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Goodbye Tumblr, Hello Substack

Tumblr, I came here to air my silly little thoughts, fragments, half-formed ideas, midnight doodles in tag form. It’s been real.

But now those whispers are moving to a new sanctuary. I’m bringing the scraps, the reveries, the quiet inventions next door to Substack.

Come find me here: https://reverendv.substack.com/

The confessions won’t stop.

See you there

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It's about that time ..

The sky’s different now. Not colder, not darker, just… quieter. Like it’s holding its breath. That familiar tension, static in the bones. You know it: Football. It’s here again. Or maybe it never really left, just circled back around like smoke rings in a dream. Last year? Let’s not pretend it wasn’t a horror flick. Our guys limped through that season like extras in a zombie movie. The Madden curse didn’t whisper...it screamed. (IYKYK) The injury bug didn’t nibble, it feasted. We were gutted. And yet here I am, heart loud and wide open. Like a kid pressing their face to the window, watching snow fall for the first time. Because this year? This year is different.

February 8, 2026. Levi’s Stadium. Super Bowl LX lands in Santa Clara like fate with a clipboard. And guess who’s ready for a little revenge arc? Guess who’s got Robert Salah back on the headset, breathing fire into the defense like an old god waking up?

I’m telling you: this team’s got blood in its teeth again. We’re not hoping for the NFC—we’re owning it. No more questions. Just countdowns.

Let’s Get Clinical: The Numbers (my least favorite part, but it needs to be done)

Vegas whispers sweet nothings: +650 odds for the Niners to hoist the Lombardi. That’s a 4.8% chance, sure. But we’re not math. We’re momentum. Eagles, Ravens, Chiefs, Bills—they’re all crowded around the same odds, shoulder to shoulder like nervous groomsmen. But we’re the ones in the tux.

Joe Fortenbaugh? Already laid his first bet of the season on us—14 to 1. He saw what we saw: 2‑6 in one‑score games last year. 27th in turnover differential. We weren’t bad. We were cursed. And curses break.

12‑5 is my floor. My roof? Painted gold and red. I’m not just optimistic. I’m evangelical.

For the Rest of You: A Blessing and a Curse (hehe)

To the rest of the league: a poem from me to you. May your seasons be stable. May your injuries be minor. Except Cowboys. Seahawks. Chiefs. I hope your coffee gets cold before every sip. I hope your flight delays aren’t major—just annoying. I hope your team meetings go long and your red zone drives go short. Because I’m not mean. Just… focused.

This isn’t just a season. It’s a resurrection. It’s home-field opera. It’s the final reel in a trilogy that started in heartbreak and ends in champagne.

So here’s to healed hamstrings. To rosters that read like war songs. To Levi’s, loud and holy. To fate, finally landing where it was always meant to.

Let the air shift. Let the games begin. Let the gods of football know: We’re back.

— V 🖤

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The WNBA is having a moment and i’m here for it ...

You all know i’ll watch just about anything if it involves competition, sweat, and someone yelling “LFG” like their life depends on it. Sports bring us together. teasm break our hearts. they give us someone to root for and someone to hate with an irrational level of passion. This blog has always been about feelings and flavor and y’all… the WNBA is giving both right now.

when i started this blog…

Women’s basketball, while respected, didn’t feel this polarizing. it didn’t have the same constant buzz, the kind where your uncle who only talks about football suddenly knows who’s dropping 30 in the w.

but times? oh, they are changing. the young talent coming into this league is electric. they’re faster. they’re fearless. they’re showing up like, “yeah, i’m the future and what?” (Lookin' at my Bayou Barbie!)

and to make it even sweeter? the bay area finally got a team. our team. my team. you better believe i’m counting down to tip-off like it’s christmas morning.

respect to the legends..

listen, no shade at all to the icons. diana taurasi? queen of buckets. sue bird? the blueprint. those women built the house this league lives in and they deserve every flower, every standing ovation, every highlight reel for the rest of time. (I could go on about all the Women in the League, but I'll stop here..)

but this new generation? they’re kicking the door wide open, blasting music, and saying, “we’ll take it from here.” and it’s fun as hell to watch.

