''I want to apologize to the organization, our owner and my teammates. What happened out there today wasn't me. I just lost my cool. I wish I could take back what happened. I can't. It's over and done with now. I'm pretty sure I'll be disciplined. I'll have to deal with it.'' -- Andre Johnson after yesterday's three-punch TKO of Cortland Finnegan
Andre Johnson didn't mention the fans nor the media in his apology, and he doesn't need to, but allow me to go ahead and say it -- Dre, no apology necessary.
Let's get this out of the way right now -- Cortland Finnegan is a punk ass, little bitch. Two-handed chops to an opponent's throat (right after reportedly looking at the Texans bench and saying "Watch this"), followed by laughing and more goading, and then egging on the crowd by encouraging the boos -- these are the things that a chickenshit heel wrestler does to draw heat and make money.
In the NFL, these are the things that a bitch does. And Cortland Finnegan, in case you didn't hear me the first time, is a bitch.
And guess who apparently agrees with me (although they wouldn't word it as such)? The National Football League, that's who. Because news came down this afternoon (courtesy of Fox's Mark Berman -- my first overall pick if Twitter were to hold a draft of Houstonians not on Twitter that should be) that Andre Johnson would not be suspended.
So how do you avoid suspension when you basically ripped a player's helmet off (possibly secretly hoping that his head was still inside of it) then rained blows down on him like Frank Costanza before the Festivus epiphany? Well, it's a three-pronged approach:
1. Have a squeaky clean record.
2. Make sure your next game is on the league's network in prime time, and that you are an integral reason that the game will remain competitive.
3. Most importantly, make sure the player that you choose upon whom to play Whack-a-Mole is one of the least-liked players in the league, relishes his role of reckless dipshit, and has a rap sheet in this season alone that includes throwing players to the turf by their helmet and hitting defenseless players.
In short, if you're going to meat-tenderize another player's face, make sure that it's an unrespected bitch. Make sure it's Cortland Finnegan.
It's funny, when the Texans practiced with the Saints in New Orleans this past summer, I got to spend a couple minutes with Andre Johnson. He was his typical soft-spoken, humble self, talking about what it was like to practice with the Super Bowl champions and how the Texans hoped to be like the Saints this season. To kind of loosen things up I asked him if he was surprised that, at that time two days into practice, there hadn't been any fights yet. (There's always at least one dust-up between the two teams.) His answer was typical Andre Johnson:
The answer was 90 percent discussion about getting work in, not looking to fight, and the other 10 percent was about how it was just too damn hot to be fighting. Mostly getting work in, a little bit of humor, and really not looking for a fight at all.
You get the sense that if Finnegan were asked the same question, he's probably have punched me in the mouth, but only after making me look in a different direction first so he could make it a sucker punch. Oh, and it would be a punch to the junk, for sure. Because that's what punk ass little bitches do. And Cortland Finnegan is one.
In the meantime, the undercard for Johnson vs Finnegan included a football game, a game the Texans won in businesslike fashion, 20-0. I'm not sure if you're familiar with the term "heat check", but it's most commonly used in basketball. It refers to being on such a ridiculously hot shooting streak that you decide to pull up and take a 30-footer just to see how hot you really are.
Well, whatever the complete opposite of a "heat check" is, that's where the Texans were going into Sunday. They didn't need a degree of difficulty attached to this game, they didn't need a hand in their face on a fadeaway jumper from the corner. This team needed a lay-up, they needed a win just to re-learn what winning felt like. The last time the Texans had won a football game, you were still two weeks away from stealing your kid's Halloween candy, that's how long ago it was.
So facing a rookie making his first start, the Texans defense finally made a goat out of the opposing quarterback for the first time all season and in calibrating expectations at least established a ceiling for how good they could look, even if the win was about as ready-made as a microwave dinner (and only slightly less bland).
The game was also a reminder as to exactly why a much better than solid NFL coach like Jeff Fisher will get thrown to the scrap heap in about two seconds if the figurative town becomes too small for both him and Vince Young -- because the age-old question with any immature talent in the NFL (or NBA or MLB or any walk of life, for that matter) is "Is he worth the trouble?" and there is no position in pro sports where the rope is longer and the dropoff between starter and backup more precipitous than NFL quarterback.
Ask Michael Vick. Ask Ben Roethlisberger. And yes, ask Vince Young.
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Clearly, and despite his recent resume including a strip-club brawl, a spat with his coach, and discarding his pads and jersey into the crowd, Vince Young hasn't crossed the "no longer worth it" tipping point yet. Not when Rusty Smith is your next option, and Kerry Collins is reaching an age where he can't be counted on to stay healthy.
So the Texans took care of business on Sunday, 2010 playoff hopes still with a pulse, and getting ready to head to Philadelphia for a Thursday night game this week. They'll head there with their All-Pro wide receiver in the starting lineup, because the league did the right thing -- they realized that Cortland Finnegan is a punk ass, little bitch.
And nobody likes a punk ass, little bitch.
Listen to Sean Pendergast on 1560 The Game from 3-7 p.m. weekdays on the "Sean & John Show" and follow him on Twitter at http://twitter.com/SeanCablinasian.