MEDIA DAY CONTINUED

The Scene is set. University of Phoenix Stadium in palatial Glendale, Arizona is swarming, not with the raucous action of gridiron malfeasance but rather the swarming hordes of reporters, media darlings, and puppets swimming around in furious pursuit of tedious answers to petulant questions. The Giants are awash on the field, simply smitten to be there. Eli Manning soaks in the adulation of naysayers and the ultimately utterly indifferent. Michael Strahan preens. Jason Sehorn pretends he is still a member of the team. It is a thoroughly average media day affair save for one large, forlorn man standing in the corner of the End Zone, grimacing off into the sky at the nothing space. The man is The Man. None other than Running Back Brandon Jacobs. At 6'4 and 260, he doesn't appear to be an underdog , rather some 21st century version of Goliath, albeit one with fumbling problems. He is swarmed by reporters, dwarfing them into their deserved scale. Many are too afraid to ask questions, others are willing to brave Brandon Jacobs.

Reporter 1: Mr. Jacobs, what exactly is it that makes you so effective as a runner?
Brandon: I'm just hungry man. Hungry Man. Heh?

Sort of like Marion Barber III. Desperate for yards, yearning for attention, they run not for joy but from the darkest demons of their soul. Abandonment issues? Strange sexual urges? Whatever it might be, lord knows it can only be relieved via maximum yardage accumulation. If Marion were here, he'd give the same answer. However, both men are ashamed of their hunger, masking it in cheap TV dinner puns.

Reporter 2: What was your feeling after delivering that vicious hit on Charles Woodson in the NFC Championship game?
Brandon: It felt good. I wanted more yards. I felt I could help the team win.

Reporter 3: What are your thoughts on the nickname "Boom Boom"
Brandon: Nice.

Reporter 4: What are your thoughts on-
Brandon: Hold on man. I gotta. I gotta. Just fuck it man.
Brandon Jacobs begins to walk, pushing his way through the throng of reporters and into the open caverns of an unoccupied football field. He blows past Plaxico Burress who notes the procession and merely shrugs. The Reporters, given no choice but to follow, follow. Mere sheep in Brandon's grand game.

Jacobs bursts through Amani Toomer's interview, growling the entire time. Stammering press corps stampede through interrupting the candid Q & A (Toomer's always been honest) and disrupting meticulously composed shots.

Brandon continues his rumble. He passes the end zone and enters the tunnel. Jeremy Shockey watches the parade forlornly.

Brandon: Yo Shock, you coming?
Jeremy: Dude, I've got a broken leg.
Brandon: Pussy.

Shockey wipes a single tear and the procession continues. Jacobs barrels out of the stadium and continues his trek across the parking lot. Various press crews are caught up in the pandemonium, struggling for position, straining to fill in the gaps of this mystery. More and more press corps see the strange display of Jacobs leaving the stadium and Super Bowl in his wake. Is this another Barrett Robbins case? Has Jacobs gone on a quest to find and confront Tiki Barber?

He reaches the edge of the parking lot and the beginning of the Highway. Without hesitation Jacobs jumps the divider and rumbles across oncoming traffic. They swerve from him. A Geo metro clips his left forearm but he does not flinch. The Press try to keep up but he is too much man, it is much too difficult. Many are maimed, several are killed, all in the pursuit of this elusive enigma wearing a #27 jersey and no shoulder pads, although his physique looks as if they are already built in.

Despite the terrible conditions and strife, several media members keep up with Jacobs. Going stride for stride with the behemoth, they accomplish what most corner backs can only dream about. Jacobs turns back and gives the remaining members a coy half-smile. It is a small gesture, but perhaps the most joy he can manage at such a serious juncture. The Media members mop sweat from their brows and continue their journey. They know in their hearts that they've done their journalistic duty.

Jacobs walks into the desert and keeps walking, stoically and silently for 15 minutes. The sun has begun to fade. The slight chirping of crickets can be heard wafting in from the distance. Jacobs stops, satiated with his hike. Finally turning around to face the three press corps that have managed to brave the trek of Jacob's journey.

Jacobs: I love the desert. Don't you? Lots of rattlesnakes out here. Have you ever seen one?