Ryan Leaf: “I’m All Set For Cash, Bro”

Canyon, TX—Former standout Washington State University quarterback Ryan Leaf is widely considered the biggest bust in the history of the NFL, if not all of professional sports. He once commanded millions of dollars in salary and endorsements but these days draws far more meager paychecks as quarterback coach of the Division II West Texas A&M University Buffaloes. Leaf’s precipitous fall from grace has been well documented. Chosen second overall in the 1998 draft by the San Diego Chargers, he started the team’s first nine games, throwing two touchdowns and thirteen interceptions before being benched in favor of journeyman Craig Whelihan. Leaf spent five more disappointing seasons in the NFL—including humiliating stints on the Tampa Bay Buccaneer and Seattle Seahawks practice squads—before retiring with a career passer rating of 50.

Because of public knowledge of his struggles and current situation, Patrons at Pepitos Mexican Restaurant in this sleepy West Texas town were taken completely by surprise when Leaf noisily and repeatedly asserted Tuesday that his finances are in “awesome” standing.

According to Pepitos bartender Mike Meachem, Leaf made the proclamation when another patron, Buffs fan Raul Espinoza, offered to buy him a beer. “Raul saw Leaf sitting by himself at the bar. He came up and said nice as could be, ‘Coach, we’re glad to have you on staff. Why don’t you let me and my friends buy you a beer?’ Leaf just flipped out. He got in Raul’s face and asked him why he thought Leaf ‘needed a handout’,” said Meachem.

According to several witnesses Leaf then loudly told Raul his finances were in “awesome” shape and that he was “all set for cash, bro, but thanks for fucking asking.”

Other patrons verified Mecahem’s version of events. Canyon resident Debbie Braun said the red-faced Leaf jumped out of his seat and began screaming about his “signing bonus” and “huge endorsement deals” until Espinoza walked away. “That other guy just put his hands up in a friendly gesture, smiled and went back to his table,” said Braun.

At that point, said Meachem, Leaf began yelling loudly to nobody in particular about the details of his finances. “He was shouting into his beer about a ‘money market account’ and ‘two-bedroom place in Amarillo’ and the ‘late 90s-era ATV he owned.’ At one point he turned to the room and yelled that his ’02 Tundra ‘only had 40,000 miles’ on it. Stuff like that. I wanted him to shut up, so I just kept washing glasses and tried not to look at him.”

Meachem said that Leaf finally calmed down a few minutes later. “He was just muttering shit at that point, saying stuff like, ‘buy me a beer? I’ll buy you a fucking beer.’ He asked me what those guys were drinking. I told him Heineken, but he ordered a pitcher of Miller Lite and had me send it over, ‘compliments of the NFL.’”

I Ever Tell You About the '62 Pro Bowl? (Part 2)

(For part 1, click http://thelovingcudgel.blogspot.com/2008/01/did-i-ever-tell-you-about-62-pro-bowl.html)

You fucking kids today may have heard a thing or two about Dick “Night Train” Lane, but trust me when I say you don’t know shit. Dick Lane was a bad, bad man. I’m no coward—and I’ll put the pipe to anyone says otherwise—but I’m man enough to admit that I was scared of the Train. Me and every other ballplayer from those days. It wasn’t just the thought of catching a Night Train Necktie when playing the Lions—the league was full of tough, mean motherfuckers. But the Train was a different breed. He was brought up hard. Texas in the 30s and 40s was no Shangri-la for a black boy, especially one born in a dumpster and raised by a stranger. That kind of history can turn a man to stone. The Train was stone and then some, friend.

Nowadays, a player bets on a dogfight and the FBI treats him like Al Fucking Capone. Well back then, everyone in the league knew about Night Train and the juke joint killings, but nobody so much as whispered a word about it. He had a slender little razor he kept stashed in his sock that he only took out on gamedays—Earl Morrall once told me he kept it tucked in there during practice—and God have mercy on the men who ever saw him whip it out. Those poor souls are buried face down in shallow ditches from Birmingham to Port Lucie, some for nothing so much as a wayward look. Even George Wilson himself was scared of Lane. The Train might work the sleds and do the hitting drills—oh, he loved to hit—but while the rest of the defense ran sprints, he’d head back to the locker room, slip on his velvet robe and burn the day drinking peach brandy and throwing dice with the attendants.