Vibes? Immaculate..

there’s this energy in the WNBA right now that feels like the start of something big. like the league is about to hit a cultural gear we’ve never seen before. games are sold out. rivalries are spicy. talent is stacking up like a jenga tower on steroids.

if you’re not watching yet, what are you doing? you’re missing some of the most exciting basketball out there. no, not “exciting for women’s sports.” just exciting. period.

final thoughts ..

to the young girls lacing up and changing the game, to the legends who paved the way, and to my bay area squad about to make noise… i see you. i’m here for all of it.

and i cannot wait to scream myself hoarse when our team hits the court.

— V 🖤

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If Michael Jordan Has No Fans, I’m Dead. Bleacher Report dropped their Top 100 NBA Players of All Time and I, like a moth to the flame of chaos, clicked immediately. These lists always stir the pot, ignite the timeline, and summon old heads from shadowy corners of the internet ready to preach Wilt Chamberlain stats like scripture. The main thing this list did not get wrong; and I’ll say this loud for the folks in the back: Michael Jordan is the greatest basketball player of all time.

And I don't want to hear anything else.

Let Me Say It Again. For Me. (for the losers in the back)

Michael Jeffrey Jordan is the greatest to ever touch a basketball. Not the most decorated (that might go to Bill or LeBron), not the longest career, not the most longevity. But the greatest. The standard. The silhouette. The myth and the man. The one who made grown professionals quake in their shoes.

That man never let a championship series go to seven games.

Never. Ask your faves if they can say the same. (They can’t.)

The game was different when he walked on the court. The arena bent to him. The league bent to him.

This isn’t my crazy nostalgia talking. This is reality. This is presence. This is why he’s the blueprint. You can say LeBron had the better career, sure. You won’t hear me knock the man’s output, his durability, his brilliance. But no one, NOT ONE SINGLE PERSON, has ever looked like Jordan out there. No one still inspires fear like Jordan. I will die on that hill.

Ok, Jordan rant over. I promise. We're going to talk Kobe. When I saw Kobe outside the top 10, I screamed. Not out of surprise, but out of that deep, painful understanding that comes when a truth you hate is still a truth.

Kobe Bryant is not in the top 10. And I get it. But also… police. POLICE.

How did we let this happen?

You look at that top 10, Jordan, LeBron, Kareem, Magic, Duncan, Wilt, Bill, Steph, Shaq, Hakeem, and you’re like: “Yea… I mean… yea. That makes sense.” But then you sit with it. You think about Mamba. The footwork. The killer instinct. The rings. The legacy. The fear. And your soul just starts pacing the room like, “We really did this to Kobe?”

It’s Complicated—Just Like the Game

This is what legacy rankings should do, unsettle us. Make us argue. Make us remember. Because greatness isn’t just numbers, it’s feeling. And nobody made me feel like MJ. Nobody made me feel like Kobe. Not even LeBron.

And I say that with my whole chest.

Final Thoughts, Before I Flip a Table (a la Teresa Giudice)

Jordan is No. 1 forever. That’s not an opinion. That’s a law of nature.

LeBron: All respect. An elite career. But he doesn’t live in my soul like Mike.

Kobe outside the top 10 hurts. But that list? That list is tough.

If Michael Jordan has no fans, I’m dead.

Run the tape back. Let your soul testify.

I’m logging off before I start yelling about why Allen Iverson is too low.

— V 🖤

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Faithful. We can all agree the Silence Was Deafening this off season. Then Jauan Jennings Pulled the Rug Out From Under Us. I’ve been away a while, far too long, but I’ve missed this space more than I missed my morning coffee. There’s a certain crackle in the Bay Area air when 49ers offseason finally shows signs of life. This year? It was, dare I say, quiet. Too quiet. Like holding your breath before the beat drops.

