I try to avoid attending churches of faiths other than my own. I never know the customs and courtesies and end up, in an attempt to be light-hearted, perceived instead as a flippant asshat (which is more often correct than I care to admit).
Since I’ve been faithfully faithless for decades, I guess that means I could go to anyone’s church but as you’ve probably already guessed, I wasn’t speaking about a house of worship.
Yesterday according to news feeds, streaming and screaming headlines of various descriptions as well as all the sports talk radio was the NFL Draft Day. For a nation that abandoned military conscription in 1973, our strange fascination with a combination in restraint of trade that feeds and fuels our appetite for destruction masquerading as a desire for sport amazes me.
You have, I imagine, already guessed how I feel about American professional football (and you are 100% on the money, pun intended). Professional football players go from hero to zero faster than the speed of thought and the best lesson of all on Draft Day 2016 might be how quickly we turn on our icons.
Hui and Pfui aren’t the nicknames of Uncle Ludwig’s two other duckling nephews. It’s how so many of us respond (and how quickly) to the next big thing. For the football fanatic, Draft Day was a chance to have your favorite team discover the next Red Grange, or forge an uneasy truce with Banquo. In either event, success has no more than a ghost of a chance.