Hating Democrat

So your football team drafts a new linebacker. Son of a famous ex-player in your city, he graduated from his father’s alma mater. It’s a small school in an out of the way conference, so no one’s actually seen him play very much.

Dad played in the league for years, and earned a reputation as a solid lineman who could be counted on in the trenches. He didn’t go to the hall, but the city loves him still, even though he moved away after his career, and nobody’s really talked about him since he lost his battle with cancer back in the 80s.

The good news is that on paper at least, his progeny’s a BEAST! At 6’5, he’s a lean, muscular 245. Runs the 40-yard dash like flames drinking gasoline fumes.

At the combine, a nagging injury supposedly prevents him from fully strutting his stuff. But he stands in front of the microphones one afternoon, and in articulate and humorous language speaks of his love for his dad, the history of the game, and his excitement to be following in his father’s footsteps and is honored to be even considered for the draft.

And your team eats it up. Bites it hook, line, and sinker. “We” take him midway through the first round, ahead of one or two more prominent players with no pedigree, but proven skills at non-bowl contending teams. The future is NOW.

He signs a deal that makes him an overnight multi-millionaire, gets a couple of out-of-the-box endorsements, and starts showing up on local TV commercials, peddling products and services you’ve never heard of, but might be willing to try … he’s likable.

Fan appreciation day, he kisses every baby, shakes every hand, and stays late to sign every kid’s football. He’s in every picture. He’s a winner, this one.

Schedule gets announced, YOUR team has the first televised preseason game. It’ll be all eyes on YOUR city.

The sports writers are aflutter with the season’s possibilities for the squad. News teams have ravaged the archives, digging up old footage of the rookie’s dad; making hits, blocking passes on the line, and even one incredibly lucky play where he chases the quarterback, gets knocked down, gets up and starts chasing the quarterback again. In the highlight of that week, he eventually catches the unlucky bastard, hits him like he stole something, and forces a fumble, which he recovers, and waddles into the end zone for the only touchdown of his career.

The unspoken fantasy for the city is that baby boy is cut from the same cloth.

The team opens training camp up to the public. For a small fee, you can come watch the start of the new season. You take the afternoon off work for the event, pony up an hour’s salary to park your car in an empty field, purchase a ticket, splurge on an overpriced, off-season hot dog and a plastic cup of stale beer, and climb into the stands to watch what you HOPE will be history. You’re a real fan!

You’re wearing the home jersey,

He’s on the field. He looks even MORE impressive standing on the sideline in shorts and shoulder pads, helmet in hand. Has a ferocious game face, and EVERYTHING! He’s been working out to rehab the “injury,” and if muscles alone signal football ability, it’s going to be a GOOD year for the home team.

The coaches know where their bread is buttered, so after warm-ups and a few offensive drills, they whistle the defense on the field. Our rookie hits the tackling dummy like a locomotive, knocking veteran coaches flat on their backs with impeccable technique and world-class power.

It appears he’s been studying his playbook, too. He’s EVERYWHERE—knocking down passes, reading plays, and showing up in the right place at the right time to tap offensive jerseys with both hands, the way you do in practice with limited pads.

Don’t want to get too excited too soon, you think … but this young man looks like THE TRUTH!

You phone, e-mail, and IM your buddies about how good the rook looked in day one drills. They’re as excited as you are.

A few weeks go by, and you don’t go back to watch him again. You’ve seen what you needed to see. But after a week or so, you notice that the coaches aren’t saying much about him. He’s not getting as many headlines, and the sportswriters aren’t putting him in as many columns.

You’re a bit concerned, as a fan … but not really worried, because you’ve seen him with your OWN EYES.

Game day comes, and it’s party time! You’ve got a rec room full of football friends. Everybody’s jerseyed up, there’s plenty of pizza and beer, and that beautiful anticipation of watching the games where EVERY team is still a Superbowl contender.

The game gets underway, and the rookie is nowhere to be found on the field. You catch a couple of glimpses of him standing on the sidelines, still muscular and game-faced, but not getting any playing time.

That seems odd.

And apparently, the overseas crowd is wondering the same thing you are. His commercials have been playing in THEIR markets too. WHY ISN’T HE ON THE FING FIELD?

Third quarter starts … and ends.

