Lost in all the Greg Camarillo: Golden God! madness yesterday was the fact that the living members of the 1972 Dolphins were at the game Sunday. The team was honored at halftime and had been hanging around Dolphins facilities all week, watching practices and telling reporters, trainers, the audio/video guys, the guy who's responsible for draining the jelly out of all dozen of Keith Traylor's jelly-donuts, and anybody else who’d listen, that Wayne Huizenga shouldn’t sell the team. Some have credited their presence with the big win over Baltimore. But I think the Fins’ finally winning a game had less to do with Perfect Season mystique and more to do with creepy old dudes popping up in the middle of a two-minute drill session, annoying the shit out of the players and babbling endlessly about why Mr. Huizenger is such a terrific guy. This is where the motivation came from. What current player wanted to hear a bunch of pruney old douchebags ceaselessly reminding them what a shitty team they were and that the ’72 team could beat them if they played right now? Jason Taylor went so far as to promise Coach Shula that they would beat Baltimore.
"Jason Taylor promised legendary coach Don Shula that Sunday would be the day the Dolphins avoided a different kind of milestone than the one the undefeated 1972 Dolphins celebrated at halftime."
Sounds great on paper when you read it. But I think JT’s tone was probably more like yours and mine when our grandmother bitches at us about not calling her enough.
I’m sure there were plenty of moments during the past week when Dick Anderson would appear out of nowhere and just start berating Lance Schulters for no specific reason and calling him a ‘buttercup’ and a ‘daffodil.’ And you gotta love that shit. How can you not? Those ’72 guys are old school. The kind of guys that used to train with Charles Atlas and box kangaroos. Anderson is like 108 years old. But I bet he can still lift a sack of potatoes right over his head, just like in the old days.
Anyway, the '72 Dolphins are the tits.