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THE ALL-RACE TEAM

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With the race card getting tossed around a lot in the blogosphere lately, we thought that maybe EDSBS could get a whole lotta healing going around here by typing something we've wanted to do for a while: the EDSBS All-Race Team. If Afro-Americans really are the fastest people on earth, doesn't every race have something special to contribute to the glorious game that is college football?

Of course they do. Each race is matched with their stereotypical perfect match below.

Chinese: Offensive Coordinator. Devious, shifty, and possessed of a beatific Taoist calm in the midst of the most high-pressure game time situations, the Chinese offensive coordinator speaks in circles when asked about his strategies. "There is no system," "we flow where the defense isn't," and "only by running may one open up the pass, but the opposite may be true as well depending on the situation." Booth cam often catches the Chinese OC peering over astrological charts and lighting unfiltered cigarettes end off end, calling a bewildering array of deceptively simple plays while calling in stock tips to his brother in Taipei and feeding the parakeet on his shoulder sunflower seeds. Fights off competitors and athletic directors with a mix of baffling negotiation tactics and unstoppable Mantis-style fighting technique. Known to fly effortlessly down from booth to sideline during timeouts.

Your new OC's fighting style is unstoppable.

Jews: kicker. Sure, he's just a kicker--and an aspiring lawyer with a hell of an internship, a beastly LSAT score, and a superb credit rating. And a mensch on top of it all. No job on a football team fits God's Chosen People more than kicker: highly specialized, much maligned, one figure set against a wave of opposition eking out victory at the margins.

Put David in pads, and he'd be the 168-pound guy knocking off an undefeated BCS team with three seconds left on the clock. And remember, as we once read in an economics textbook, rational people think at the margins, which is right where we expect to find the people who produced Wittgenstein, Spinoza, and the greatest logician of our time, Henny Youngman.

Latinos: linebacker. As Cuddles Swindle once said, "Hey, don't be fooled: there's some bigass Mexicans out there." We draft the greater Latin American area to supply us with an endless stream of linebackers for a number of reasons. One, their passionate, hot-blooded approach to the game, which would involve tears, screaming, and the ripping-off of their jersey following a monumental hit. Two, the Argentine and Mexican affection for the mullet would make them instantly recognizable on the playing field, lightening the load for spotters in the booth and fans in the stands thumbing through their program. Three, the sack dances would be spectacular, hip-shaking affairs of breathless sexuality. And four, the marketing opportunity for college football--if half of Latin America will watch Don Francisco for nine hours straight as he points and titters and a walking silicone rack dressed in spandex, they'll watch three and a half hours of a WAC scorefest. Hell, it would be like a sitcom compared to the endless death march that is Sabado Gigante.

Samoans. Offensive and defensive line. Duh. The islanders of Polynesia are famous for two things: getting their own shout-out at the end of "The Humpty Dance" ("Samoans!"), and making huge children who end up in the NFL at rates far above that of any other ethnic group. A nice reward for a group of people forced to live on U.S. government spam for thirty years after we decided to use a few of their islands as nuclear testing grounds. And who says life isn't fair?

Had love for Samoans years ago.

White trash: quarterback. We fit in where we can get in, and nothing says "compelling storyline" like "white trash qb made good." This is the wellspring of so many of football's most treasured myths, including John Madden's slobbering man-love for the declining Brett Favre. A trope so treadworn and done that even Hollywood got in on it with the character of Joe Kane in The Program, whose life story was just a retarded homicidal brother who worked at a lawnmower shop and a wagon full of relatives on their way to Califor-nigh-yeah short of total satire. White guys have to get in where they can fit in, and there's no better place to start than throwing a game-winning wounded duck of a pass with a broken leg and a black eye from the bar fight you were in the night before. Added bonus: the white trash qb doesn't have to run, unless you're going for serious glory points in the form of the horrific injury you'll sustain upon tackling, which you'll play through thanks to the prescription meds and bourbon still percolating in your system from the night before.