On Wednesday afternoon, I received a text message from David Garrard. His comeback to the NFL, an attempt resurrect his career with the New York Jets, would in essence be over before it started. Garrard told me exclusively, "Having to call it quits. My knee is not holding up. Continuing to swell after practices. Limiting me in what I can do!!"
And instantly, two strong takes popped into the omnipresent thought bubble above my head.
First of all, I feel terrible for Garrard. For the second straight year, he was on his way to securing a starting quarterback job ... before an injury derailed his efforts. (Last year's disappointment came with the Miami Dolphins.)
Secondly, Mark Sanchez is akin to Freddy or Jason in the horror flicks: You try to kill him off, but he keeps coming back to torment even more. Sanchez suddenly has that George Costanza feel to him: I don't think he could get fired if he tried, even if he drove around the Jets' complex in Florham Park, N.J., dragging the Super Bowl III trophy behind his the car or dripped mustard on a vintage Joe Namath jersey.
Garrard's gone. Tim Tebow's gone. Heeeeeere's Sanchez!
Not so fast.