There was only one MJD
I didn’t start playing fantasy football because of Maurice Jones-Drew, but he became the reason why I stayed in the game, every season and in every way.
By Andrew Pridgen
He’s gone now. At 29, retired.
I knew it wasn’t going to last forever. Nothing, not even a Sting ballad, does.
And yet, MJD (or is it MJ-D?), whose initials became his name, who sounded so mysteriously and flavorfully like my favorite beer, announced Friday without ceremony, fanfare or one final curtain call on my Yahoo! message board, that he would touch the ball no more.
My adult life’s ups and downs have always orbited around MJD. From covering his prep days at De La Salle as a stringer for the Contra Costa Times, to watching this tiny ball of muscle—like a He-Man figurine but melted down in the microwave—eviscerate the Pac-10 tip-toeing through secondaries with his tiny size-7…
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