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Turner lifts the helmet of QB Philip Rivers and considers it.

NORV

Alas, poor Philip! I coached him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite grins, of most excellent passes: he hath led me to victory a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My headset sparks at it. Here flung those bombs that I called for I know not how oft. Where be your wins now? Your touchdowns? Your runs? Your many interceptions, that were wont to set Qualcomm on a roar? Not one now, to toot your own winning? Quite ball-dropping? Now get you to the Spanos boardroom, and tell him, let him hire Belichek, San Diego will never win; make him smile at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

HORATIO

What's that, ex-coach?

NORV

Dost thou think Montana looked o' this fashion late-career?

HORATIO

E'en so.

NORV

And stank so? pah! Puts down the helmet.

HORATIO

E'en so, ex-coach.

NORV

To what poor rankings we may descend, Horatio! Why may not fantasy football trace the champion’s rings of Montana, till it find them for sale on eBay?

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