So, the long and short of it was I didn’t want jack shit to do with Night Train Lane. I’m just about to tell that exact thing to Big Daddy when the front door jerks open. The suddenness of it makes us both jump. My raw nerves get another jolt right away when the Train slides into the front seat, smooth and silent as a wraith. He pulls the door closed, runs his hand through his hair and without even so much as turning his head to acknowledge us, hisses, “I told you to meet me at the Early Bird, motherfucker.”

I don’t have to glance in the mirror to know Daddy has tensed up. I spent a lot of years knuckle to knuckle with other men and I know a thing or two about violence and fear. Ten minutes ago all I could smell in that Fairlane was the faint hint of that Braniff stewardess. Now it stank of fear—mine and Big Daddy’s.

“I was coming, Train. Ain’t no cabs ‘round here and I can’t see no bus.” Daddy’s voice was so high and pleading he sounded like a strung-out broad. There was no answer and we sat there in silence for what seemed like forever. Then Train turned his head slowly like a cat and eyed me.

“Drive, boy. We going to Mabel’s and you comin’.”

“Aww now come on, Train,” Daddy said leaning forward, a note of panic in his voice. “This boy don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no Mabel’s. That’s not his bidness. And you said we could just take it easy—”

I never even saw Train move, but I heard the crack when the back of his hand hit Big Daddy’s face. I mixed it up in a Tulsa ice house with Bobo Olson, just a few months before he fought Archie Moore. Bobo was fast, brother, but the Train could have thrown his left, stopped for a cup of coffee, thrown his right and landed both shots before Bobo even got his mitts up. I didn’t bother waiting for more directions. I put the car in gear and eased out of the lot.

END PART II

Rehab Clinic to Miley Cyrus: “We’ll Be Waiting For You.”

Malibu, CA – In a rare advance display of concern and support, officials from prominent celebrity addiction treatment center Promises of Malibu issued a public statement assuring 16-year-old sensation Miley Cyrus they’ll be ready and waiting to serve her upcoming rehabilitation needs.

Promises, which charges up to $50,000 a month for inpatient services, became nationally known after hosting celebrity addicts like Robert Downey Jr., Matthew Perry, Charlie Sheen, Britney Spears and, in 2007, notorious former child star Lindsay Lohan.

"We want Ms. Cyrus to know that no matter what her future addictions may be – alcohol, drugs, sex, food or any conceivable combination thereof – Promises of Malibu will have a room on hold,” announced executive director Barry Horvath. “We know how harsh the limelight’s glare can be, yet we also understand the sheer emptiness its foreseeable fading leaves. When Ms. Cyrus tires of filling that void with Grey Goose, heroin and illicit, videotaped sex, we’ll be waiting to help her start the healing process.”

By using celebrity behavior-modeling software and analyzing variables such as entertainment trends, economic indicators and fluctuating street drug prices, Promises expects the tween star to check into their lavish facility via court order in mid-June of 2013.

Cyrus, currently in the midst of a sellout 70-city tour, became internationally famous as the lead in Hannah Montana, a Disney Channel sitcom that ranks among the highest rated kids’ shows of all time. Her superstar status isn’t just limited to the stage or small screen - she has released two hit albums and her 3-D concert film opens next week.

"It's a schedule and inevitable career arc that would—and will—ruin even the most well adjusted child,” notes Horvath. “And that’s not even taking into account that we're talking about the daughter of Billy Ray Cyrus.”

Although such such advanced bookings are unusual, Horvath admitted the facility had also blocked out rooms for the younger two Jonas Brothers, Elle Fanning and "the mohawked Jolie-Pitt kid." When asked about the sons of Britney Spears and the unborn child of her 16-year-old sister, Jamie Lynn, Horvath offered his somber professional opinion: "It's too late for them."

Student Photography Exhibit Disappoints

State College, PA — Attendees to the opening night of “Voyages of Discovery," Penn State's 2008 student photography exhibit, were dismayed and disappointed to discover the show consisted entirely of photographs of old people's hands.

According to a “vision statement” distributed at the opening, participating students were instructed to “process their education and experience and distill their core aesthetic beliefs into photographs that best represented the essence of themselves as students, artists and human beings.”

The finished works, comprising 80 prints from 12 photography majors, varied in size and format. But by sheer coincidence, every single piece prominently featured the wrinkled hands of elderly people.

Paul Newell, chair of PSU’s Department of Art & Architecture, said students were neither encouraged nor mandated to photograph the hands of senior citizens, noting “that’s something each student apparently chose to do on their own.” Newell said the students didn't see each others work until after it was hung, adding, “we probably should have a had a progress meeting at some point.”

