O' Sullivan

I'm trying to find the right word.

You can't call him a gunslinger.  gunslingers are known for their quick draw.  by the time this cowboy reaches for his holster, it's five seconds past noon and the bullets are already flying out of his back.   gunslingers are intrepid.    they fire away, for better or worse, and they never run out of bounds on 4th down.

You can't call him a game manager.   while at times he seems sterile, flustered - in constant fear of that shrinking window, of safeties lurking in blind spots that don't exist - a real game manager would dump it to the running back.   throw the ball away.   the game manager makes sure when the clock is running out in the first half, they at least get three.   

You can't say it's all his fault.  His running backs can't run.  His receivers make for poor receptacles.  His head coach is a dangerous lunatic who challenges made field goals, ignores obvious fumbles and thinks the voices in his headset are phone calls from extraterrestrials.   And his offensive coordinator has labeled him the chosen one, a cross he bears not by merit or potential, but rather because the coordinator masturbates to the idea that he is the fairy godmother of cinderella quarterbacks.

To me everything about J.T. O'Sullivan is an enigma.  The bonehead throws, the sack lust, the perfectly thrown deep strike that ricochets off Vernon Davis' palms.  Even as he walks off to the sideline, I can't figure out if he looks distraught or bored or confused or nonplussed.    I don't know where to direct my rage, at whom to toss my remote, if it's his fault or mine.   And while I fear the glass slipper is being shoved onto a fat, horribly misshapen foot, I can't say why.