COLUMN: Oilers massacred, trounced, trampled by New Orleans
In order to accomplish this, a sports writer would not only need a true talent for understatement, he would also need a very vivid and gifted imagination.
As a rule, I prefer hyperbole to subtlety. Furthermore, I have never been known to talk with people who do not exist.
Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, I am not on the Oilers' payroll nor is any member of my immediate family employed by the franchise. Therefore, I do not fit the qualifications required to propagandize a sloppy Houston performance in a 33-21 opening day loss to the Saints in the Superdome.
Quite frankly, the Oilers sucked (Huh, huh, huh ... I hate things that suck ... huh, huh). They got mauled, massacred, trounced, trampled and blown-out by a New Orleans team that came to play.
Houston was obviously out-hustled and out-coached by a Jim Mora club that is known around the league for its defensive intensity and depth of talent. Where I come from in North Texas, we call what the Oilers received a "first-class ass-whoopin'."
The Oilers' coaching staff could only watch from the sidelines as the Saints rang the school bell and put on a professional football clinic for the nation's televised viewing audience -- this one was not nearly as close as the score indicates.
The stunned looks on Head Coach Jack Pardee's, Offensive Coordinator Kevin Gilbride's and Defensive Coordinator Buddy Ryan's faces were reminiscent of a clueless deer caught in a car's headlights.
The boys who coach the men in blue and red had not been spanked this bad since their mommas caught their hands in the cookie jar before supper.
Sorry to disappoint all of you pessimists and Pittsburgh Steelers fans out there, because this column is not all vitriolic spewage from my spleen.
The Oilers have a secret weapon who is not even being utilized for his full football playing potential! Could this mystery man be the chosen one who finally leads the Houston Oilers to Super Bowl glory?
During one of the few moments of the game that my head was not covered by an Albertson's grocery sack, I managed to catch a glimpse of third-string quarterback Bucky Richardson covering a kickoff on special teams.
The former Texas A&M University star delivered the best lick of the entire evening in my opinion, when he stuffed a Saints' kickoff return man with a helmet shot to the abdomen.
This was an unusual situation because special teams plays are known for their high number of rough hits and injuries.
It is a well-known fact that only the bravest, meanest, toughest and dumbest (remember, Bucky did play collegiately at A&M) of all football players actually volunteer to play on them.
For the benefit of those who do not know otherwise: NFL quarterbacks, even if they are bench warmers, NEVER, EVER put their precious and expensive bodies in jeopardy unless forced to by an opposing defense.
The versatile 6-1, 228-pound Richardson demonstrated his passion for the game, his heart and his willingness to do what it takes to win last Sunday night.
He played in a demanding and physically grueling position that someone else with less to risk could have filled.
Watching him being helped off the field by trainers after the play, I could not help but realize why so many Houston fans like Bucky.
He plays with a high level of intensity, perserverence and grit -- three characteristics that recent editions of the Oilers seem to lack everytime they step onto the playing field.
I am not a coach, but it is obvious to me and those in Houston who don't live in a cave that the Oilers need a change after blowing off an opening game that was easily within their abilities to win.
Even the mighty Buddy Ryan has been unable to motivate the almost nonchalant, underachieving defense to a championship level.
Kevin Gilbride's offense should be called the "Hot and Cold" rather than the "Run and Shoot" due to its inconsistent and unproductive nature.
His play calling in the New Orleans game was less creative and more predictable than most plays scratched into the ground by pre-schoolers on a sand lot.
So what is the solution?
You are all in luck, sports fans, because I thought of a few things that the Oilers can do as I watched Warren Moon being scraped off the Superdome's Astroturf with a spatula in the fourth quarter.
Option 1: Let Bucky Richardson play quarterback, linebacker and special teams. He might get tired quickly, but it would be nice to see an Oiler bust his butt trying to win for a change, instead of finding ways to lose.
Option 2: Feed the Oiler's defensive unit raw meat at the training table with the hope that they will finally develop a taste for blood and learn how to put an opponent away.
Option 3: REALLY piss Warren Moon off (has he ever been mad?!?) It is a well known fact that all of the great ones play better if properly motivated.
Option 4: Fire the entire Oiler's coaching staff and hire that Tony Robbins guy who does infommercials about motivation and self-esteem.
Option 5: Quit catering to everyone's ego, play every game like it means life or death. Live up to their talent. Play to win rather than play not to lose.
This item appeared in the Sports section of the September 10, 1993 issue.
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