Photographer Rebecca Abernathy, a junior from Haddonfield, PA, was livid about the overlap in subject choice. “I can’t believe the others copied me,” Abernathy said, gesturing to her photos of old hands clasped together. “Hands have been my thing all semester. I was doing hands while everyone else was still taking pictures of ducks on Spring House Pond and the fucking chapel at sunset.”

Kevin Morris, a senior from Wallingford, PA, defended his work, eight black-and-white close-ups of the hands of Wesley Hollandale, 72, a fruit and produce farmer from nearby Pine Grove Mills. “Look at those hands,” Morris exclaimed, pointing to a sepia-toned photo of Hollandale’s hands resting atop a weathered wooden fence. “Can you even tell where the hands end and the fence begins? Who else bothered to explore that kind of paradox?” a flabbergasted Morris wondered aloud.

Morris’ irritation was echoed by Curt Jensen, a junior from Allentown, PA. “This is bullshit,” said Jensen, whose work consisted of six color photographs of old hands clutching the bible. “I spent all day at the Greyhound station getting those shots. Do you know how disgusting that place is? I had to throw that brand new bible away when I was done.”

Junior Andy “Pax” Paxton of Princeton, N.J. laughed off the coincidence. “Dude, I knew something was up when I saw Pete, Lauren and Javy at Foxdale Village [Retirement Home] last weekend. 'Community service' my ass."

Although the university doesn’t release attendance numbers for free events, “Voyages of Discovery” is believed to have garnered the lowest turnout in school history, breaking the mark set by last year’s student exhibit, “I Am, I See, I’m Me: Portraits of Consciousness,” which featured nothing but unrelated photos of children's bare feet.

I Ever Tell You About the '62 Pro Bowl? (Part 1)

Back in those days we played the All Star game in Los Angeles, not out in Hawaii, which is full of nothing but hippies and fags. We played it in the Coliseum, a man’s building if there ever was one. Even in ‘62 the Coliseum already looked beat to shit. The locker rooms were hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock and the water oozed out of the taps as brown and slow as Cookie Gilchrist. The field was like one of them Jap grass mats rolled out over a concrete slab. Today’s pansy ballplayers wouldn’t have lasted one quarter playing in the Coliseum.

People don’t remember this, but our coach that game was Norm Van Brocklin. The Dutchman retired as a player in ’60, and after the Eagles ran him off he took the reins for the Vikings. So come the ’62 Pro Bowl he’s only been the boss for a few seasons. He didn’t do much actual coaching those two years either. Dutch spent most of that time locking horns with Tarkenton. The way those two went at it you’d have thought Fran was some old Methodist broad didn’t want to take it up the ass. Every first down, Dutch would call a run up the middle for Tommy Mason and come the snap, Tarkenton would run around like his hair was on fire and hurl another interception. Couple ‘a pussies, you ask me, squawking back and forth like old hens.

So anyway, the Dutchman could hardly be mistaken for Lombardi, in style or temperament. Which is to say curfew wasn’t exactly enforced, more like…suggested. On Friday after practice—the game was on Sunday—I’m one of the last guys showered and out. As I leave the stadium, I see Big Daddy Lipscomb standing outside looking like his dog just got run over by the Fuller Brush man. When I ask him what gives, he says he’s been waiting on a taxi for an hour. Now, forget for a second that Los Angeles ain’t exactly New York City, every street chock-a-block with yellow cabs. Big Daddy was black as Bert Bell’s soul, stood 6’6” and weighed 300 pounds before breakfast. Back then, before every goddamn punter injected unicorn piss and leprechaun sweat to bulk up, Daddy was big. And no matter what city you’re in, big and black ain’t exactly the siren’s call for cabbies.

I had a little ’57 Fairlane I’d borrowed from a sweet Braniff stewardess I was giving the business to. She lived out by Covina but left the car for me at the airport. Normally when I was playing in L.A., she’d roll up in it wearing nothing but the sable coat I took off Sonny Jurgensen in a drunken arm wrestling contest -- Sonny was a tough sonofabitch, but he couldn’t hold his booze worth a shit. After half a fifth of White Label he was about as strong as a wetnurse. Anyway, the stewardess was stuck in St. Louis for the week, so I got the car but not the aftermarket trim it usually came with.

I roll up to the curb and offer Big Daddy a lift. He gets this big, shit-eating grin and his eyes light up like a Christmas tree. I reach over and open the door. Instead of hopping in next to me, he folds up the shotgun seat and squeezes his giant ass into the back. When he catches the look of confusion on my face, he says the five words that haunt me still to this day: “We gotta make room for Night Train.”

