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In praise of Mr. Sperbeck

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This Thursday past a Brobdingnagian feat was accomplished by a Lilliput. This Heraclean laborer did so quietly—befitting his demeanor—but his accomplishment rang through the valley louder than Krupp's coastal howitzer. Of course, I speak of Mr. Thomas Sperbeck's etching of his visage into the annals of Bronco lore by way of the career receiving yardage record—something I never thought I’d see in my 120 years upon this green earth (especially since this ‘forward pass’ concept somewhat mystifies me).

Three cheers for Mr. Sperbeck! Well met, fellow! Not a decade ago Titus Young set the high-water mark that would lead countless imitators tripping for biscuits. Young was more electrifying than Tesla’s alternating current (I watched old Tommy Edison kill an African elephant with it)—but Sperbeck had more gumption. Even Matthew Miller from the big-sky country couldn’t equal Young’s mark after developing trenchfoot or some such left him tantalizingly short. But Sperbeck! Yes, sir Sperbeck was equal to the task and hauled in the requisite for-ward passes to overtake Young in both Christian measurements and metric—the measurement of the Hun.

In frankness, I was “ironing my shoelaces” when Thomas hit the mark, but I deciphered the dots and dashes streaming in from the telegraph machine in the adjoining room and knew Sperbeck belonged to the ages. I rushed from the water closet and fired back a short response: “Seeing a man about a horse. STOP. Heard the news. STOP. Sperbeck bee’s knees. STOP.” I toyed with the idea of that being my headline, lede and article body...but OBNUG pays by the letter so decided to expound (as of this sentence, the editor owes me $16.58).

And to make it an even $17, I’ll say nothing more than ‘Attaboy’ to Mr. Sperbeck. I’ve scarcely been more proud of a Nord.