No blockbuster trades. No new stars flashing. No chatter, no drama, just the usual “wait-and-see” feels. The kind of offseason that makes sports brains itch. Even Deebo's exit was without much fan fair. We should have known. The silence was out first warning sign, the kind only die-hard faithful notice. And then it happened: Jauan Jennings stepped forward. Said the words we were all thinking, but no one dared voice: “Hey, can I get paid or can I go?” Boom. The rug was yanked. But more: the season's pulse, faint and buried, got a jolt. What you've all been waiting for.. My "V" twist. Buckle up babies.

Let’s break it down:

Production: Jennings doesn’t just show up, he shows OUT. That catch in the red zone? The clutch third-down conversion? These aren’t accidents. He delivers. Plain and simple.

Versatility: He’s not just a slot receiver, he’s a trick-play weapon, a special-teams difference-maker, a game-changer in his own right. (Tennessee VOL Fans know best. IYKYK)

Letting him walk, or worse, trading him, would be the kind of 49ers move that haunts me. Remember when we did that with . . . never mind. (covers eyes) I said what I said:

We botched it with Brandon Aiyuk’s contract. I said what I said. Give a bag to someone with limited upside and watch the cap balloon. Don’t call me bitter, call me prepared. We don’t need another contract circus. But Jauan? He’s earned it. He’s earned the trust, the snaps, the respect, and yes, the check. We must pay this man. Let’s not make offseason déjà vu a depressing pattern.

So, here comes that brand new flavor in your ear:

This is the kind of moment I crave: drama that actually matters. Big personalities. Big stakes. Real stakes. You can’t picket fence your way through life when you’re building a championship team. We've come so close. Lets finish this. Sometimes you need heat. Sometimes you need Jennings.

So here’s my challenge to the 49ers brass: ➡ Pay Jauan Jennings. ➡ Lock in that spark. ➡ Give me—and every other fan—something to feel again.

Because regardless of the regular season’s outcome, I’ve missed feeling like this.

We’re finally back in business. Now let’s bring the flavor we’ve been missing.

— V 🖤

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Back Like I Never Left (But I Definitely Did)

Did you miss me? Because I missed me too. And I missed this, THIS space, my pulpit, the corner of the internet where the coffee is always hot, the takes are always spicy, and the feelings? Oh, the feelings are always real.

It’s been a minute (okay, a lot of minutes). But time moves strange when your heart’s still tangled in Steph's fadeaway, Draymond’s chaos, Purdy’s poise, and the eternal yearning that is being a Bay Area sports fan. The fog never lifts, but damn if we don't learn to dance in it.

This blog was born out of obsession, catharsis, and love for my teams, for the drama, and for the poetry of sports as life. That hasn’t changed. Not one bit. I’ve watched quietly, celebrated wildly, mourned too often, and screamed at my screen like the world depended on it. And through it all, I kept thinking, "Man, I gotta write about this."

So here I am. Pen in hand. Ok, fingers to keyboard, but you get it.

This isn’t a rebrand. This is a resurrection. This is the same old me, unfiltered, emotional, Bay-rooted (BABY!!), and just seasoned by time and marinated in too many half-finished Notes app rants.

Let’s get messy again. Let’s feel all the things. Let’s make this blog a place where heartbreak and hilarity go hand in hand.

Welcome back to The Reverend V Show. I brought the flavor you’ve been missing.

— V 🖤

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Basketball Wasn’t My First Love. But It’s Starting to Feel Like Fate.

I didn’t grow up glued to the hardwood. Football was king in my house. Baseball had Sundays. Basketball? It was background noise. A blur of sneakers and whistles between innings and downs.

But something changed. Maybe it was the Finals. Maybe it was watching grown men claw through 82 games just to really start playing in June. Maybe it was realizing basketball is opera with sneakers, loud, violent, emotional, and damn near spiritual when it’s good.

