Why is it always the ones you love that hurt you the most? This snippet comes from an article about Marshawn Lynch's football camp in Oakland from the Seattle Seahawks website. I'm sure it provides a lovely glimpse into Marshawn The Person, and how much he cares about his hometown and the kids and all that good stuff, but I didn't read it. I won't read it. Because somewhere in there is that paragraph up there.
If I ever found myself in a situation similar to that famous scene in Jaws when they are swapping war stories and Quint tells the harrowing tale of the Indianapolis, this would be my story. This is my Indianapolis. Marshawn Lynch stuffing chicken wings into his socks, walking around with them in his socks on a July afternoon, taking them out some time later and eating them is the culinary equivalent of a group of sharks, with their lifeless, black eyes rolling over white, coming after me and my friends. Oh, and then I hear that terrible high-pitched screaming, the ocean turns red, and in spite of all the pounding and hollering they all come in and rip everyone to pieces right in front of me.