The Lord is my QB Coach, I shall not play pro ball.

He maketh me hurl the ball into the green pastures at the feet of my wide open receivers; He leadeth my more fleet receivers to the deep still waters beyond 20 yards, waters my underthrown, side-arm passes cannot reach.

He restoreth my soul with the hope that, all physical  evidence to the contrary, I will someday be a successful NFL Quarterback; he leadeth me from training camp to training camp for his name’s sake, or else as part of some great cosmic joke which only he is privy to.

Yea though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of New England, (again), I will fear no Belichek; for thou art with me, they rod and they staff they comfort me, although comfort and understanding the intricacies of anything beyond simple man coverage seem to be two entirely different things.  Still, I am comforted.

Thou preparest a table in front of me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head and hands with oil, the ball slips out of said hands, bounces off the table, and into the hands of mine enemies, who return it for 6 points.  Perhaps we could do with less oil?

Surely goodness and mercy and the press shall follow me all the days of my life, for I am a good-looking hunk who means no harm to anyone, least of all the opposing defense, and I shall ultimately dwell in the Land of Jacksonville, forever.

Or at least until next season’s training camps open and some team feels the need for three weeks of free publicity.

Amen.