Last Night Broke My Heart in HD

I watched my Warriors fall to the Clippers in Game 7. A battle. A soul-snatcher. A kind of game where you stand in your living room like you’re the sixth man and forget you're just holding a lukewarm beer.

They left it all out there. Sweat, pride, pain. What more could I ask?

I’ll say it: I got love for Blake Griffin. That man is my sexy ugly. Like a Greek god with awkward shoulders. I don’t want his team to win, but I get why he exists. I respect the chaos. I fear it, even.

But this ain't about Blake. Or the Heat. This is about OKC.

The Thunder Want It Like It Owes Them Money

You can see it in KD’s eyes. In Westbrook’s fury. They’re starving. Gnawing. Playing like they’ve been locked in a cage and someone whispered “rings” through the bars.

I’m calling it now: Heat vs. OKC. Game 7. All blood. No apologies.

Don’t get me wrong, the Clippers are good. Chris Paul, when upright, is a machine built from angles and rage. DeAndre Jordan jumps like gravity owes him something. But that team leans too heavy. Chris is playing hurt. And Blake? Blake can dunk, sure. But carry a whole playoff run on his back? I don’t see it. Not this year.

And Look, Let Me Be Petty For a Moment

I said what I said. May the best man win. As long as it’s not LeBron. :)

I’m new to loving basketball. But the way this sport breaks your heart and builds your hope in the same breath? Yea. I’m in now. Fully.

— V 🖤

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NFL Playoffs: I Called It. You’re Welcome.

Alright congregation, let’s gather ‘round. The NFL playoffs kicked off this weekend and baby, it was nothing short of biblical. We're talking heart rates elevated, snacks devoured, and a whole lot of screaming at TVs like they owed us money. Now if you’ve been riding with me for a minute (and shame on you if you haven’t), you might recall a little thing called my predictions. That’s right. Preseason picks. Clairvoyant energy. I pulled out the metaphorical crystal ball, lit the spiritual candles, and laid it down: 

San Francisco 49ers

New York Giants

New England Patriots

Green Bay Packers

Baltimore Ravens

Chicago Bears Yes. The Bears. I know. Let’s not dwell. But aside from that minor hiccup? I. Was. Cooking.

Your girl called damn near the entire playoff slate. Genius? Prophet? Just a woman with good football sense? Pick your label. I’ll wear it. Let’s Talk Games. Let’s Talk Drama. The 49ers vs. Saints game? A gut-wrencher. A cinematic masterpiece. I shed real tears and I’m not ashamed. My Niners did what needed to be done. They bled for that win. They earned it. Over in Foxborough, the Patriots didn’t just beat the Broncos, they sent ‘em through a car wash, spin cycle included. It wasn’t a game, it was a statement. Tom Brady doing Tom Brady things, and Tebow looking like someone accidentally invited him to the wrong party. The Ravens? ESPN just confirmed they sent the Texans right back to the Lone Star state with a polite “thanks for playing.” So now it’s set: Ravens vs. Patriots for a golden Super Bowl seat. Spicy.And now we wait. One game left. One glorious brawl: Packers vs. Giants.

And whoever limps out of that war zone? They get to meet my Niners for a dance on the NFC Championship stage. This Season? Whew. Between the lockout and the chaos and the miracle plays and the heartbreak, this season shouldn’t have been this good, but it was. It was magic. It was pain. It was football.So hats off to every team that battled through the madness. Y’all gave us something to believe in again. And to the ones still standing? May your cleats be blessed and your playbooks flawless.

But let me be clear: This is Niner territory now. You've been warned.

— V 🖤

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Baseball Has No Replay and I Have No Peace

I don’t even know what timeline we’re living in anymore. 

Truly. I sat down to write this and stared at a blank screen like I’d just watched a soap opera where the villain wins, the hero dies, and no one acknowledges the plot holes. Because apparently, IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD, STILL, baseball refuses to let go of the past. 

