Why We Love Football, and Why We Hate Goodell
8 Posted on April 4th, 2013 by Himself
There are times when football helps us maintain our grip on things. And there are times, like now, when Roger Goodell threatens that grip by threatening football.
Quick Out, April 4, 2013
Ever had one of Those Days? You need Flomaton™. (In joke) You know what I mean: the kind that starts out wrong and just keeps getting worse, so that before you’ve even finished brushing your teeth you know the best thing you can do is just go back to bed and wake up tomorrow.
But no: you have to get up and face the day; and sure enough, it spits in your face.
There are times, of course, when that kind of day happens on a Sunday during the season; and the result is the purest kind of misery that doesn’t entail actual, you know, death or something. Most of the time, though, these days have nothing to do with football; and that’s why we sometimes can use the Saints as a lever to pry ourselves off the deck and actually regain our feet, our perspective, our sanity. After all, even when they were bad there was always hope, and dark humor. And the Saints got us through years of no championships better than championships got us through years of no Saints (believe me: I lived for years in San Francisco).
And that brings us to why Roger Goodell should serve as an unanesthetized test subject for urinary surgery: because he destroyed our season last year. And because this year he seems to have his eye on the entire NFL.
And yeah: I get it that it’s the owners, and not Goodell, who keep passing heinously stupid rules. But when Pete Rozelle was Commissioner, the league—and the game— had an actual steward, instead of a henchman. Rozelle would have told the owners to stop acting like greedy, feeble-minded putzes. Surely. Not even Paul Tagliabue would have sat idly by while ownership made a mockery of the sport. Surely. By contrast, Goodell has been Igor to the owners’ Frankenstein. It’s Goodell who keeps muttering “Yes, master,” when he should be clobbering the barmy son of a bitch over the head with a knife switch.
Still, it’s not as though he’s a mastermind…so why hate Goodell? Because it’s so damned easy. Maybe the real damage is being done by those committees; but who can hate a committee? Not me. Committees do their dirty deeds behind decently-closed doors. And committees are faceless: they don’t go on national television and smirk while they lie.
But the biggest reason to hate, loathe, and despise Roger Ellsworthovich Goodell is that he, and he alone, is in a position to stop the bullshit. And he won’t. So Goodell belongs in the same special circle of Hell as, say, John Roberts.
Plus, it’s been a shitty day, and my phone is still ringing, and there’s not enough beer in the entire world to turn this thing around. So I’m going to hit the reset button: I’m going to bed, there to dream of Goodell getting stuck in the grease trap at the Camellia Grill. You can hear his fingernails scrabbling for a handhold; and that sucking noise you hear is his feet struggling to maintain their purchase on the head of Jerry Jones (who is standing on Robert Kraft, who is standing on…).
I shall awake refreshed.