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Collin Klein, All-Time QB. It's Only Fair.

This Saturday, Collin Klein wins the Heisman. By playing All-Time QB.

Matthew Holst

It's no secret that Collin Klein needs a game-changer. A gimmick. The kind of ridiculous bullshit that the media retrograde ejaculates over in order to justify their idiotic Heisman vote.

This Saturday, Collin Klein must play All-Time QB.

For Kansas State. For Texas. For Collin Klein. For America.

Hear me out.

I have no motive of self-interest in writing this. In fact, I have a lot to lose as a Texas fan. Case McCoy is the rightful starting QB at the University of Texas. Always has been. All of you know that, somewhere in the deepest chamber of your perineal lining that responds to e-mail forwards about angels and Family Circus cartoons. Gumption. Moxie. Winnerosity. Chemical-ness. These are the words that come to mind. The Case McCoy Experience (basically, a stork on peyote dropped in the middle of an ice rink told to re-enact Flash Gordon's football scene against Ming's guard) fully unleashed for four quarters in Manhattan is a sure guarantee of victory. For one of the teams.

But I'm willing to give that up in order for a good man, a good quarterback, a fellow conference friend, to win the Heisman Trophy. Leading Texas against Kansas State. Leading Kansas State against Texas.

What is All-Time QB, you ask?

Perhaps you were born after 1984 or grew up in Connecticut and are thus only familiar with a youth of exalted affirmation and dressing your avatar in ball gowns. The word springs from a dark time when bands of unsupervised youths roamed the landscape looking to play pick-up football.

Pick-up tackle football was one of my great joys. My friends and I would range all over Austin, scanning high school athletic fields for groups of fellow delinquents to play tackle football with - games that usually ended in fights, a major injury (empathy was not a strong suit: when one South Austin kid on an opposing team broke his arm, and you could actually see the break through his shirt sleeves, I remember watching his friends carry him to the car and asking,"So y'all are coming back after, right?"), or the Austin Police Department chasing us off of a commandeered field (hint: throw a hoodie over barbed wire and you can shimmy right over without hanging in the air like an Indian hook-fetishist celebrating some Shiva ritual).

Whenever there was an odd number of participants, or, when we were 9th graders and had persuaded someone's collegiate older brother, home for the holidays, to participate, you created the most mercenary of positions: The All-Time QB. This gunslinging mercenary of the playground had no fealty to either hastily assembled team. His job was to throw a touchdown, immediately turn on his former teammates, and throw another going the other way.

A quality All-Time QB took pride in his neutrality. The clean Swiss morality of his craft. He drew routes on the chest any sweatshirt and would pick on the fat kid on either team without compunction. Or the least fat. Because the fat kids always covered each other, sticking to each other like jelly. Actual jelly.

Imagine Klein's potential statline. A 500 yard passing, 250 yard rushing, 8 TD combined effort is well within his grasp. Might he get tired running 140 plays? No. This is Collin Klein. He's been hurt since August and he's been tired since May. If there's any justice, the game will go into triple overtime.

Imagine the pathos of the post-game interview.

"I'm both elated and disappointed at the win and loss. I thought we had a chance to win and lose there at the end. I'm just really happy and sad that we-they made a play there at the end. I told both defenses, hey, don't tackle me in the big cactus near the front bedroom window. First, because it hurts. Second, because my Dad spent like $200 on that and he'll go nuts when he gets back from work."

In addition, Klein could also attempt the first P for K in major college football game. He could also refuse any fluids unless it came from a metallic tasting garden hose or a half bottle of Sunny D drunk straight from the bottle standing in front of the open refrigerator while his mother yells at him to use a glass.