The Passion of Matt Millen

Written By: TMC

Posted on February 2, 2007

Sunday afternoon in December, and Ford Field was empty. Matt stood at midfield, scanning the seats for signs of life. Usually there were at least a few people in the stands, some wearing brown bags on their heads and others wearing blue t-shirts lettered in silver with “Fire Millen!” Others would sit glumly, slumped forward so drastically and so sadly that you could only see the tops of their heads and the backs of their XXL Sanders jerseys. And most weeks, there were opposing fans too. Those idiots in the cheeseheads were always there. And those bratwurst sucking fatties from Chicago—Matt hated them more than anyone (more, even, than that backstabbing Johnnie Morton) with their copycat mustaches and their Butkus jerseys and their jowly cheering for a team that never even had a good wide receiver, despite being around since at least 1961. Probably even longer than that, Matt thought. Like, 60 years longer. Matt shook his head and limped toward the sideline; this was no time to get caught up in details—there was a game to be played, and no one was in the stadium.

Cringing, Matt took a seat on the visitor’s bench. It hurt to sit, but it hurt even more to stand. His knees were so bad that he’d had an elevator installed in his house. Sure, it was a rancher, but it was nice to have an elevator anyway, just in case they ever added a second floor. Then no one would be laughing, and he’d never let anyone get on his elevator with him. Until then, the elevator was only good for lining up at the opposite end of the hallway, having someone press the Close Door button, and racing to get in before the door shut on him. He always won.

Matt shifted his weight to alleviate the throbbing in his lower back. When he was still in the league, the trainers told him the pain would never go away, and they were right. It hurt most when he slept, and he rarely made it past four o’clock before the burning above his hips forced him out of bed.

He wondered if any of the fans really appreciated what he’d sacrificed for them. Most of them couldn’t make it through a single day in this life, but they all thought they were experts. And today, they decided not to come at all. The silence hurt much more than the boos ever would. At least when they booed, he knew he still mattered. If they just turned their backs and walked away, what would stop him from disappearing too? Matt snapped his cell phone open and called Mr. Ford to explain the situation.

Ford was silent for a moment, and then wheezed an answer, his voice dry as a Texas wind: “The game is in Dallas.”

“No, I’m in Detroit, not Dallas.” Sometimes it was tough working for a senile old man.

“Listen carefully, Matt. The team is in Dallas today. You’re in Detroit because you don’t like to fly. It’s already halftime.”

“Oh,” Matt said, tugging on his mustache so hard that tears formed in his eyes. “Well, I guess I’ll watch it on the Jumbotron then.” Mr. Ford hung up, and Matt hurried to get the game onto the giant stadium screen.

By the time he got everything working, the fourth quarter had started, and the Lions were winning. If the numbers weren’t floating there, 20 inches tall, over the stadium, he wouldn’t have believed it.

The season, like the last few, had been an abject failure. The team was eliminated from playoff contention in October, the players hated each other, and the coaches didn’t know what the hell they were doing. They would probably get the first pick in the draft, but that wouldn’t appease the fans; all they did was complain about Matt’s picks anyway.

And yet, here the Lions were, scraping out a win against America’s Fucking Team, with their doughy coach and their plastic owner. The Cowboys were a better team—they’ve always been better—but it didn’t matter; today, the Lions finally played with pride. The defensive line held their ground and hurried the new pretty boy at quarterback (Staubach, Aikman, Bledsoe, Romo, they were all the same to Matt) when he dropped back to pass. The offensive line gouged holes in the Cowboys’ defense and let the skilled players shine. The linebackers locked down the tight end and came up with every stop they needed.

Even better, Roy and Mike Williams—the two receivers to whom Matt had tied his legacy—were finally playing well. Roy had made big plays all game long, according to the replays, and his stats showed the impact he’d had on the game. And Mike was blocking well and running good routes. His numbers weren’t great, but he was there, and he was good.

The highlight of the day came Mike caught a nice pass in the corner of the end zone, scoring a rare touchdown. “Finally!” Matt yelled, leaping from the bench as his voice echoed through the dome. “That’s how it’s supposed to work!” Maybe now the Lions fans would finally see what he’d been building all along—he’d stockpiled a treasury of great receivers and the coaches had just failed to use them correctly, even insisting on throwing to some little white guy who used to be a safety. But now, now things were turning around. The Lions were winning, the receivers were scoring, and Matt Millen was a genius.

He wasn’t even discouraged when the Cowboys completed their next pass for 15 yards. Everything was still going well. He paced to midfield, nodding his head, muttering to himself as if he were back in the huddle. The next play would be a turnover; if he were out there, he’d make that play and they’d chant his name as he trotted off the field. But he wasn’t there. He was in the wrong city, in a cheap suit, sitting in the middle of an empty dome.

And then the pretty boy heaved a deep pass to a receiver who looked like some kind of comic book character, his body was so perfectly chiseled. He made Roy Williams look like a little boy, and he ran faster than Tim Brown in his prime. Of course he made the catch, and he streaked into the end zone. Matt dropped to his knees and a shock of pain charged up his legs.

Dallas was back in control, and this monster of a man flexed in the end zone, his face stretching into a smug smile that told you he knew all along he was going to make that play. Detroit was going to blow it again. Matt was an idiot again. And they had no hope of fixing the problem.
They showed another replay and he envied the power and speed this receiver—Owens was his name—displayed. What hands, what presence! The man was perfect, he was everything Mike Williams wasn’t, he was Charles Rogers times 10. If the Lions only had him, they could never be beaten. He dialed Mr. Ford again and immediately launched into explaining his new plan. “Mr. Ford, I know what we can do so we won’t screw up another draft pick,” he said. “We trade it. And I know just the player to trade it for.” Above him, above the stadium, Terrell Owens danced in the end zone, and Matt Millen knew he’d found the savior of his franchise.

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