As the basketball gods raised us from the ashes of a smoldering wasteland and the baseball gods unabashedly flipped us the bird while riding mud-caked tricycles through our living rooms, we’ve been put on notice by the sycophants scurrying about the feet of the football gods. Their multitude of lists, which people to devour in the doldrums of the off season with ravenous boredom, portend our imminent doom. The potential has been reached. The talent is gone. The coach is a man among giants. And the lack of returning starters—Jumping Jesus on a Pogo Stick!—where are all the starters?
Spring Power Rankings: Drinking Up the Haterade
