It’s that time of year. The stress of the holidays and winter when I shuffle like an old man (I am an old man) to avoid a broken hip while pushing a wheelbarrow full of firewood. And my computer is acting weird again, interrupting my stream of consciousness.
My family has thought I was a descendant of the late Ebenezer Scrooge for many years because my holiday spirit is sometimes quite dark. Some have told me I could get the lead role if they ever make another movie of The Christmas Carol.
This morning, after complaining about something my ancient body was doing, I apologized to the Bohunk. “I’m just Grumpy this morning,” I said, followed shortly after with, “Sometimes I’m also Sleepy and Dopey.”
Not to let an opportunity pass, she chuckled and said, “But you’re never Bashful.”
My good friend in Las Vegas, Ed Fishman, is a big fan of Festivus, the holiday favorite of Seinfeld fans. He’s also a fan of the Philadelphia Eagles, but more on football later.
Festivus is celebrated on December 23 as an alternative to the pressures and commercialism of the Christmas season. The 1997 Seinfeld episode The Strike popularized the holiday, but it originated in the 1960s.
A highlight of the day is The Airing of Grievances, during which each person can tell others how they have disappointed them over the past year. Ed and I thought that was a brilliant idea, and over a Starbucks, we’d each have a go.
As a weekly columnist, I have 52 days to put my grievances on paper. And today, I will drop a few on you in honor of Festivus.
My football grievance is that of television announcers specifically and corporate/professional sports generally.
The Bohunk has, for some yet-to-be-explained reason, become a rabid fan of the Minnesota Vikings this season. She’s never shown much interest in the sport in the half-century we’ve driven each other crazy.
Because of her new-found interest in football, I’ve had to watch almost every Viking game this season. After nearly two decades of ignoring pro sports because of their greed and exploitation, I almost enjoy watching the games with my favorite Bohunk.
Watching games this year, I’ve noticed that the two announcers for each game never stop talking. One rambles about something insignificant, and the other can’t wait to chime in when his partner takes a breath. The only time they shut up is to bounce to game updates, commercials, and the meaningless drivel from the sideline reporter telling us the head coach said he’s sticking with his game plan.
I grew up with sports announcers like Ray Scott for football, Gopher and Viking, and Halsey Hall for the Twins. Announcers like these two didn’t mind a bit of quiet time between action on the field.
When listening to games on my transistor radio, especially Twins games, you could occasionally have a minute or more of silence. You’d hear the crowd’s murmur and the clear shout “Beeeeeh Heeah” from one of the hardworking vendors. You’d even hear Halsey light his cigar.
The hyper-short attention span of modern Americans has created the unceasing drone of retired football players who have become TV personalities. We old ones don’t hear well enough to understand what they’re saying half the time.
Football announcers, slow down, articulate clearly, and let silence make your point.
Finally, the money paid to players and coaches in pro sports is obscene.
In a recent “input session” I attended on homelessness in Cook County, Andrea Tofte with the county health and human services office said that more than a quarter of the population of our remote little hamlet on the lake is paying 30% or more, sometimes 50%, of their monthly income for housing.
Social media in the last couple of weeks has highlighted two requests for help finding rental properties for people who have lost their leases. With a tight inventory of rental properties available, renters with housing are within the termination period of their lease to become homeless.
Kirk Cousins, who played quarterback for the Vikings the last few seasons, left for greener pastures with the Atlanta Falcons. There, he negotiated a four-year, $180 million contract.
It’s not just football. Baseball’s New York Mets just entered a 15-year contract with outfielder Juan Soto worth $765 million–$51 million yearly. Soto started in the majors seven years ago, and at 26, this may not be his last contract.
No wonder the public faces of these sports businesses are fast, ceaseless, rambling talkers. They don’t want people like us to realize they’ve been scamming us for decades.
Somewhere in the recesses of my aging mind, I hear Halsey Hall’s famous “Holy Cow” and wonder how our priorities got so screwed up.
