The Grim Reaper drafts one hellacious football player in Chuck Bednarik

Chuck Bednarik always seemed too damn tough to die, as majestically monolithic as the Rock of Gibraltar.

After all, his nickname was Concrete Charlie. No other nickname captured anyone as eloquently.

A litany of percussive words defined him: Hard. Ornery. Fierce. Mean. Cantankerous. Unyielding.

Bednarik was The Iron Man, the last of the 60-Minute Men.

He was the pure essence of football, imbued with a smoldering lust for hitting.

Granted, combat was ingrained into his DNA when he climbed behind a machine gun in a B-24 for 30 missions as a teenager fighting in World War II.

He was a monster as a center and linebacker back when the NFL was a gang fight in shoulder pads, a crackling cage of friction and chaos.

In an era when the tentacles of NFL violence spread like a fire whose only mind was wind, the rugged and resolute Bednarik never was sequestered without control.

When the cold light of day broke each autumn Sunday, Bednarik couldn’t wait to stick his nose into the cement mixer of muscle and mayhem.

All those collisions and scrums left him with multiple fingers pointing in multiple directions. Even with those gnarled fingers, he could play a mean (what else?) polka on his accordion.

For 58 1/2 minutes in the NFL’s 1960 championship game, Bednarik held his ground in the middle of Franklin Field at center and linebacker, a force of nature determined to postpone the christening of the Green Bay Packers’ dynasty.

He played that game with a foaming passion that crested when he wrestled Packers fullback Jim Taylor to the ground one last time and held him there until the final gun punctuated the Eagles’ 17-13 victory.

The Eagles haven’t ruled pro football since.

An All-American at Penn when the Ivy League school, believe it or not, was a football powerhouse, Bednarik was born for the game.

He was a physical giant among his generation’s players, and so versatile that he occasionally punted and kicked off.

Indelibly etched into the memories of everyone who saw it was Bednarik’s iconic hit on the New York Giants’ Frank Gifford on Nov. 20, 1960 at Yankee Stadium.

George Shaw’s pass was behind Gifford, who reached back and grabbed the ball. He tucked it under his arm and turned up field. Where Bednarik infamously de-cleated the dashing halfback with a gruesome bear hug punctuated by a vicious forearm.

Gifford dropped as if hit with an ice pick in his neck.

Bednarik stood exultant over the prone, unconscious Gifford who had dared to run a route over the middle into the hunting grounds patrolled by a predator like Concrete Charlie.

Yeah, the obit said that Concrete Charlie is dead.

But I refuse to believe that.

DeMarco Murray, grounded in Dallas, set to take flight in Philly

Apparently DeMarco Murray has taken flight from the Cowboys, who ran him into the ground last season, and is poised to join Chip Kelly’s Magical Mystery Traveling Road Show.

Kelly moves almost as many bodies as Boscov’s Travel.

As of this blog was being posted for global consumption, Murray was at the Eagles’ facility where it was expected if that all went well, he would sign with the Birds.

Murray reportedly would get $42 million over five years, with $21 million guaranteed.

That’s a herculean chunk of change for a running back heading into his late 20s.

And a gargantuan risk, since productivity levels on a back battered by a remarkable 392 carries last season usually drop quicker than the needle on a luxury car’s gas gauge.

On the plus side, Kelly’s offensive scheme rewards backs who are decisive and versatile.

A job description that matches Murray’s DNA.

Assuming that Murray circa 2015 resembles Murray circa 2014.

However this pans out, right now it definitely lights up the psyche of Iggles Nation.

Chip Kelly should donate his brain to science

OK, Chip Kelly traded Nick Foles and a fourth-round pick in 2015 and a second-round pick in 2016 to the Rams for Sam Bradford and a fifth-round pick in 2015.

If you ask me, the trade was dumber than asking your wife why she’s putting on weight.

Kelly’s whacky personnel moves are undergoing an intense inquiry because he exhibits an abundance of aggression and a paucity of discretion.

Something is starkly remiss in his redesign of the franchise’s tectonic plates.

And now before the earth turns yet again, it should be vividly apparent that Kelly is not stockpiling weaponry to pluck Marcus Mariota in the first round.

It says here that Bradford is not a trade chip at all. He is, alas, THE guy in Philadelphia

Evidently Kelly coveted Bradford because he amassed gaudy numbers running a spread offense at Oklahoma and because Eagles offensive coordinator Pat Shumur was Bradford’s OC his rookie year in 2010.

But Bradford, after two ACL tears, hardly seems like the right guy to run Kelly’s fast-paced offense.

Bradford is so fragile he spews body parts like my 1962 Mercury Comet once did.

Foles, while obviously not fleet of foot, also is a superior athlete to Bradford.

