Let's diverge from the sky falling talk for a bit to celebrate Randy McMichael's remembrance of Ricky Williams.
The comparisons to Steven Jackson are interesting. Ricky was the classic "power back," the king of running back with loads and loads of potential energy stored in his legs and lower body (insert innuendo as you see fit) that could break through linemen with nothing but the momentum generated from all that power exploding at the same time (oh boy), almost regardless of how well his offensive line cleared the way.
McMichael obviously hasn't seen enough of Jackson play to make a good comparison, as evidenced by his "up-and-coming" (man, just can't shake the innuendo) platitude. I suspect he'll have more to say in a few weeks.
"I really don't think Ricky has a phone, and I don't even know where Ricky is right now. I'm sure Ricky is somewhere discovering a new religion or something like that. One thing about Ricky: Ricky is not bored, I can promise you that."
I have a pretty good idea of what he might be doing.
I had another snarky remark slated to go here, but thinking about Ricky Williams in light of guys like Mick Vick and Pacman Jones, you realize just how senseless his exile from football really was. Sure, he bares much of the responsibility for his actions, and I certainly don't condone what he did. However, testing positive for marijuana - not even a performance enhancing drug - seems pretty insignificant compared to murdering animals for money or shooting up a strip club. If Vick or Pacman are allowed to play professional football again, you've got proof that there really is no justice in the NFL.