Howie: The Wilfs are budgeting. Jefferson is bleeding

EAGAN – Don’t let the drone shots of TCO Performance Center fool you. And don’t be dazzled by another preseason puff piece about Kevin O’Connell’s “quarterback lab.”

Strip away the smoke, and what you’re left with is an ownership group running a billion-dollar football team like it’s a cold-storage facility in Jersey — keep the lights on, manage overhead, and spin just enough hope to keep the shelves from looking empty.

Welcome to 2025: the year the Minnesota Vikings officially stopped pretending they were trying to win.

Let’s start with the truth no one in Eagan will say out loud: the Wilf family doesn’t want to spend real money on a starting quarterback. Not this year. Not when they can pitch a rookie lottery ticket, cash in on “development” buzz, and pocket the difference.

The real plan? Cut spending under the guise of a culture reset.

They let Kirk Cousins walk — and fair enough, his price tag got bloated. Sam Darold walked after last season. But then what? They went bargain bin, prayed McCarthy’s name would carry water, and leaned hard into O’Connell’s supposed QB guru reputation — which, let’s be honest, is based more on marketing than results.

This wasn’t a competitive quarterback search. This was a cost-cutting maneuver with a PR team.

And it’s Justin Jefferson who’s paying the price.

He won’t say it publicly, because he’s a pro. But this man didn’t fight through double coverage for four years just to become the league’s highest-paid decoy. He didn’t sign that massive extension to spend Sunday afternoons watching his quarterback scramble into sacks or skip passes into the turf on 3rd-and-7.

Jefferson wants to win. Now. Not in 2027 when the kid QB1 might figure it out.

Every route Jefferson runs this season will be a test of patience. Every glance toward the sideline after another mistimed throw will be a quiet protest. And the veterans? They’ll fall in line, sure — until the losses pile up, and the cracks start to show.

Watch closely this fall. You’ll see it in the sideline shrugs. The quiet handshakes after games. The way O’Connell’s headset gets tighter with every stalled drive. This isn’t a locker room chasing glory — it’s a team that knows ownership is playing defense with the checkbook.

And don't forget: the Wilfs built their fortune flipping strip malls and suppressing overhead. They're not football romantics. They're ROI guys. Super Bowl? That’s a great slogan for ticket sales. But behind closed doors, 2025 is about resetting the books, riding out the Cousins hangover, and making sure the revenue stays high while the payroll stays lean.

They’ve figured out the formula: sell “development,” lean on O’Connell to front the operation, and pray the fans keep buying jerseys while Jefferson burns through his prime.

But here’s the thing the Wilfs never seem to grasp: you can only run this shell game so long before someone pulls back the curtain.

Jefferson will figure it out. The fans will too. And if 2025 ends the way it’s trending — with McCarthy shell-shocked, Jefferson seething, and the team circling the drain — the “Skol” chants will start sounding more like boos.

We’re not asking for miracles. Just honesty.

Stop telling us this is a bold new era when it’s clearly a multi-year budgeting correction. Stop pretending a rookie with zero NFL starts is a calculated gamble, not a bottom-dollar solution. And for once, maybe spend like you actually believe Minnesota deserves a title.

Until then, save the hashtags. Because the Wilfs aren’t building a Super Bowl team.

They’re building a balance sheet.

And Jefferson? He’s just trying to outrun the numbers.