Vince Young would probably prefer to forget the past 48 hours.
On Sunday the Titans' QB moped on the sidelines before tearing his MCL
. Then last night, VY took his SUV for a spin while friends, family, Jeff Fisher, and half the Metro PD tried to track him down
. The saga ended with a midnight pow-wow between coach and player and an assurance from Fisher that it was all just a "misunderstanding"—an unlikely explanation, considering the all-points bulletin and police negotiators on stand-by.
This two-day soap opera comes after Young's off-season reveal that he considered retiring after his rookie year
If tomorrow's news cycle reveals Young's problems stem from some newly discovered psychological ailment, family tragedy, or some combination thereof, then all bets are off. If, however, these theatrics can't be fobbed off on some form of chemical imbalance, we've got a message for our favorite fly-pattern flinger:
Vince Young, it's time to man up.
We don't pretend to know what it's like to be a quarterback in the NFL. Being chased by grown men three times our size is not a daily obstacle in the life of a cubicle jockey. What we do understand is simple math.
When Young first came into the league, he signed a contract worth $58 million. Roughly speaking, that's a kajillion times more than you or I will ever make in our lifetimes. Enough to compensate him for a little tough love from the LP faithful. Enough to get him through a three-week rehab. And more than enough to pay for the gas required for last night's four-hour joyride, a budget-busting luxury for your average Titans' fan.
Money may not buy happiness. But it does afford Young something not every Nashvillian can fall back on in these strapped times: peace of mind.
So buck up, Vince. A couple boos and a torn meniscus may hurt now. But it's nothing one phone call to your mom, dad, priest, rabbi, or spiritual adviser of choice can't fix. Or just a call to your banker.