. Somehow there are more guys wearing denim shorts and Peyton Manning jerseys in 2017 than there were in 2007. It’s fucking ‘Back To The Future’ every Sunday.

Fuck Josh McDaniels so so hard.


Chuck Pagano’s most amazing feat in an era that included the worst play in NFL history and the second degree murder of a generational quarterback talent is that, in two games against the Rams, his teams were outscored 84-17.

The one bright spot during the 2017 season was supposed to be against the 49ers when the franchise unveiled a Peyton Manning statue and retired his number. Instead, Vice President O’Douls decided to hijack the day by pulling a political grandstanding stunt by leaving the game after the national anthem. In hindsight, his bullshit stunt saved him from watching 4 hours (that game went into overtime) of the world’s blandest football team surrender 350 yards to Brian fucking Hoyer.

Fuck this team for actually making me sympathize with Mike Pence. Everything about the Chuck Pagano era has left me dead inside.



Luck is dead. We all know it. Pagano ruined him. We will spend the next half decade pretending he’s not dead. He’s Homer’s doomed pig roast flying through the air in “Lisa The Vegetarian.”


Josh McDaniels sabotaged what was left of his minuscule credibility because he had nightmares about working for our fucking pill-popping shithead owner in Indiana, America’s unshaved back fat. So instead we ended up with Jim Kelly’s caddie. Frank Reich was such a hot coaching prospect he was still available approximately 47 weeks after the season ended. He also got saddled with a bunch of McDaniels’ handpicked assistant coaches; I see no way that could possibly go wrong.

My late father was an asshole grifter who never really liked me, and I never really liked him. I’m not sorry he’s gone. I take pride in the fact that he and I have essentially nothing in common as human beings. The one thing he managed to pass on to me was his utter devotion to the Indianapolis Colts. What a fucking prick.



When I was 13 years old, I went to a Colts/Seahawks game at the Hoosier Dome with my family. I think it was supposed to be a “Faith and Family” night, so there were a lot of good Hoosier church people settling into a half-filled stadium to see James Joseph Harbaugh and Marshall Faulk take on an aged and haggard Seahawks squad. When we arrived, we noticed we were sitting adjacent to a 350 lb. biker-looking dude and his Old Lady, who was easily pushing the same weight and had a substantial amount of doughy flesh hanging out of her leather vest. Both were wearing sunglasses indoors, neither were wearing Colts gear since we really didn’t do that in Indy until Peyton showed up. They were no less than five stadium beers in before kickoff, if their cups were to be believed.

During the pregame, Old Lady called Warren Moon, who was 40 years of age, a “noodle-armed f*ggot”, then turned to the crowd (of dozens, we were in the nosebleeds) and told us that she would fight any of us who disagreed. My mother initially stood up to say something, and quickly realized that there was no Midwestern Nice-ing the situation. Throughout the first half, Old Lady informed us that Jim Harbaugh was pigshit, that Marshall Faulk was some manner of thief, and that her man (who had yet to speak) was going to make her see God when they got back to “the truck”. I questioned the physics of said intercourse and my Dad told me to shut up.

Then a commercial for the local Alternative station started playing, which included an (at tops) 5 second clip of Sheryl Crow’s “A Change Will Do You Good”. Old Lady lit up like a Christmas tree, yelled “SHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARYL CROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW! CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANGE!” extended her arm and made this weird revving motion, like she was rocking devil horns with a closed fist. She then sat down and shut up for the rest of the game. The Colts lost 31-3. She and her man consumed 26 beers between them.

I have had ups and downs with the club we stole from Baltimore, but through the bad times, the good times, and Curtis Painter, all I can envision when I see that blue horseshoe is a morbidly obese woman who smells like GPCs croaking like a frog about a cut-rate Sheryl Crow tune. I heard it in my head as we won the Super Bowl, and I made that damn hand motion as if it meant something. That’s who we are. That’s the spirit of our team. Diabetes, Alcoholism, and a yeast infection. Go Colts.


Submissions for the 2018 Deadspin NFL previews are now closed. Next up: Houston Texans.