Let me hit you with a fact that should ruin your lunch: There is no real instant replay in baseball. NONE. The only time it’s allowed is when a team wants to dispute a home run call, was it in the park, did it go foul, etc. That’s it. That’s the whole list. You can’t challenge anything else. Not tags. Not force outs. Not the kind of calls that end games and destroy spirits.

Meanwhile, over in the NFL, they’ve got twenty cameras per inch of turf and a guy with a Surface tablet zooming in on a shoelace to decide playoff destiny. But in baseball? You better just squint and trust some 62-year-old in a chest protector.

Let me tell you why I’m actually on the verge of flipping my coffee table.

1. Pirates vs. Braves: The Jerry Meals Disasterpiece

19 innings. Seven hours of baseball. The kind of game that ages you. The kind of game where your legs go numb and you start questioning the meaning of time.

Bottom of the 19th. Julio Lugo sprints home. Tag at the plate. He is, let me be clear, SO OBVIOUSLY OUT it’s practically printed on his tax return. And what does Home Plate Ump Jerry Meals do?

He calls him SAFE.

SAFE?!?!

There are bad calls, and then there are spiritual betrayals. This one? It’s canonically evil. Every Pirates fan aged ten years in that moment. I aged ten years just watching the clip. This wasn’t just a missed call, it was a generational curse dropped in real time.

Jerry Meals, wherever you are: I hope your hotel pillow is always slightly warm and the room service forgets your order. I hope you feel this one forever.

2. Yankees vs. Royals: The Dana DeMuth Debacle

Billy Butler hits a “home run.” Quotations very intentional.

Because replay, yes, REPLAY, clearly showed that ball didn’t clear the fence. Like, not even close. A child with a magnifying glass could’ve called that one better.

And yet, after what I can only assume was a dramatic reading of Shakespeare in the umpire huddle, they decide to let the home run stand. AND THEN. AND THEN!!! Joe Girardi… just accepts it.

No challenge. No rage. No manager-on-the-field tirade. Just vibes. I don’t know who I’m madder at: Dana for the call, or Joe for not throwing his hat and career onto the field in protest. What are we doing here?

Baseball Deserves Better. We Deserve Better.

This game has survived wars, recessions, lockouts, scandals, and the designated hitter rule, and you’re telling me we still can’t get a replay for a game-changing call?

This isn’t just outdated, it’s truly delusional.

You’re letting seven-hour games be decided by sleep-deprived umpires with no accountability and the rest of us are just supposed to go to bed like everything’s fine?

No.

Absolutely not.

Fix it, MLB. Before I start sending handwritten letters and YouTube links to every front office in the league.

— V 🖤

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Ballparks, Babe. Let’s Talk About ‘Em.

When I say “ballpark,” what’s the first thing that pops in your head?

If you said “history,” “team loyalty,” or “America’s pastime,” congratulations, you’re cute.

Me? I think FOOD. Hot dogs that burn your fingertips. Nachos served in a literal helmet. Beer that costs more than rent but somehow hits your soul just right under stadium lights.

But beyond the snacks and the overpriced merch? Ballparks are cathedrals. Shrines. Concrete poems built for the game we love and the drama we live for. And look, there are 30 ballparks in Major League Baseball. Each one a little weird, a little wonderful, and fully deserving of our attention.

Now I know what you’re thinking: “Why the hell does this chick care about ballparks?” Fair, and valid. 

But here’s the thing, they’re beautiful. They hold ghosts. They tell stories. And I believe (with my whole heart) that everyone should have a bucket list of parks to visit, no matter the team you root for.

Let me show you what I mean. Buckle up. 

