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.
-bill kenny
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