Standing at the Door
Since 1965, this has never ever happened to me before. It's less than an
hour before kick-off, watching the pre-game show alone, and I am crying.
This isn't your typical ... the tear comes to the eye ... it's an uncontrolled
slobber knocker ... and its not due to any pre-game video, any commentary prose
or any other worldly stimuli. It was simply a man facing the final grains
of sand of his own hour glass upon deaths row. It was my final mile and
their were no other shoes but my own.
Now, he is made to wait at the door. Awaiting his sign. He waits at
that door not knowing if he is to carry the additional weight of this useless
hardware, or not. He has no decision for us because it is not his decision
to make. He is made to wait, not because the die has not been cast ...
it's because they chose to hold their secrets. The Marino was slain by the
Achilles however a simple ligament shall not bind this warrior ... it is only
the wind within his lungs that holds true. The revelation, just as there
were no answers on that day for him, shall be made so easy on this day, that it
will be as if he took his next
breath.
Hearing that the New Orleans Saints somehow deserved this more was as if history
was being whitewashed before our very eyes ... for all time. Of all the
magnificent years that we firmly grasp upon, somehow it is the one that flies
under the radar that gives us true focus. In 99, in their first pre-season
game, Trent Green blows out his knee. The Ram's are instantly in
everyone's rear view mirror and then I ask myself with an uneasy feeling and a
lump in my throat, "How will this affect me"? The answer comes
only to soon. A non-awarded 2-point conversion puts us 10 points away,
making that final on-side kick opportunity moot. With the 2, there was
time enough to tie it up. Without it ... death! In that second half,
we were un-stoppable ... we ran out of time. That unfortunate fate, on
that first pre-season game, gave rise to a barnstormer named Warner that paired
unmercifully with an immortal named Falk. Does that same chemistry result
under the wire of Green ... maybe not. The curse of the Bambino was for 86
years ... ladies and gentlemen ... brace yourself ... because we now tally at
fifty.
What if we had won it all? Would we now be one step closer to being a
Steel-headed butt-hole or a cow-poking douche bag? Would we be known as
the next in the line of cheatin' Patriarchs or the clone of the ever loud
mouthed 9er fan. As so eloquently uttered by Robin Williams in his
portrayal in Moscow on the Hudson he said, "In Russia, the only thing that
I could say that was mine was my misery. I could hold it, I could caress
it, it was my constant companion". No ... I choose these
shoes.
So what was the true cost upon the worlds stage to obtain that ultimate prize
for the gladiators of the day. For McCray it was $20,000. For
Hargrove it was $5,000. Not much when compared to the billions entwined
within the NFL. It's called simple math. After the third personal
foul the call was absolutely clear .... EJECTION! Who had the power to
mute that call? In attendance, did he relish the effect ... did he bathe
within the glow of its omnipotence?
What was lost on that day, and who actually paid that price ... the true overall
cost? For some, they might think that the Fleur-de-lis of 53 had waived
their genitals into the face of the omnipotent one ... however, somehow, it all
seems complicit. No my friends ... that day ... it wasn't the faithful
that had truly lost ... the loss was in its entirety. The answer lies
within perspective. For all time, the Giants get to brandish a ring,
however, on that day, they were quite a bit distant from being the best to the
Bills. Less than a yard separates NYG from an inglorious past ... not much
to hang your hat upon. Deal with that! History records what it
wants but what was the reality? Look into my eye and you shall see the
burning truth.
On
this particular day, in the Big-Easy, something was ripped from the edifice.
The league-wide fan was made to play Three Card Monte. Saying they were
upset is a bit of an understatement. They had expected magic ... what they
got was Jack! As human beings we are compelled to record history ...
we live for the story. Was it money & power that burned the
prose.
Now a player awaits. Has his career been taken from him or does defiance
of the gods solicit retribution?
There is only one certainty in life. He who lives by the sword ... dies by
the sword. It's face doth not lie within the character forged of a Viking
however it lies within the swift justice within the entrails of this
league. What you do unto the least of my brothers ... you do unto
me. There is much that is seen that cannot be covered by a political
screen. It wears many faces. The worst however is in its dealings by
not knowing when to expect its wrath. Curse the day!
Happy
birthday ... my brother!
The Viking Ghost
Writer
MyVikingBlood.org
Date: July 17, 2010