⚾ Yankee Stadium

Let’s just get this one out of the way. One of my favorite teams. One of the most expensive stadiums ever built, $1.6 billion (yes, with a "b"). And it fits over 52,000 people, which means there’s always at least 50 people in the crowd yelling about Derek Jeter like he’s the second coming. Iconic. Loud. Over-the-top. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

⚾ Fenway Park

Home of the Red Sox. Not my team. Not even close (vommm). But you have to respect the hustle. Built in 1912. Still standing. Still mean. Still got that big green wall out in left field that eats fly balls and dreams alive. They call it the Green Monster but really it’s just history with an attitude. 39,000 fans strong and cranky. A must-visit.

⚾ Angel Stadium

Okay now we’re getting sexy. Home of the Angels, yes, but also home to a $117 million revamp and a WATERFALL IN CENTER FIELD like we’re in a baseball-themed spa. 45,000 fans get to sit under the California sun and pretend this team will figure itself out. We love a delusional queen. Bring me peanuts and hope.

⚾ Wrigley Field

Chicago. The Cubs. Built in 1914. And honestly? The vibes are immaculate. 41,000 people gather here in a place where the outfield wall is covered in actual ivy. Real, growing, living ivy. It’s less of a fence and more of a hug from nature. (pretty proud of this one)  Also: if a fly ball disappears into the leaves, that’s God’s call now. Let it be.

⚾ AT&T Park

You already knew this was coming. My park. My team. My joy. Home of the 2010 World Series Champs, and still holding it down with views of the Bay and garlic fries that change lives (I will die on that hill)  Built in 2000. Holds 41,000+ faithful. Also has a giant Coke bottle slide in left field because why not be a little ridiculous when you’re that iconic?

If you haven’t taken a selfie at McCovey Cove with wind in your hair and a churro in your mouth, are you even alive?

Pack your bags..

There you have it. Maybe you knew some of this. Maybe you didn’t. But I hope, deep in your little baseball-loving heart, you walk away a better person. A person who knows that ballparks are more than just places where games are played. They’re museums. They’re theaters. They’re flavor. And yes, they’re food courts with a scoreboard.

So go. Plan a trip. Taste every hot dog. Feel every roar of the crowd.

And save me a seat when you get there.

— V 🖤

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Dear San Francisco Giants, I’m Not Crying, You’re Crying

Listen..

I’ve been rocking with y’all since forever. Through heartbreak. Through heartbreak again. Through every “next year’s our year” that didn’t quite land.

But we stayed. We always stayed.

And now? Now I get to say it: YOU DID IT.

2010 WORLD SERIES CHAMPS. I still can’t say it without getting goosebumps. Or emotional. Or a little dramatic. And I don’t even care. Let me live in this moment.

To my Kings That Did It Without Barry.. 

Brucie Bochy, you glorious, magical, hat-wearing wizard of dugout destiny. You did what Dusty couldn’t. You took this ragtag band of weirdos and you made a championship team. And not just any team, a team that clicked. That fought. That looked hungry.

Cody “Playoff Jesus” Ross. Buster Babyface Posey. Juan “Clutch or Die” Uribe. Edgar “Yes I Still Got It” Renteria. Y’all showed UP. You said, “We don’t need Bonds, we got heart.” And baby, you delivered.

Timmy. B-Weezy. Bum. Cain. THE WHOLE DAMN SQUAD. Legends. All of you.

To The Tortured, This One’s Ours

This isn’t just a win. This is a LOVE LETTER to everyone who wore Giants gear when we were 20 games under .500. To every fan who held their breath through bottom-of-the-9th drama. To every person who said “screw it, we’re going to the park anyway.”

WE. DID. IT.

The Giants are World Series Champs. Let that ring in your ears like the cable car bell on a foggy night. Let that sit on your chest like garlic fries and glory. (The won’t be the last time you’ll hear me talk about the garlic fries) 

Forever Yours

To San Francisco: You stayed loyal. You stayed loud. You never wavered. This one’s for you.

To the team: Thank you for making every inning worth it. For every strikeout, every double-play, every beard, and every rally.

And to Rich Aurilia, my forever Giant:  I MISS YOU DAILY. Just know I’m always somewhere, probably whispering to myself, “way to get a piece of it”. 

