Yours truly helped sort through it all as a panelist on the area's leading public affairs program, Inside Story. Catch the online rebroadcast of the Feb. 3 show. Remember: the link lasts for a limited time only. Don't delay!
This Sunday feels hollow, barren. It’s Super Bowl Sunday.
And it is my first in abstaining from this once cherished holiday, the
culmination of a painful season devoid of a once favorite pastime. Football.
For the first time in more than 35 years, the season
kicked off and rumbled forward without this browngirl on the bandwagon. Despite it being a voluntary choice, I remain
disgusted with myself for being unable to just make a clean break. Or at least
find other converts with whom to commiserate.
Worse, it’s made me feel like a stereotypical girl. You know the ones that would
always watch football fans with crossed arms, rolling their eyes and clucking about
the distaste for cheering such violence.
Not only was I the anti-version of those Pretty-in-Pink
chicks, I was an all out fan that scoffed at those who cast such aspersions. I was
one who would prescribe and predict plays, shout down bad calls and roar louder
than most dudes who ever saddled up to a football-filled weekend. That was
then.
With story after story emerging about the increasing
demands on and dangers
for younger and younger athletes, the devastating effects on current and former
players, even their premature and horrible
deaths, I could no longer look at myself in the mirror and say I was just an
innocent fan.
With my replica caps, jerseys and lustful cheers, I began
feeling complicit in their pain, their deaths. It was like I was one of the bloodthirsty
spectators in the Roman Coliseum screaming for gladiators to fight to the
death.
It didn’t feel good. So I quit the game. Cold turkey.
My weekends have felt strange ever since. No games. No watching
pre-game, halftime and post-game highlights. No recapping every catch, hit and
fumble with fellow fans. While I’ve welcomed the extra time on my hands, I have
been feeling like a woman without a country all season, a self-selected exile
suddenly roused from the
Matrix. And I’ve been a little sad,
for what was.
Many treasured memories include pigskin moments. Wishing
I was that kid that Mean
Joe Greene tossed his Terrible Towel to. Crying in front of the stereo (our
TV was busted), decked head-to-toe in Eagles green, listening to my squad’s
unmitigated defeat in Super Bowl XV, and then worse, the presser afterward when
my beloved coach Dick Vermeil stepped down, also in tears. Pretending to be Dan
Marino or Ronnie Lott – depending if I was on offense or D – during recess
scrimmages. Screaming with joy because Doug Williams was the MVP of Super Bowl
XXII, the first black quarterback in the big game, and going to
Disney World. Those were good times.
Then there was the universal hatred of the Dallas Cowboys
endemic to any true Philadelphia fan that I cherished, even though I held deep
respect for Coach Landry and thought they did him dirty when they dumped him. It
further fueled my disdain for “America’s Team,” as well as cemented a sense of community.
Gang Green - the fearsome Eagles defense of the '90s
Devotion to my hometown squad was greater than my street play,
enduring the wilderness years of Rich Kotite to be revived with the highs of Buddy
Ryan’s Gang Green. Plus there was the electrifying but erratic play
of Randall Cunningham, one of the pioneers who proved that blacks could
helm a squad, despite all the conventional wisdom to the contrary. The thrills of
watching Cris Carter soar above a pile of defenders was only matched in later
years by watching Wolverine, er, Brian Dawkins, demolish a
receiver on the other side. I took Amtrak from Philly to his native Jacksonville
to witness the Eagles in Super Bowl XXXIV because all flights were sold out, a butt-endurance
ride I hadn’t made since my undergrad days at Florida A&M. Regardless, it
was bliss.
But as I think of BDawk now, I can’t help but wondering
if his
decades-long migraines may have been a signal to something else amiss,
something for which no one wanted to see or be responsible. He’s just one of
many players I watched and admired for their prowess, tenacity and focus that
we’re now seeing hobbled if not fatally wounded after years of collisions on
the gridiron. It’s a list that’s growing.
