Call me a "Nervous Nellie", or a paranoid schizophrenic, but something about Darian Durant gives me the shakes and I swear it has nothing to do with the 21-year-old scotch my host at Clear Lake was serving last week.
Obviously last year was a breakout season but his quarterback rating - a measuring stick of several stats compiled to give you an overall picture of one's production and efficiency is a paltry 88 per cent.
Granted his five-year career has been one spent mainly on the sidelines, often being mentored by less than the likes of Dan Marino, this studious young pivot has yet to hit the dead man's corner on the learning curve on two wheels with an icy lager in one hand and the police in the rear view mirror.
Look at names like Casey Printers and Kevin Glenn whose Jekyll and Hyde seasons reflect the point I'm trying to make. Durant lacks the big cannon of an arm and is not a big QB at about 511? 210 pounds, who can shake off bloodthirsty linebackers like a pesky Pomeranian chomping on his pant leg. His fluttery throws against the grain while under an imposing blitz leave my stomach fluttering like the pigskin in a prairie wind.
Our wildly successful Canadian fleet of receivers makes his game much simpler. He's able to utilize quick slants to his fearless crew and that fact eventually opens up the seams for a long bomb to Dressler or the underrated speedster Rob Bagg. He somehow manages to get the ball downfield, but without the zip of, let's say Smiling Hank Burris in Calgary. Thus far in 2010 his interception count is at zero, however, and he simply makes the plays when it counts. Gutsy inside slots like Fantuz and the ageless Clermont are so reliable I might be able to stand in for a few plays to give Darian a breather.
I - on the other hand - do have a cannon of an arm and can still launch them nearly 60 yards, as witnessed by my three adoring sons. They encourage me to phone the coach for a tryout just to get me off the laptop for a few hours a day. I am currently thinking of doing a thorough assessment of my physical condition and have booked a full body MRI to ascertain if I have any weak spots, like pancreatic cancer or enough scar tissue in my old ripped achilles to keep me from being able to scramble away from the rush.
Any sports writer can conjure up a weekly column from a wheelchair, but it's the waiting list for those new hips that deters my decision-making. My buddy at Regina Beach just had one of his done and although he got 35 phone numbers from various nurses he flirted with, the lengthy delay for his surgery forced him deeper into the bottle. I must cut this short to get home and check on him. I don't throw interceptions, but instead handle interventions well.
Durant will throw more TDs than picks, but in a league where turnovers turn certain victories into pity parties he will have us all feeling antsy at times this season.
Be sure to hit your favourite spot of worship on a regular basis to lobby the Big Guy to protect him from injury or yours truly might have to step in to guide the offence. At my current girth any number and name across the back of my green and white jersey might be blurred as the fabric strains to hold in my ample physique.
Call me crazy, but Durant has a long way to go capture the idolatry of my old high school teacher Ronnie Lancaster and has a few things to prove to this naysayer.
Maybe I should go back on my meds because the column reads like I am riddled with doubt over this guy, but his growing pains will prove me right while in the Wild Wild West.
Two quick wins is consoling and the TSN gurus claim that if you can win even the occasional road game then our dominance at Mosaic Stadium should leave us in good stead. We shall prevail, as long as Wes Cates continues to rip it up too with 100-yard games.
Let's hope I'm just paranoid and forget I even mentioned the schizophrenia thing. What was I saying? Did you say something?
Go Riders-BH