Fourth quarter starts, and the natives are getting restless. Somebody starts chanting his name in one of the upper decks … and it catches on with speed … HIS kind of speed, like flames licking gasoline fumes, and pretty soon the entire stadium is screaming his name!

The camera pans to a close-up of the head coach, who’s obviously a bit flustered. One of his assistants is talking to him, and they’re face to face. You can’t quite read his lips, but his vigorous head-shaking suggests that he doesn’t give a shit what the crowd thinks, he’s not in favor of putting the rookie in.

Or he could just be saying no to a particular scheme, or play. But there’s something … unusual about his expression. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he didn’t … for some reason … LIKE the rookie.

The conversation ends with coach throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. The assistant motions to another assistant, and the shot switches to a view of the rook putting on his helmet and trotting onto the field.

And the crowd goes wild! They’re FINALLY getting what they paid for—a LOOK at the ROOK.

He trots into the huddle, and the crowd goes deathly silent. You can clearly hear 11 men handclap a defensive play, and watch them take their positions.

Pre-snap, he looks like a natural. He’s waving his arms, and calling out observations to his teammates. He shifts a little to the left, and forward to cover what might develop into a crease between the tackle and guard. The offensive set looks like a run from YOUR vantage point, and he appears to be thinking the same thing.

A good sign.

The QB calls our his pre-snap sequence, making what sound like a couple of adjustments to the play, and the center snaps the pigskin …

Yep, it’s a run … off tackle right. The crease shows up right where its supposed to by YOUR reckoning, AND the rook’s. The lineman is effectively screened out of the play, and the tailback is preparing to hit the hole … and face the rook.

The rook is right where he’s supposed to be.

Let’s pause.

The rook has theoretically prepared his entire life for this moment.

He is a specimen of health. He has the genetic makeup to be positioned for a career as a hitter of men. He has been drafted into the most exclusive club in the world for men who excel at the sport of football.

He has been paid, transported, lodged, massaged, taped, padded, dressed, and put in the game.

Once on the field, he is part of yet ANOTHER exclusive group … the men who have seen the playbook. He knows where all ten of his teammates are SUPPOSED to be, and reason to assume they are, in fact, there.

They have had a luxury that exists in very few other occupations … the luxury of practicing THIS moment over and over and over and over again, until it has had every opportunity to become second nature.

His entire life has come down to this rehearsed moment, where his intellect, physical attributes, and position put him at the center of the universe, in some ways.

Unpause.

The tailback hits the hole square, and jukes a bit to the left. Two steps, and he’s in the space being occupied by the rook … who reaches out …

... to tap the tailback’s jersey with both hands, the way you do in practice with limited pads.

The runner bounces off, spins left and accelerates for another 11 yards before getting hauled down by an out-of-position cornerback.

The coach is FURIOUS! He KNEW this was the most likely outcome. And WHY did he know this?

Because he’s discovered that the rook doesn’t LIKE the actual GAME of football. He’s a bit of a pacifist. He doesn’t actually like to hit PEOPLE! He likes the money, and the prestige, and the drills, and the uniforms, and the locker rooms, and even the history of the sport. But he doesn’t have the love of the game. He doesn’t want to play the game, he just wants to PREPARE to play the game.

And it’s too late to stop him from being on the team, or representing the city, or spending this years bonus because he’s ON the team. He has a contract. And after the coach finishes his post-game tirade on tape, you realize that you are headed for a big disappointment.

Some of you will realize that we just went all the way around the barn to get to the point. That’s basically because I like to write, not because the metaphor NEEDED this much description.

Others will think this is a pro-war piece, and that I’m suggesting that someone is afraid to fight the war. It isn’t. The GAME is full-contact politics, NOT the war.

Some of you will just shake your head in bewilderment, thinking that there IS no point.

But some of you, maybe even most of you … will read between the lines, and realize that I said precisely what I intended to say, namely …

THIS IS WHY I HATE THE DEMOCRATS. Every fing season, they suck me in with big promise of hard-hitting play. And they let me down just about EVERY time. I hate Republicans too, but I admit this much ... Republicans LOVE the GAME of politics. They’re just WRONG about stuff. The DEMS think the tackle is automatic, because they’re “right.” And that’s just not how the game is played.

Thanks for reading this far, lol.

Peace,
--Stew.