T.S. Eliot claimed that April was the cruelest month, but for Wes Welker it is more like August.
Payday has come for sundry teammates, but not for him.
They are writing checks of love for Aaron Hernandez, but not for Wes Welker. You can guarantee more clouds of gray in every day for Welker than you'd find in any Russian play.
Cruel owners of the Patriots danced on the grave of Wes Welker-again. They likely would never cough up enough money to pay for some daisies for the dead walking receiver.
Denying one of the most popular and arguably most affable of all Patriot record holders, the owners simply have by-passed Welker time and again.
Yet again, the Kraft billions went to young receivers like Rob Gronkowski and Aaron Hernandez rather than to give tribute to an aging Welker who has done more good for a longer time.
And therein is the rub and the difference. The good is oft interred with a receiver's bones. Eight, nine, ten years older than the new young hotshots, Wes Welker is a man living on borrowed NFL time. And, the owners just took another year away from his contractual lifespan.
Welker is a pint-size zombie among muscular gods of the gridiron. He is a slot receiver, something akin to a one-armed bandit in ownership's eyes.
Cursed with a "franchise tag" means Welker watches others get what he asked for. Like little Oliver Twist, he dared to ask for more from the noblesse oblige owners of New England NFL franchise.
And like little Oliver, they were indignant that Wes Whelper showed such temerity when it came to the payroll line.
A lucky star's above, but not for Wes. Usually a happy knot between owner and player signals a mutual admiration, but not for Wes.
Some day the owners will invite him back to Gillette for inclusion in their so-called Patriot Hall of Fame. We hope he spits in their eye.