Table of Contents
Howie's daily column is powered by Lyric Kitchen · Bar
You could barely wedge into T-Bonz, Players, or Curly’s in Duluth last Monday night. The pops were flowing, the fried apps were flying, and every booth and table was packed with purple jerseys — most with Justin Jefferson’s 18 on the back, but still plenty of sun-faded Randy Moss 84s and even a few die-hard C.J. Ham 30s.
Ham, standing on the sideline instead of clearing holes, is basically in soft-retirement mode, shadowing coaches, waiting for the inevitable Ring of Fame ceremony where the Vikings will politely applaud a fullback who spent a decade doing dirty work while the franchise spun its quarterback carousel. The Vikings have always loved their “good soldiers” — Denfeld grit, Duluth toughness — while never quite finding the one thing that matters: a quarterback.
And that brings us to J.J. McCarthy. One good Monday in Chicago and suddenly he’s the next Fran Tarkenton, the next Tommy Kramer, the next Daunte Culpepper before the knee gave out. Spare me. One comeback against the Bears — the Bears, who haven’t been relevant since Mike Ditka was still scowling at referees — doesn’t make you for real.
We’ve seen this movie. Christian Ponder once managed a win streak. Tarvaris Jackson teased us for years. Teddy Bridgewater was the savior until his knee exploded in practice. Kirk Cousins? Eight years of spreadsheets and sound bites, zero confetti. The Vikings are the NFL’s factory of false prophets at quarterback, and one flashy debut doesn’t change the zip code.
Tonight, it’s the Falcons. A franchise so disorganized that they left their kicker at home and dragged some guy named Parker Romo off the scrap heap. If McCarthy shines, half of Duluth will chant “Super Bowl” at bar close. If he coughs it up, the loyalists at Curly’s will mutter about patience while ordering pop. Either way, we’ve been here before — the Vikings dangling hope like Lucy holding the football for Charlie Brown.
Jefferson will get his yards. Aaron Jones will grind out a few bruises. The defense will blitz until Bijan Robinson squirts free for a back-breaking run. And McCarthy? We’ll find out if he’s more than a one-week wonder.
But don’t confuse loyalty with reality. The folks in Duluth will ride this team no matter what — they always have. That’s what fandom looks like when you hang out in the Friendly West End, where grit is celebrated even when the scoreboard says otherwise. The Vikings will keep honoring their fullbacks and hometown grinders. The rest of us will keep asking the only question that matters: do they finally have a quarterback, or is this just another September sugar high?
Row the boat if you must. Believe if you dare. Just don’t act surprised when the river runs cold.
Prediction? Vikings 24, Falcons 23. A last-minute field goal sneaks through, McCarthy looks mortal but “good enough,” and the purple faithful spill out of T-Bonz convinced they’ve seen the dawn of a dynasty. The rest of us know better. It’s September in Minnesota. Reality shows up by Halloween.
. . .
If P.J. Fleck really wants to Row the Boat, he ought to keep it tied up along the heavily polluted St. Louis River near Scanlon, because Saturday night in Berkeley his prized sophomore oarsman was busy drilling holes in the hull.
Koi Perich, the small-town phenom who was supposed to bring an edge to Minnesota football, instead played like he was still running against the mighty Carlton Bulldogs and McGregor Mercs. The Polar League tricks don’t translate to prime time, and Cal made him look like a kid who wandered too far from home.
He muffed a punt at his eight, leading to a gift-wrapped touchdown. He called fair catches like he was allergic to yardage, twice planting the Gophers inside their own 10. He even turned a gadget play into a Keystone Kops skit, losing yardage like he was back on a muddy field in Two Harbors. Every time Minnesota built a little momentum, Perich found a way to steer the boat into the rocks.
Fleck, of course, gave us the usual sermon afterward: “It’s my fault, not Koi’s” — but c’mon. Really, coach? The kid was a turnover waiting to happen, and it happened in front of a national television audience. Coaches can preach culture, but teammates know who costs them games. Trust, once fumbled, doesn’t come back easily.
Minnesota actually had this one in its hands. Up 14-10 late in the third, defense swarming, Cal wobbling. Then Perich put on his Polar League showcase, and the Bears gladly cashed in. From there, the Gophers’ boat sprung leaks faster than you could bail.
Perich isn’t prime time. Not yet, maybe not ever. Saturday showed every wart and wrinkle the hype machine worked so hard to gloss over. The difference between high school stardom in the elite Polar League and Big Ten football was carved in granite last night: Cal 27, Minnesota 14.
The Gophers limp into their bye week at 2-1, staring down the Big Ten schedule with more questions than answers. And Fleck? He might want to park that boat for a week or two. Because if Saturday was a glimpse of the oarsmen he’s counting on, this trip down the river will be long, wet, and cold.