As we’re piecing together the scientific effects of those
bone-rattling hits today, we’re recognizing those descriptions are more than literary
flourish. They’re
real, meaning the game has the potential equivalency of encounters with IED-laden
enemies – just with the upfront and illusory perks of fame, money and women,
perks that tend to dissipate as ailments worsen. And it’s fan-fueled
destruction.
Acknowledging that is hard. It’s hard to admit to, let
alone dispel, a delusion. Ask any domestic violence survivor, any recovering
addict. Loving football is not as dire, but willfully ignoring the reality that
this multibillion dollar industry has gotten faster and far more brutal
than the charming days of Knute Rockne
isn’t that far removed. Justifying that enjoyment with a “they-knew-what-they-signed-up-for”
rationale isn’t acceptable. Not anymore. Not for me.
That doesn’t make it easy. It’s a struggle, trying to live
by principle and do the right thing without sounding like a self-righteous
Cassandra, or one of those annoying perky chirpy pink chicks. Super Bowl XLVII
has the drama and trappings that elevate the moment – from the redemptive last
grasp for the ring tale of the Baltimore
Ravens’ Ray Lewis to the San
Francisco 49ers quest to restore its dynasty.
It’s why there aren’t too many Super Bowls that I’ve
missed. It was never just about the chips and dip, the ads or the halftime
extravaganzas that sometimes outshone the game in infamy (read: Janet
Jackson and Nipple-tonia). It was the excitement and camaraderie of the Big
Game, the last winter holiday. The Pro Bowl two weeks later served as a nibble,
something to tide you over until the next NFL draft, training camps, pre-season,
to repeat all the rituals.
I so miss it all, mad at myself for missing it, knowing
all that I know. It’s a rift between head and heart.
So I’ve started calling my abstention a football fast.
That leaves alive the hope that maybe, somehow, something can be introduced to reverse
the game from its course, an eventual road to perdition.
This New Year continues an old tradition: seeing yours truly on the 6ABC-TV Inside Story panel. If you missed the original airing on Jan. 13, you can check it out below -- if I coded correctly. If not (and hopefully you'll be forgiving of a tech-knowledge gap), you can hit this link for a limited time.
It was quite the year, 2012. Despite an array of arresting news and features, from voter ID's infection across the land to the re-election of President Obama to the tragedies of Superstorm Sandy and Sandy Hook, plenty went unsaid on this blog. That's why the leading 2013 resolution here is for more consistent and up-to-date musings.
One quick note: some of that writing has been taking place lately at NewsInBlack.com, a start-up site with intentions of delivering a national perspective on news and issues of interest and note for and about African Americans. Will keep you posted on how that goes.
In the meantime, you can always check out stories there or here, of course. As well as the Twitter feed and Facebook posts. Looking forward to re-engaging. Here's to a Happy New Year!
Whitney Elizabeth Houston was a pop diva that indeed changed the game.
After selling millions of copies of her rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner, her cousin, Dionne Warwick recalled joking with her, asking, “What’s next? The phone book?”
But Whitney in her prime had that kind of command of an instrument so pure and so powerful that it could move masses to tears and pride with singular notes. She rose to become a national treasure, making her tumble from grace that much more Shakespearean, and her latest comeback effort all the more American. If anything, we love a great come-from-behind redemption story.
She embodied all that modern Western society says a woman should be in order to be beautiful – tall, thin, slender facial features and a light-the-room smile. To boot, she was caramel brown, an even tanner version of that idealized beauty that led to more exotic fantasies. Plus there was the voice that could enrapture.
A pop singer that could actually sing. Imagine that in today’s Auto-Tune music universe.
That was the Whitney that the world mourned last Saturday, as millions of fans, music and pop culture critics as well as pundits from across the globe tuned into the internationally witnessed homegoing services, filing Facebook status updates, tweets on Twitter and news accounts, including this one.