END PART 1

Roscoe’s to Open House of Quail ‘n Crepes in Beverly Hills

Los Angeles, CA—For more than three decades, Angelenos have enjoyed the greasy and sweet fare at Roscoe’s House of Chicken ‘n Waffles. Today in Beverly Hills, the parent company of the popular eatery, RoscoeCorp (RSCO), broke ground on its newest venture, Roscoe’s House of Quail ‘n Crepes.

Roscoe’s has long been a staple for midnight diners in Hollywood and Long Beach. The restaurants—and their distinctive cuisine—feature prominently in popular culture, having been referenced in rap albums, television shows and feature films. Roscoe’s most famous dish, the Scoe’s Special, was immortalized by Samuel L. Jackson and Christ Tucker in the 1997 release Jackie Brown.

But for the 34,000 residents of Beverly Hills, dishes like the Scoe’s Special, the Lord Harvey and Sweet Janeta’s Ta To Pie have been a distant dream. No longer, says RoscoeCorp CEO M. Hudson. “At last, the good people of Beverly Hills will know the delectable combination of sweet 'n salty,” Hudson proclaimed with ceremonial shovel in hand.

In deference to the advanced median age in the affluent city, Hudson said the new restaurant won’t serve greasier items like fried chicken, fried chicken livers, or giblets, opting instead for a menu based around grilled quail. He also added that the new location will substitute crepes for waffles, a foodstuff believed to be less popular with the target demographic. In addition, the restaurant’s syrup, noted for its runny consistency and processed sugar flavoring, will be replaced by organic maple syrup harvested on a Vermont cooperative. Nor will the House of Quail ‘n Crepes stay open all night like its sister restaurants. “We’ll probably shut this one down around 7 p.m.,” said Hudson.

The expansion marks the end of a turbulent era for the chain. In 2003, RoscoeCorp successfully fought off an antitrust suit alleging an unfair monopoly of the West Coast chicken ‘n waffle industry. Hudson called the suit “frivolous” but acknowledged that mounting a defense had taken a financial toll—one compounded by the recent failure of the much ballyhooed Roscoe's House of Turkey 'n Pancakes franchise. Hudson said RoscoeCorp hoped to offset those losses with profits from sales of the higher priced quail ‘n crepes. “We already have expansion plans underway for locations in Brentwood 'n Pacific Palisades,” Hudson noted.

When asked about a rumored House of Cornish Game Hens ‘n French Toast under consideration in Silverlake, Hudson smiled and answered, “no comment.”

Kaman Try Social Network, Maybe Meet Lady Kaman

About Me:
Kaman straight up baller. People ask, “how Kaman get NBA?” Let Kaman tell story. When Kaman just young, seven-foot boy, would stand sometimes on edge of neighbor farm. Just stand in cornfield, watch house in moonlight. Sometimes neighbor children would sense Kaman and peek out farmhouse window. Kaman usually slip into cornfield so not be seen. Kaman hair white like top spring corn. Kaman hide always in corn. Something different one night. Kaman not ashamed. Kaman decide time children see him. Kaman edge out from shadows and step boldly into light of waxing moon. Kaman just stand there, proud of self, pale face gaze up at children in window. Kaman see small, innocent faces peering out and Kaman not help but smile. Kaman innocent, too! Kaman realize he and children no different. Both try survive in scary, mixed-up world. Maybe children understand Kaman. Maybe children come see Kaman lair! Kaman sense warm light of friendship soon shine on life know only dark glow of loneliness. Kaman feel kinship with little children and smile like never before. Smile stretch so tight on Kaman face it hurt. Kaman face turn red like flesh of salmon and teeth shine like metal in light of moon! Kaman raise arms in triumph and point at children in gesture of friendship. Kaman run toward house to embrace children, scream at top of lungs, “Kaman coming for children!” Kaman scream so loud with joy sound like animal howling! Kaman not able make words describe such happiness. New era of Kaman life dawning. Kaman still run to house, scream to children he not wait for door, he climb drainpipe and come through window. Kaman running and shrieking, still running, shrieking like never before. Now Kaman hear sound sweeter than song of nightingale. Children scream back! Three voices as one, make music of friendship. Kaman spring over tall bushes and latch onto farmhouse. Clapboard siding give Kaman hands solid purchase, make scale house like giant spider! Children scream louder with joy! Kaman just seconds from reach children. Oh, Kaman happy then. Just think back make Kaman cry some now. Such hope…and then…explosion ring out. Kaman flung off house, hit ground hard. Kaman roll over and see farmer hold shotgun. Farmer crazy! Why shoot Kaman?! Why?! Poor children still scream, but can’t stop crazy farmer with gun. Kaman howl again now, but not with joy. No, Kaman now howl with anger forged in fire of shattered dreams. Kaman howl so loud feel like tornado hit farm. Farmer drop shotgun, run in house. Kaman howl and howl and then, when no howl left inside, Kaman sob. Kaman look at house. All lights off. No more children scream. At that moment, Kaman know he meant walk life alone. Kaman slip quietly into corn and next day begin train basketball, add low post moves so make NBA.