And there reportedly aren’t a lot of NFL GMs who think Bradford is clearly better than Foles, who had one of the most remarkable passing seasons ever in 2013 with 27 touchdown passes and just two interceptions.

Compounding the insanity, Kelly gave the Rams the better draft picks.

After getting fleeced by the Rams, the offseason in Philly clearly has become a tinderbox of fan rebellion.

Stay tuned. The more intense the situation, the more unforeseeable the denouement.

Chip Kelly quivering the jellies of public opinion

Trying to discern the higher calculus of Chip Kelly, one is left lunging for a shred of sanity like a hunting dog devoid of nostrils.

Whatever you make of what Kelly has wrought so far this offseason, you have to admire him doing it with the swagger of John Wayne loping into a saloon.

Since Kelly is more closed mouth than an Egyptian mummy, we can only speculate about his game plan.

I think he shed salary — James Casey, Todd Herremans, Trent Cole, LeSean McCoy — to swell a huge cache of salary cap space so he can fill holes with free agents with the ultimate intent of trying to transform a truckload of draft picks into Marcus Mariota.

If this indeed is Kelly’s MO, he’s spitting into the face of conventional wisdom: Successful teams don’t build through free agency. They build through the draft and then pick and choose free agents at fair market value.

So the Birds have added Byron Maxwell, the top corner on the market; Frank Gore, a percussive north-south running back with God knows how much tread left on his tires; and Kiko Alonso, another Oregon product who was a stud linebacker two years ago.

Just how good will Maxwell be playing outside the cocoon of Richard Sherman, Earl Thomas and Kam Channcelor in Seattle? And is Maxwell worth a staggering $63 million over six years?

Gore has exhibited little dropoff yet, but the history of running backs 32 and older is uglier than a carbuncle.

Alonso has missed two of the last five years with knee injuries, and the price was extreme — McCoy.

Did Kelly’s ego lock his common sense in the linen closet?

Of course, Kelly still has to fill in the remaining pieces of this puzzling puzzle.

Like just who the hell will be his quarterback?

If the Eagles covet Mariota so lustfully, why were they reportedly in talks with the 49ers about a trade for Colin Kaepernick?

And what’s up with giving Mark Sanchez, who dishes out more turnovers than a corner bakery, a deal of two years for $9 million with $5.5 million guaranteed and ceiling of $16 million?

Will they keep Nick Foles or deal him as a pawn in the Mariota sweepstakes?

Whatever the dénouement of all this personnel wizardry, you can’t deny it’s a thrill ride to rival anything Hersheypark has to offer.

You just pray that all this wheeling and dealing ultimately won’t cause jammed suicide prevention lines.

King Chip, genius or madman?

OK, it was no state secret that LeSean McCoy was on the block.

King Chip has had his superstar running back’s neck placed there for sometime.

Still, when the news came that apparently Shady is heading to Buffalo for yet another Oregon Duck, it left a lot of folks rubber-legged.

For many Eagles fans, the reported trade is more difficult to comprehend than opening a contrary bottle of wine. Folks would love to tap Kelly on the forehead as though testing for termites.

Look at Eagles fans faces covered with pyramids of hurt and you will see the tracks of their tears.

With talented but fragile linebacker Kiko Alonso evidently coming to the Eagles’ nest, Chip Kelly supposedly has every Duck but Donald.

Now that King Chip has total personnel control, just because he does anything he damn well pleases doesn’t mean he’s an egocentric problem child.

Egotism, by the way, is not something you develop over dinner. Like a tattoo, it’s etched into the flesh.

King Chip has embarked on a reign of majesty and mystery.

He has released James Casey, Todd Herremans, Cary Williams and Trent Cole. He likely will allow Brandon Graham and Jeremy Maclin to seek their fortune in free agency.

Kelly is scrawling his signature all over the franchise.

What next?

Trading with one of the teams with a high draft pick to move up for Oregon quarterback Marcus Mariota?

Changing the Philadelphia franchise nickname to the Ducks?

Using their now extensive cap space to sign some marquee free agents such as Seahawks cornerback Byron Maxwell or Patriots safety Devin McCourty or Broncos OL Orlando Franklin or Ravens wideout Torrey Smith or edge rushers like the Steelers’ Jason Worilds or the Texans’ Brooks Reed?

The Eagles obviously have to load up on defense because last year opponents went through them like Gillette Foamy.

As for Alonso, if he can hang onto all his limbs, he and Mychal Kendricks could form one of the more formidable inside linebacker duos in the league.

They both have excellent speed and coverage skills to work the hook-to-curl zones, as well as the ability to read blocking schemes and fill running lanes in front of them.

As for Shady, it will be interesting to see how much he loves the Buffalo cold, especially since the cuddly Rex Ryan can provide only so much warmth with his antics.

