So I had a dream about Bernard Pollard.
I'm at training camp. Pollard notices me and walks over fuming, like he wants to beat my ass. He's being very aggressive with his body language and he starts shouting. Obviously he didn't like something I wrote about him. His teammates try to restrain him and, cool as a cucumber, I just start walking away. He keeps following me around, doing his knuckle-dragging act, and I'm like "Whoa, hey, cool, whatever, go miss some more tackles bonecrusher."
So yeah, after the incident, I am commended for my professionalism and the Chiefs apologize profusely to me. Pollard comes up, humbled, and also apologizes. I tell him, "Let's do an interview. I'm not mad. You have something to say."
So we do the interview, and it's very candid. He opens up to me about why he misses so many tackles, why he has a negative body fat percentage, his life as a football player, why he's now a seventh-string safety, all that good stuff. We're bonding.
Pollard becomes the Brian Waters to my Jason Whitlock. A relationship is formed. I have his ear in the locker room.
Years later, the Chiefs win the Super Bowl. Pollard destroys a running back, stopping him short of the goal line as time expires, giving the Chiefs the win. He looks up at the press box and points. I stand up, smile, and point back. You know, like the scene at the end of the Sandlot, with the guy stealing home and his childhood pal press douche up in the press box? Roll credits.
Weird dream.
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