The book is not closed on the Indianapolis Colts.
That’s an odd way to begin a post that implies something quite to the contrary, but it’s entirely true. Fact is, Peyton Manning has a few great—not good, great—years left in him. As we saw Saturday night, Freeney and Mathis are still absolute bulls. Tony Dungy will inevitably retire and do so soon, but though the absence of his steady hand will doubtlessly be felt, life will go on with coach-in-waiting Jim Caldwell, because Jim Caldwell will do things as Dungy did.
The Colts are literally a machine. Their arsenal of weapons remains consistent, not constant; most big pieces remain in place, but Bill Polian’s unarguable management of the smaller ones that result from natural turnover in personnel (i.e., Anthony Gonzalez, the linebacking corps) and the coaching staff’s development of backups (i.e., safety Melvin Bullitt, who in Bob Sanders’ frequent absence, often played All Pro-caliber football) have kept them hovering above everyone—literally everyone. No one has matched their regular season dominance for the whole of this decade. No one has matched the level of exorbitant expectations placed upon them at the dawn of every year. From the perspective of efficiency, no machine is better-oiled than the Indianapolis Colts, and as long as their front office remains committed to winning in the here and now, they will almost always find ways to compete, even after they’re forced to find a new quarterback.
Thing is, they suck.
I would almost rather be a Bengals fan, so I could at least find humor in my team from time to time. There is no humor in Indianapolis—only heartache, only disappointment, only letdown. I’m sure there are a million Niners fans, a million Chiefs fans, and seven Lions fans who would just as soon trample my whiny tush to enjoy half the success Indianapolis has experienced over the course of the last half-decade. Of course, like I could really blame them. But in those cities, expectations are mostly met. No one has anticipated Alex Smith’s transformation into a Pro Bowler. No one has given real thought to the possibility that Herm Edwards’ team could actually build on anything. No one has thought Detroit would ever use a first round draft pick on anything but a cancerous wide receiver. It must be satisfying to live down to that lack of hype. In Naptown, it never fails—at some point during a given year, the Colts are hyped like a Police reunion tour prefaced by an announcement that Jenna Jameson is returning to porn. Unmitigated pandemonium. What is equally unfailing is this: Indy blows it.
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