I Want My Country Back

There was a time in this country when a guy named Joe Lunchbucket, friend of Joe Sixpack, ruled the earth. He was lionized, and celebrated into mythology by characters from Fred and Barney to The Honeymooners, to Archie Bunker to Cheers, and on and on. He worked in a factory, or drove heavy equipment, belonged to a union, or held a trade. He died in wars. He drank beer and smoked. He wore some kind of hat. He loved his wife and kids, and dreamed the American Dream.

He was intensely dedicated to sports, especially football. The sport grew to represent modern gladiators who protected the honor and manhood of their chosen communities. The game was war, and Sunday battles were violent struggles between armies. Even in the cheap seats, a guy could share the glory, taste the victories and plan future conquests.

The field marshals, the likes of Landry, Lumbardi, and Brown, fatherly personified the wisdom and strength of the group. They were bouyied upon the love and trust of the community. A sacred trust.

It is no coincidence that the teams started moving at the same time the factories started closing. The Browns, the Oilers, the Colts, the Rams, the Cardinals all left, torn from the desperate grip of Joe Lunchbucket, weakened from unemployment, the deteriorating neighborhoods, decaying schools, he couldn't hold on.

Sure, some never left, and some new teams reformed, sometimes with the same names, and the ones who left settled nicely into new cities. But it was never the same.

A guy who wants to go to a game will enter at the highest price. If a guy could afford that, and he wanted to take his kids, who still worship the fleet athletes in different ways, he might as well take out a bank loan. Everything goes to people who can withstand the market forces, and the guys who own the public airwaves, and pay the price for the stadium they can't get into, and struggle to hold on while paying more and more for less, are constantly reminded that they are losers in the new game.

I say screw NFL Network. Screw the Cowboys. Screw you Bud Adams, you fat f-cker! Screw you Jerry Jones, you old blood sucker.