Love forever and always, A TRUE, RIDE-OR-DIE GIANTS FAN 🖤

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goodbye bobby, hello big show

ok so October is wrapping up, the leaves are fake because it’s California, and baseball season is sliding into its final act.

If you’ve been living under a rock or just generally not paying attention to the right things, let me catch you up... tonight. October 11, 2010. the San Francisco giants beat the Atlanta Braves and are moving on to play the Phillies for a shot at the big show. the one. the only. the world series.

yes. we’re still screaming.

anywayyy.. while watching the game with some of my favorite humans and inhaling celebratory snacks, someone casually mentioned that if the giants won, and they did, of course they did, it would be Bobby Cox’s last game as the braves manager.

let that sink in. the end of a two-decade run. 20 years of managing. this man has seen things.

also my friend Stephanie has a full-blown obsession with Mr. Cox now, so this post is partially a tribute and partially a love letter. this one’s for you, Steph...

bobby cox: the icon. the moment.

69 years old

played third base for the yankees during the '68-'69 season

holds the record for most ejections in MLB history with a wild 158

over 2,000 wins

sitting pretty at number 4 on the all-time managerial wins list

like. come ON!

you can’t write the story of baseball without a whole chapter on this man. the tantrums. the victories. the hats thrown in anger. the full-bodied arguments with umps. legendary.

so here’s to bobby cox. a man who gave the game everything, including his blood pressure. you will be missed, sir. unless you end up in a broadcast booth yelling at clouds, in which case, we’ll see you real soon.

— V 🖤

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BLACK AND ORANGE FOR LIFE!!!

LETS GO GIANTSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! FEAR THE BEARD!!!!!

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football is back and i am not okay.. 

today marked the official start of the nfl season and i would be lying if i said i wasn't buzzing like a cracked-out stadium light about it. this is the time of year where my brain completely abandons logic and returns to its most primal state. redzone on loop. fantasy teams i forget about after week six. wings in the air fryer. and me. sitting here. chai tea latte in hand (dirty of course) plotting the entire season like i work for espn and have access to somebody's playbook.

i'm gonna try not to be biased but also i am who i am so let's not expect miracles.

my teams. my chaos. my predictions.

san francisco 49ers yes. obviously. my forever squad. my sentimental fave. look. Alex Smith is still our quarterback and that comes with feelings. not the good kind. but they had a solid preseason and in this league sometimes that’s all you need to start believing in things again. i’m cautiously lighting a candle for them.

cincinnati bengals you know what. i have hope. Terrell Owens and ochocinco are lining up together like a chaotic power duo built for twitter drama and end zone celebrations. they lost game one but honestly that’s fine. this team lives in streaks. if they get hot. watch out.

new england patriots Tom Brady is back. 100 percent. throwing darts like he’s got something to prove. Randy Moss is mad at everybody which means he’s about to go full villain mode and drop 3 tds in a single half. bill belichick is still on the sideline looking like a man who has seen too much and still wants more. this team is dangerous. they want another ring and they are not being subtle about it.

new orleans saints last year’s champs. still stacked. but winning two in a row is hard and the Reggie Bush drama is not helping. he’s distracted and you can see it in his game. still think they make the playoffs but the vibe feels different. less magic. more pressure.

my picks

san francisco 49ers

new england patriots

cincinnati bengals

new orleans saints

and now. the curveball. my underdog of the year.. Washington Redskins i said what i said. Rex Grossman leading the charge with Donovan Mcnabb waiting in the wings. Larry Johnson and Clinton Portis sharing the backfield like a nostalgia mixtape. Santana Moss still out there running routes like it’s 2007. i don’t know what it is but this team gives me weird energy. the kind that surprises people. bookmark this.

so there it is. the vision has been cast. drink your beer. eat your wings. scream at the tv. may your team win unless they’re playing mine. good luck out there. football is back and we are all better for it.

— V 🖤