The Internal Steelers Struggle: Week 2 vs. the Vikings

We all talk to ourselves from time to time. Most of don’t bother creating transcripts of the conversation, though. Below is this week’s conversation between Me (my rational side), Myself (the eternal homer in me) and I (almost as bright as a 2-watt bulb and half as useful).

Thoughts on Week One at Cleveland?

Myself: [Sits quietly, stewing]

Me: It wasn’t pretty, but come on. It was Week 1. They’re never pretty, and the Steelers were without their No. 1 runner the entire preseason. It was going to take time to get everyone on the same page, especially Le’Veon Bell.

I: [In a serious, practiced tone] I thought they played football.

Me: [Waits for I to finish the sentence with an adverb, but none comes] That’s a very...accurate observation. [Pats I on the back] Nice going, little buddy.

Myself: [Approaches boiling]

Me: [Trying to fill the silence] Umm...I think Antonio Brown had a fine day. He’s on pace for almost 180 catches and more than 2,900 yards. Pretty absurd, but that’s what the math says right now, at least. Never gonna happen, but it’s fun to think about. [Looks at Myself] Dude, say something. You haven’t been quiet this long since we took that roller-hockey ball to the cajones in college — and that was about 17 years ago.

Myself: [Glares at Me and moves his lips, but no sound comes out]

Me: ...Alright, then. Let’s seeeeeeee...Jesse James had himself a fi-

Myself: [Doing a fine impression of Vesuvius] SON OF A &!*@#!!

Me: [To I] Getcha popcorn ready, man. This is about to get good.

I: Ooooooh, is he gonna do magic??

Me: Well, I’m pretty sure he’s about to pull something crazy out of some place unexpected. So, more or less...yeah, he is.

I: Goodie! I love magic!

Me: [Pats I’s head] Well then I hope you enjoy it. I’m going to go duck behind the sofa and watch safely from there.

I: You’ll miss the show!

Me: That’s the plan.

Myself: [Stands abruptly from his seat, gnashes his teeth and rends his garments into tiny shreds] I’M MAD! I’M STEAMED! I’M LIVID! I’M—

Me: Nearly naked.

Myself: [Looks down] I’M...NEARLY NAKED!

Me: Let it out, man. Let it out.

Myself: Ben Roethlisberger! Freakin’ BEN ROETHLISBERGER! He’s supposed to be ELITE! ANDY DALTON IS BETTER THAN BEN ROETHLISBERGER!

Me: Andy Dalton threw four interceptions Sunday. To a terrible secondary. Ben threw one, and it was a tipped ball.

Myself: In TRIPLE COVERAGE! What kind of idiot even does that?!

Me: [Calmly] He completed one into triple coverage late in the fourth to seal the game.

Myself: You just proved my point! It was the Cleveland Browns! That game should have been over the moment the schedule was released!

Me: They have a ton of young talent, man. They’ll win four to six games this year. Mark my words. Heck, they could easily beat the Ravens and Bengals right now.

Myself: But it was THE BROWNS.

Me: Still, I—

Myself: THE. BROWNS.

Me: I don’t th—

Myself: [Whispers] The Browwwwwwwns.

Me: [Thinks for a minute] I’m not talking you down off this one, am I?

Myself: [Puts his hands on his hips and stares at Me while taking long, deep breaths]

I: Do a trick already!

Myself: [Looks confusedly at I, then back at Me, then looks like he’s about to say something]

Me: Long, stupid story.

Myself: We’re not gonna win a single game this season. It’s going to be horrible. I mean...0-16...nothing to celebrate or look forward to...out of the playoffs by week six...It’s going to be pure hell. No — WORSE! I’ll find out...[begins sobbing]...what it feels like to live in Cleveland! [Breaks down, bawling]

I: Worst. Magic show. EVER. I want my money back!

Was William Gay’s hit dirty?

Me: [Watches Myself curl into the fetal position] Umm...Illegal? Yes. Dirty? No. The receiver kind of ducked into it. It looked terrible, and it was definitely against the rules. He’ll probably get fined for it, and I think I’m okay with that.

Myself: [Jumps quickly to his feet] What?! You think he deserves a fine??! That hit was toooooootally clean! Just watch, now the league has pissed off the Steelers. We’re gonna run the table from here! Nineteen and oh!

Me: Sixteen-point-seven seconds ago you said we weren’t winning a single game this season.

Myself: [Speaks patronizingly] That was so 20 seconds ago, my friend. [Whispers] Stop living in the paaaaaaaast.

Me: Wow. Your “homer” is showing.

Myself: [Opens filing cabinet, pulls out a sheet and looks at it, then shows it to Me] That’s what the job description says, Bro.

Me: Then you deserve a promotion and a raise.

Myself: [Finding new clothes] So, what about the officials apparently watching the replay, then throwing the flag? I suppose you have some rationalization for that?

Me: No, I’m pretty miffed about that. But the last time I jumped on the hyperbole train, you threatened me with violence.

Myself: “Miffed”? Dude, are you in second grade?

Me: I’m not sure we knew the definition of “miffed” when we were seven, “dude”.

Myself: Your smack-talk is weaker than Tom Brady’s 2017 completion percentage.

Me: If we weren’t literally two parts of the same person, I don’t think I’d like you much.

Myself: [Scoffs] Get in line, Bro.

Predictions for Week 2’s home opener against the Vikings?

Myself: Sam Bradford spends the whole day tasting grass.

Me: You like our pass rush?

Myself: Even more than I like the Vikings’ terrible offensive line.

Me: So, pick a final score.

Myself: Hmmm... [Mumbles to self] Sixty minutes...two sacks per drive...Bell will score 50 by himself...

Me: Wait wait wait...two sacks per drive?!

Myself: Shut up, I’m thinking.

Me: [Quietly] That’s a first.

Myself: Watch your mouth. I’ll slap you bald-headed.

Me: Shut up and make a guess, Sir-Derps-Alot.

Myself: Is that the only insult you can think of?

Me: Which one?

Myself: Derp.

Me: What?

Myself: DERP.

Me: Huh?

Myself: [Angrily] DERP!

Me: [Chuckles] God bless you.

Myself: [Glares]

Me: Got a score yet?

Myself: Fine. Seventy-seven to three. We give up a garbage-time field goal late.

Me: Not a chance it’s even close to that, but alrighty then. What about you, I?

I: It’ll be a close, defensive game. I predict....one to nothing.

Myself: [To Me] Does it surprise you, at this point, that he’d pick the one score that’s impossible in football?

Me: Yeah, because 77 is totally attainable.

Myself: Okay, Smart Alec. What about you?

Me: I’d say 27 to 17.

Myself: [Seriously] Have you ever considered a career in “being wrong”?

Me: They’d never hire me with you available.

I: [Taps Me on the shoulder and impatiently whispers] Is it time for the magic show yet?