And McCoy will be going from Kelly’s sophisticated offense to Ryan’s Neanderthal offense with formations that look like they’re designed out of cardboard and tacked-up newspapers.

This Super Bowl was a bit more exciting then watching your Aunt Edna knit

Well, they played a big football game Sunday. The Super Bowl. With a bunch of Roman numerals after it, so it had to be important

It was even televised.

Of course, I think they just do that so they can have plenty of breaks in the action to show all those supposedly Super (not?) commercials and have some musical artist such as Katy Perry have 6,742 people join them on onstage in an over-hyped lavish production.

Last night might have been The Greatest Super Bowl Every Played, a surreal and superlative melodrama with an astonishing and shocking twist in the ending.

When all was said and done, the Patriots edged the Seahawks 28-24 because of the improbable stupidity of Seattle coach Pete Carroll.

Down four points, Seattle had traveled 79 yards in 62 seconds and had one yard to go and three plays left along with one timeout to punch Marshawn Lynch, the baddest beast on the planet, in for the winning touchdown and their second straight Super Bowl win.

Instead, Seattle got way too cute and had Russell Wilson throw a slant to Ricardo Lockette. But an unknown rookie, Malcolm Butler, from West Alabama, which might as well be the Planet Mars when it comes to football obscurity, picked the pass off with uncanny perception for the most stunning Super Bowl finish of all time.

Of course, many folks didn’t embrace the Patriots’ remarkable victory because they perceive them to be the ultimate cheaters, consider Bill Belichick to be as warm and cuddly as Rushmore granite, and hate Tom Brady’s guts because he’s good looking, never ages, and his supermodel wife would cause cardiac arrest in a yak.

So they refuse to throw the Pats even a few dollops of acclaim and I get that. After all, rooting for New England is like rooting for a hedge fund.

But I have to give Brady and the Patriots some props.

Brady was incredibly clutch in the fourth quarter, leading the Pats back from a 10-point deficit in the fourth quarter by going 13 of 15 for 121 yards, 2 touchdowns, 0 interceptions, and a 139.9 passing rating in his last two possessions against the best defense in football.

That, my friends, was a pristine palette of passing precision and patience.

The Butler then saved Brady’s ass, which seemed to be redemptive karma to me.

Brady now is 4-2 in Super Bowls and he could have been 6-0 if the Giants hadn’t stunned him twice on are-you-freaking-kidding-me circus catches by Mario Manningham and David (Velcro Helmet) Tyree.

And it unbelievably almost transpired yet again Sunday night when Seattle’s Jermaine Kearse made a ridiculous 33-yard catch on his back after touching or deflecting it four different times (in his next life look for him to find work as a juggler in the circus) to set up what should have been the winning gimme putt before Carroll’s brain got the yips.

The shocked look on Brady’s face at that moment said it all. At that juncture he and the Patriots seemed more snake bitten than a guy swimming a mile in the Amazon.

But the fickle finger of fate, being unpredictable by its DNA, didn’t give them the finger this time.

Media, pundits and the populace pump up Deflategate

Everybody has been squeezing the Patriots’ deflated balls all week.

Never has a shrinkage issue gone this viral.

It’s all people are talking about. The issue has paralyzed America like a continental-wide tsunami of a killer snowstorm.

It was amazing that when Bill Belichick and Tom Brady were proclaiming that they, much like Sgt. Schultz, know nussink about how Deflategate went down, they didn’t do so with high-pitched, squeaky voices.

With their balls on the line, did anybody actually expect either to fess up? C’mon, get real.

In a country where almost everybody could give a damn less about the PSI level of their tires, everybody suddenly is an expert on deflation and inflation.

Did they all take a quickie online graduate course in voodoo economics?

Personally, if it weren’t the Patriots involved, this story would not have swelled bigger than a blowfish.

But New England’s Evil Empire/KGB-villain persona has, pardon the pun, overinflated this narrative to absurd proportions.

Still, we all are deliriously curious about who screwed with the balls and who told them to do so.

Two things to keep in mind that actually make this story – matters of integrity and fair play aside – much ado about nothing: Underinflated footballs can be thrown more accurately, which obviously is a good thing, but they also lose velocity, which obviously is a bad thing when a quarterback is trying to rifle the ball into a tight and closing window.

Nevertheless, teams always are looking for a competitive advantage and messing with ball inflation has been commonplace in football and basketball over the years.

During the heyday of their hot-as-blacktop-under-a-summer-sun NBA rivalry, the fastbreak Lakers overinflated balls and the plodding Celtics underinflated balls.

Ever since Ty Cobb was sliding his spikes into second basemen’s faces, baseball teams have been stealing signs and growing infield grass giraffe-high against certain opponents.

Perhaps there is something to that old adage that if you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying.