So I was watching the game tonight and I developed a theory.  Before every game, Vernon Davis has a ritual.  He dips his uniform in a bucket of oil, rubs it all over his hands, massages it into his arms and chest.  It is the only explanation for what my eyes see, why in his possession the ball never seems secure.  Because from what I understand, Vernon Davis is an impressive physical specimen.   Vernon Davis has all the talent in the world.  It hit me.  He's increasing the difficulty.  He's dropping them on purpose.

I was a fool to believe otherwise.  As a casual fan I must rely on the wisdom of the experts, and they have long been beating the idea into my head.  Every time Mr. Davis drops a pass, fumbles a ball, or limps gingerly off to sideline, every time I think to myself, "Here is a man destined for the glue factory," I am reminded by the voice on TV that VERNON DAVIS IS A HECKUVA ATHLETE who races cheetahs and juggles pickup trucks in his spare time.   I am showered with anecdotes about this legendary combine workout where Vernon Davis broke the sound barrier and wrestled a polar bear while making sweet love to somebody else's wife.   On and on I hear about the versatile Vernon Davis, tight end, wide receiver, gigolo, gentleman, catching touchdown after touchdown as he solves complex physics equations on the whites of his defenders' backs.  

And while I continue to have my doubts, Mr. Martz has seemed to have bought into the hype, as he is the one often quoted when announcers wish to confirm their slobbering admiration of Vernon Davis' athleticism. I can see him at his desk now, teeth chattering, saliva welling in the rills of his mouth, pen nearly punching through paper as he draws fly route after fly route going straight to the endzone. Like a child with a fresh box of crayons, eyes beaming, breath whispering. Touchdown. Touchdown. Touchdown.

It is Martz who has been most instrumental in the idea that I am WRONG.  I listened to all the rumors, the innuendo, that here was a man with an incurable pass fetish with no regard for time or down.  I pictured this portly, giddish child strutting the sidelines with a playbook labeled MIKE MARTZ SUPER FAST HYPER ZOOM OFFENSE OF THE FUTURE, the letters decorated with flames.   I imagined him picking quarterbacks from the produce aisle, evaluating homeless men flinging garbage on the street, delighted at the prospect that hundreds of scouts missed on what only he could see.  I thought here was a man, a certifiable loon, whose favorite offense consisted of three quarterbacks, seven wide receivers and a cardboard cutout of an F-15.

How wrong I was.  In the preseason he has been establishing the run, run run run and more run, to the surprise of everyone on the field and off.  Perhaps I am wrong about both him and Mr. Davis.  Maybe, just maybe, I was wrong about Mr. Nolan too.    

It is, however, still the preseason, and while I am a bit excited, in the back of my mind I know the classic aphorisms hold true. Old men never change. Old habits die hard. Chicks dig the long ball. 

And yet after years of mediocrity, I remain somewhat optimistic.  So far the offense has looked fantastic.  Balanced.  Hopefully it'll stay that way.