Even when she wasn’t a fixture on a Billboard chart or at an awards show – both synonymous with Whitney for close to three decades – she was still a presence. Easy listening or R&B stations. Proms or anniversaries. And of course, the supermarket tabloids, especially in her later years.
She was peerless vocally for more than a decade, blessed with what many will continue to proclaim as a “once in a generation” voice. The div-ettes that rose to prominence in the years since her 1984 emergence all trace their influence to her, days of prancing with hairbrushes to their lips, pretending to be her. They, too, wanted command of a voice that size, poise on stages that seemed so infinite.
Of course, those who knew her more intimately understood her personal struggles, the inner doubts and demons that never stopped whispering in the ear of what turned out to be just a regular Jersey girl. She often tried to smile it away, best her fears by lodging a brave face. When that didn’t work and weariness rose and wore her down, in came the nasty, snappy attitude – a common byproduct of substance abuse.
They were desperate defensive tactics to ward off the 25/8 pressures and costs of celebrity for someone who grew up before the eyes of the world in a pre-set princess mold whose corset demanded perfection.
“We got to give a little back to all our entertainers,” Ray Watson told those assembled at her funeral. For 11 years, he stood by her, as her uncle, bodyguard and friend. And he was among those who discovered her body when she died of an apparent accidental drowning in Beverly Hills on Grammy night 2012.
“They give their lives to you, just so we can have some entertainment,” Watson exhorted. “We have to treat them with love. And stop ridiculing them. Let’s give them some love, other than just a ticket to their show.”
His pleading is not uncommon, particularly after such a death leads to reflections on what more could have been done to recognize and mitigate the pain that was inflicted and throbbing. To save someone.
Her downward trajectory and tragic end hearkened to that of another pop megastar, Michael Jackson.
But unlike MJ, Whitney was packaged and designed for Mainstream America from the start, and then found an embracement in her black roots later in her career. It was the complete 180 of MJ, whose golden pipes and amazing moves dazzled Afro-adorning crowds years before the likes of American Bandstand ever caught wind.
Whitney’s handlers, by contrast, crafted her image with Dick Clark in mind, not Don Cornelius.
That allowed an easier acceptance of the now mythologized tale of her downfall, that she was somehow swept up by a “bad boy” named Bobby Brown, an ill-refined black brute who turned out the lovely damsel and dragged her into his sewer of foul manners and behavior. It made for a more convenient narrative of how a churchgoing, God-fearing girl could wallow so low, as depicted on infamous scenes of the reality show, Being Bobby Brown, and highlighted in confessional interviews with Diane Sawyer and Oprah Winfrey. It also made for plenty of guilty-pleasure reading of the celebrity tabloids and web sites.
Bobby Brown became such the villain that his own pain of losing a woman to whom he was married for 15 years and raised a daughter had been belittled and dismissed. Recently, more thoughtful analysis has emerged, and even sympathy for his version of events that led to him leaving Whitney’s funeral early and abruptly.
There will be an endless series of stories about Whitney, along with more chart-topping hits now that her music has re-entered the Billboard charts and this summer’s release of the film remake of Sparkle will once again bring her to the fore. Biopics, unauthorized biographies, tell-all books – everyone will want to get in on the act, to be a part of the legacy, to grab a bit of pixie dust and glory.
What often can be missed are off-shoot stories, like the response by Newark’s violent street gangs. For years, Brick City has been emblematic of all that is wrong with urban America, with its gangs leading the list. But last Saturday, they called a moratorium. This, they would do, to honor their sister’s homegoing.
From global guardians to corner thugs, the power and impact of a voice, of a life, can be witnessed in the unlikeliest of places, proving that they really are chartless.
Here’s hoping that Whitney finally has found her comfort and joy.
Yours truly helped sort through it all as a panelist on the area's leading public affairs program, Inside Story. Catch the online rebroadcast of the Feb. 3 show. Remember: the link lasts for a limited time only. Don't delay!
