By BASN Wire Services ATLANTA — The sneaker industry has gone...
Straight No Chaser: Magnificent Obsession
Ain’t that funky?
The good ol’ golden boy gun-slinger is emerging out of his annual long over-due retirement, while the dark hearted dog killer, “Mad Dog” Mike Vick . . . is meeting with the “highly respectable” Dungy.
In the face of Dungy genuinely reaching out to Vick, understanding this man has been made a “example of,” and Vick – logically looking for a sincere friend . . .
Nevertheless, the hostile national sports press is demeaning and trivializing their meeting as merely “damage control,” an obvious attempt to soften Vick’s image, garner a little sympathy . . . humanize a Black man.
I can’t figure out if these two stories are more about the hate for Vick or the man-love for an aging Great White Hope. . . .
If I recall, No. 7 strode onto the frozen consecrated tundra of Lambeau Field and defeated Favre. Vick was a kid, Favre was, by the game’s time-line – an seasoned veteran.
Vick has had a much needed physical rest, and, with a chip on his shoulder the size of a diving board — his best playing days are ahead of him. If the Nordic warriors are in search of a signal caller, you’d think it would be Vick.
Vick and Peterson . . . good god! That dual threat would draw eight highly paranoid men into the box, horrified at what may get outside of them, petrified of what may burst up the middle, unable to pay strict attention to the wide-outs.
Vick is more then capable and able to throw for a couple hundred yards a game under such frightening conditions. Yet the Vikings were entertaining No. 4.
What’s it say about a nation, and it’s official pastime of pro football when the guy who’s been beaten, battered, burned and branded is still not the sentimental favorite over the self-centered, greedy, arrogant old man who can’t accept his best playing days are way behind him.
Gee, where’s Aaron Brooks? He’s got to be able to bring more game then Favre, who broke down in the finale stretch of the season. He’s still hurt, may need to be cut on, and is not physically ready . . . to get ready.
Bear in mind some of his teammates called him out, said he threw bone-headed interceptions like . . . he always had – but the jock-smitten sports writers, depicted his internal critics as “emotional” guys who couldn’t shoulder their share of the blame.
Here’s what this pigskin theater spells out; there’s a ton of love, forgiveness and devotion for the White guy, and virtually none, not a hint even – for the Black guy.
Tons of empathy and compassion for Brett, not an iota for Mike.
I’d like for someone to explain that “Love/hate thang” to me. Or at least acknowledge it’s presence. Say a Jason Whitlock, who professes to be gifted with the ability to determine legit racism . . . what-the-hell-is-it that goes on here?
Uncle Jason just penned another column over at FOX Sports, where he’s one of their prized bucks – in which he’s proclaiming his big ass as a man who can decipher through all the BS, and tell America if the racism a person-of-color or liberals/progressive are claiming it is a key element in a sports controversy.
Now, of course, Whitlock is being well compensated by a news organization which is the recognized voice of angry White guys – that makes him a sell-out.
Whitlock is, by choice, a willing journalistic whore, who has few qualms about toting n’ touting the conservative company line on sports. I’d love to read his opinion on why sports fans, the very same who could give a . . . about the minuscule percentage of Black head coaches in the NFL – form the base of those who can’t let Bret go.
They won’t close the locker room door in Brett’s face, and apparently won’t re-open that same door for Vick.
There’s little shock Jason is a Negro puppet, who spends barrels of ink minimizing the role of race in American sports – he’s paid well to do so. It’s his job, and his strings are manipulated – willingly so.
Whitlock’s views are used by the established sports media machines to lend credibility and legitimacy to their positions – which typically slight, or all together ignore the obvious role of race in American sports.
Pardon me, I’m well aware I’m being a little blunt here, somewhat too sharp, but I’ve deep underlying issues with someone selling “their own” down the river, bartering their pitiful fat soul to the devil for a dollar.
My anger is magnified when that individual – is a member of the “press” – the ‘eyes and ears” of the little people, the fans . . . that’s betraying the trust I put in that person to check n’ balance the game.
Rush Limbaugh has even stated he respects Whitlock, need I say more . . . ? So I’d like for a Black man which has the respect of the head of The Republican Party, the heart, mind and mouth of the angry White guy . . . to explain, breakdown the rhyme, reason and rational behind a franchise going after . . . Bret instead of Vick.
The Purple People Eaters should be one of a dozen teams interested in the former All-Pro game changer. The hangin’ judge in Vick’s Bankruptcy case, and the official Negro Whisperer himself, Commish Goodell should be confronted with the interest teams have for Vick.
But the Vick Affair is deeper then football assessments, this has morphed into the most heated racial litmus test since OJ.
I’m not the only guy who detects the duplicity and hypocrisy in “who” and “how” this country shuns certain characters. But there’s an unspoken rule of “throwing the book at Black people,” while neither “hearing, seeing nor speaking any evil” towards certain other folks who are awarded multiple chances to redeem and redefine themselves.
Favre has his own story, which is never told by the fellahs who cover the game, their man-crush is too deep to admit Bret is made of skin n’ bone: No. 4, the mere mortal that he is – battled alcoholism , , , but who really recalls – it’s taboo to mention it.
Brett Favre Represents . . . ! The question is . . . who n’ what?
Brett battled Vicodin, a narcotic-analgesic painkiller, to the extent he bummed pills from teammates. There are accounts he took At least 13 tablets in a night. Doctors found severe liver damage in 1996, Favre went into re-hab, and was able to kick his addiction. Nonetheless by 1999, his life was back in the fast drinking and partying lane – by his wife’s own account. She felt no other option than to contact a divorce attorney . . . which helped scare her husband straight.
Favre showed signs of being human; as did Montana, Marino and Elway, they indulged in their fair share of wine, women, drugs, sex and rock n’ roll . . . but there’s a thick-ass White line, a code-of-silence, a brotherhood, a fraternity – which exist between editorialist, sports fans and the objects of their man-luv, and they’re deaf, dumb and blind when it comes to Great White Hopes like Favre.
They got nothin’ but man-luv for ya’ Brett baby . . . !