By Thomas Helmers
NoC sports editor Troy Lyle was going to follow up his “Disillusioned with the NFL” piece this week but decided to crawl into the bottom of a bottle of Laphroiag instead, leaving me holding the bag. Here are my thoughts based on our observations following yesterday’s day of football.
While gleefully watching the systematic dismemberment last evening of what was once known as the Dallas Cowboys at the hands of the Packers, a recurring conversation between Lyle and myself once again percolated.
“How could you subject me to this god-awful white washing?” he asked me about halfway through the second quarter. “You know that I’ve basically waved the white flag on my football fandom after the stunt that invalid Shanahan pulled last week against Detroit.”
To clarify, Lyle is (or should I say was up until four days ago) a fairly rabid Redskins fan. I’ve witnessed a series of completely irrational behavior over the past seven years as a direct result of the man’s loyalty to what passes for a football team in the greater D.C. area. Beer bottles thrown across the room, drinks knocked over and spilled at any number of watering holes, and of course the fallout from the Mike Alstott incident of 2005, when Tampa Bay coach Jon Gruden eschewed the tying kick for a two point conversion on the shoulders of the mighty fullback. Needless to say the Bucs made the conversion on a controversial call that still resonates through Tampa fandom today. The Alstott incident led to a severe mental breakdown and dead silence towards me for the better part of a week.
The most recent Redskin broadside, the Shanahan stunt that sent Lyle off yesterday, involved new head coach Mike Shanahan benching Donavan McNabb on the team’s final drive on the grounds that his quarterback did not possess the “cardiovascular endurance” to run the two minute drill. As fate had it, the moment proved too great for the statue known as Rex Grossman, the backup QB who proceeded to fumble away the game on the very next play.
“You know that football is becoming an utter joke with no discernable punch line,” he said, wiping the beer from his chin. “The game is being ruined by owners like Dan Snyder and Jerry Jones who let their egos, rather than their intellect dictate their decisions,” he said, cracking open another High Life.
“Sure man,” I replied. “Every year at this time you always drone on and on like some sort of senile twit about how much you hate football and how you’re giving up on the Skins. Spare me your babbling idiocy on the matter this year. I’m enjoying the season.”
Throughout the remainder of the game, however, as opposed to dismissing his usually empty rhetoric, I found myself agreeing with several of his observations as to why professional football is becoming a shell of its former self. To wit:
Fantasy Football
Has there been any other innovation in the history of the game that has trivialized the concept of being a fan more than the advent of Rotisserie sports? A few years ago I penned a piece for the now defunct Nougat magazine extolling the virtues of the game, but nowadays I find myself disgusted by the kind of simpleton that heavy involvement with this pastime breeds.
The game lionizes everything that is wrong with the NFL these days. Rather than cheering for a team, one is more interested in individual statistics, regardless of the player. I, for one happen to loathe any team in the NFC South not named the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. You can imagine my internal conflict when two years ago I won my league due in large part to the accomplishments of Atlanta’s Michael Turner.
As the season progressed, I found myself feeling a bit nauseous from the fact I was rooting for the solitary accolades of a star player from a rival teamall in the name of a couple hundred dollars. I hated becoming one of these dullards that screams out players’ names at the television as opposed to just enjoying the beauty of the sport. I’ve now sworn off Fantasy Football. I couldn’t be enjoying a season any more.
The Blackout Rule
Imagine for a second, that something you helped finance, say a football stadium paid for with your tax dollars to help further line the pockets of already obscenely rich owners, is suddenly used as an extortion tool. That is almost precisely what is going on in the city of Tampa at present. Despite an exciting young team with a winning record, sellouts have become a thing of the past due to a purging of jobs and a local economy that has completely tanked. Having lived in the area for an extended period of time, I can safely report that the passion for the Buccaneers runs deep. In spite of this, people cannot simply afford to drop $65 for a ticket on any given Sunday.
So how are they rewarded? Hey, you don’t show up, you don’t get to see the game. It will not be broadcast locally. To paraphrase Gregg Easterbrookthere is no law that states that the NFL has to be popular. Alienating your fan base by hijacking something that brings joy to many for just three hours a week is not only a laughable practice, but in turn bites the hand that feeds. This antiquated rule benefits no one and does not cultivate interest. In reality it actually does quite the opposite.
The Pussification of the Game
Vanguard of safety, Roger Goodell has made it a pillar of his commissioner duties to squeeze all of the fun and integrity out of the action on the field. The history of the NFL is littered with raging bloodthirsty lunatics that helped make the league what it is today. Lyle Alzado, Conrad Dobler, Deacon Jones and a slew of others, some of whom are enshrined in Canton, would never have a chance in today’s atmosphere of kitty-paw rules and regulations. Quarterbacks are being coddled. Tom Brady acts like a petulant child wanting his flag-flag anytime he so much is breathed upon by an opposing defense. Anytime a helmet so much as grazes another, fines and suspensions are handed down.
The irony in all of this moral crusading is that the NFL does nothing to assist retired players that display lingering physical and neural effects brought upon by years of violent sport that helped the league become the corporate behemoth it is today.
Egomaniacal Owners and Players
The crux of Lyle’s outrage and antipathy essentially boiled down to one factor. Daniel Snyder. Ever since this Amway salesman reject bought the Washington Redskins franchise, the fan base has been treated to some of the most inane decision making and lack of entertaining football ever known.
“After this whole Donovan McNabb mess, I’m finished with these fucking jackanapes. Albert Haynesworth is a pussy swine,” said Lyle. “Snyder has finally done the impossible. I’m done with this team until his useless ass is gone.”
With that, I proceeded to watch him take all of his Redskins minutiae and pack it into a box. The Santana Moss jersey, the 1983 NFC Championship hat, the Joe Jacoby signed menu. All of it.
“I’m fed up with these millionaire crybabies and know nothings ruining the team I once lived and died with,” he said. “We’re no better than the Cowboys.”
Indeed, the guy had a valid point. Owners like Snyder and Jerry Jones, as well as players like Darelle Revis, Michael Crabtree and Haynesworth, illustrate the ugly side of the NFL on a regular basis. Snyder and Jones have treated their respective franchises like a glorified fantasy team with no expertise.
In spite of the losing, both of these clowns have managed to have new stadiums financed with taxpayer extortions and blackmail while conversely fleecing the public with rising ticket prices. Never mind that they continue fielding middling squads. Players with multi-million dollar contracts further draw the wrath of the watching public. Hearing me-first people like Revis whine and hold out for more money while millions of the NFL’s fan base struggle day to day to get out of hock is pathetic.
“You’ve got a valid point, my friend,” I concluded while polishing off the last of his High Life. “Luckily for me my team is competitive and doing it the right way.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” he said. “For all we know the league may not be the same if this lockout happens after this season.”
And with that, Lyle’s box full of Skins memorabilia was shoved into the closet, and with it, all vestiges of what remained of his fandom. At least he’ll always have ice hockey.
Leave a Reply