Who I'd like to meet:
Kaman want meet southern rock pioneer Greg Allman. People sometime say Kaman look like lost Allman brother. Kaman use internet. See resemblance. Internet tell Kaman Allman band play show at Van Andel Arena near woods where Kaman live two harvests moons before Kaman born. Kaman never know father, but not hang hopes on Greg Allman theory. Understand concept of coincidence. But Kaman also understand concept Occam’s Razor. Food for thought and topic for conversation if Kaman meet Greg Allman.

Interests:
General people think jocks only interest basketball, videogames, bling. Kaman not like other jocks. Kaman man of substance with real interests. Kaman like history. Philosopher George Santayana say “those not learn history doomed repeat it.” Kaman like honey. Kaman knock down beehive with stick and get stung by many bees. Arrrgh! Next time Kaman want honey use stick and again get stung by bees. AAARRGGGGH! Third time Kaman want honey stand far away and throw rock at hive. Hive fall! Bees angry but not see Kaman. HA! When bees go make new hive Kaman eat honey in peace. Kaman believe this essence of Santayana statement.

Music:

Kaman like hip-hop, old-school R&B and dub pioneer Derrick Harriot. Kaman also like music of autumn wind on fast-move creek and soft whelp of nursing bear cubs.

Movies:

Ooh this tricky. Kaman wrestle like with bear whether give answer make Kaman look “cool” or whether answer from heart. Kaman hear L.A. people talk about film movement Dogma 95. Kaman think mostly bullshit. Kaman believe apply “vow of chastity” only restrict artist vision, not unleash it. And Lars Von Trier not even adhere to own rules anymore! To tell truth, Kaman tired of L.A. film scene altogether. When Kaman feel like movie he usually stay home watch DVD of Legends of Fall or Legally Blonde. Oops! I guess Kaman decide speak from heart!

Television:

Seem shows about sketch comedy in zeitgeist now. Kaman think Tina Fey show “30 Rock” funny. She act put-upon and frazzled yet still sexy. Oldest Baldwin reinvents self as gruff but charming comic foil. Rest of cast understated yet capable. Kaman hope writer strike end soon. Kaman strike before. Strike badger with rock when not stop chitter chitter. Strike crow with rock when try poop Kaman. Strike many, many hikers with rock when wander near lair.

Books:
Kaman just finish re-reading Corman McCarthy Border Trilogy. Kaman not read in many years. Maybe Kaman different creature now, maybe just older, but Kaman wonder why so much violence? Kaman understand world can be violent place. Kaman killed many things. Kaman seen and drink much blood, maybe too much. All Kaman knows is feel sad for McCarthy if idea of human condition wrapped only in notions of loss and pain. So sad. Kaman also read tracks of possum and deer. But not read badger tracks. Kaman never read badger tracks.

Heroes:

Kaman hero mother nature. Kaman hero is owl sing him sleep at night. Kaman hero is mustang lead to water and bear teach Kaman fish. Hero is deer give Kaman warm skin and snake keep pants from falling down. Kaman hero is park ranger leave pie to cool on windowsill.

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Nicknames You Might Hear if Chris Berman Worked Blue

Sam Aiken For Your Bacon

Ledell Betts You Can’t Take It All

Willie Meat Blade

Troy Down With the Brown

Marc Big Bulger

Keith Rug Burns

Randall I’m Cummins

Tony Put Two Dixon

Ryan Goes Downes

Warrick Three Pumps and Dunn 

Kevin Let’s Faulk

Michael Makes Me Harden

Joe Horn Dog

Andre 10-Inch Johnson

Sloppy B.J. Lovett

Aaron Gimme Moorehead

Tom Nalen Chicks All Night

Lorenzo Neal Down

Carlos $20 For Head and $50 to Polk

Joe Rheem ‘Em Out

Junior Made Her Seau

Jeff Pole Smoker

Josh Cleveland Stamer

Lee Fuggs and Suggs

Alex Sugar Walls

Kurt So Big I Had to Warner

Juston Morning Wood

Bryant Get ‘Em Young

Brad Renfro Fan Ruins Heath Ledger Vigil

New York City, NY—An otherwise solemn vigil to mark the passing of Australian-born film star Heath Ledger was ruined by Yonkers resident Gretchen Picarella, 36, the self-professed “biggest Brad Renfro fan in the world.”

According to eyewitness reports, Picarella first joined the impromptu group of mourners gathered outside Ledger’s SoHo apartment sometime around 2 a.m. EST, just hours after news broke that the Oscar-nominated star of such films as The Patriot, I'm Not There and Brokeback Mountain had died.

“My friends and I came all the way down from the Upper West side as soon as we heard,” said Blair Morgan, 16. “That lady just kind of mixed herself in with us, which was, like, cool at first. We were all talking about Heath and crying and stuff and all of the sudden she’s, like, ‘guys, don’t forget to light a candle for Brad.’ I didn’t even know who she was talking about,” added Morgan. “I was all, like, ‘Brad Pitt?’”

Charley Hampton, 15 of Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, said Picarella grew visibly upset at the congregation. “She was all, like, ‘Brad Renfro! ’” said Hampton. “I’m not sure who that is but I guess he’s dead or something.”

Picarella then “totally freaked out on everyone,” claims onlooker, MacLean Houghton, 16, from Central Park West. “She had a collage of pictures of some guy—do you know who Ethan Hawke is? This dude kind of looked like that, but not old—anyway, the pictures were all taped onto this big poster board. She was sobbing and kept shoving the board into people’s faces. She kept going on and on about ‘Apt Pupil’ and ‘Bully’ as if we were supposed to know what those things were. It was super embarrassing.”

Picarella, who was wearing a satin jacket commemorating the 2002 release Deuces Wild, was asked to leave by Gavin Barnes, 17. “We don’t talk to people like that on the Upper East side,” said Barnes. “I told her that if she wasn’t here for Heath, then she should take her crappy sign somewhere else. Who cares about the kid from T2?”

Tiki Barber Announces Unretirement, Says "The timing just feels right.”

New York City, NY—Just hours after the New York Giants upset the Green Bay Packers in the NFC Championship game, former Giants running back Tiki Barber announced plans to end his season-long retirement.

“I enjoy broadcasting, but I have decided to return to my first love—playing football for the New York Giants,” Barber told a hastily assembled press corps. “The timing just feels right.”

Barber, who shocked his teammates by announcing his impending retirement midway through the 2006 NFL season, denied his motives were related to a quest for personal glory. “When I retired, I said a lack of a Super Bowl ring would not diminish my legacy and I stand by that statement today. The Super Bowl is just another game, one that happens to coincide with my decision to unretire.”

The Giants defied expectations this season by winning 10 games to reach the playoffs as one of the NFC’s two wildcard teams. They’ve since added three improbable road playoff victories to reach the franchise’s fourth Super Bowl. The Giants last played in the Super Bowl in 2001, losing to the Baltimore Ravens by 27 points. Barber rushed for a team-high 49 yards and added 26 yards on six receptions in that game.

In August, the former pro bowl running back rankled his former teammates when he called quarterback Eli Manning’s leadership skills “comical” on national television.

“Honestly, I don’t remember saying that,” Barber said. “I mean, that doesn’t sound like me. I’m not calling you a liar or anything…I just…Look, obviously I said some things, the Giants said some things. Who even remembers what we were arguing about?” he added with a nervous chuckle.

“It’s time to put the past in the past. It’s time to let bygones be bygones. It’s time to let the Lightning strike!” the diminutive back exclaimed, referencing the popular “Thunder and Lightning” nickname given to the short-lived rushing tandem of Ron Dayne and Barber. “We know Brandon [Jacobs] can bring the thunder, but does anyone really think Ahmad Bradshaw can bring the lightning?” Barber asked, flashing his trademark high-wattage smile.

Bradshaw, an undersized back from Marshall University, was selected by the Giants in the seventh round of the 2007 draft. He was pressed into duty late this season after injuries to Giants backs Brandon Jacobs, Reuben Droughns and Derrick Ward. Bradshaw rushed for 63 yards and a key touchdown in the win over the Packers.

Giants coach Tom Coughlin was unavailable for comment, but when reached by phone on Tuesday night, Eli Manning responded “You’re shitting me, right? Is that you, Cooper?”