We're ready for some REAL football
Hey, this is supposed to be the NFL. This is supposed to be football. This is supposed to be unabashedly, the most explosive, volatile, unpredictable game in America.
What it is becoming, most notably on that program known as Monday Night Football, the weekly broadcast celebrating 30 years on television, is nothing short of a joke.
Too much talk, too much fluff, too many exploding helmets, too much of Hank Williams, too much Boomer and Al, and too much of Leslie Visser.
Oh, how I miss the days of Howard Cosell, Dandy Don Meredith, and, yes, even Frank Gifford. Despite their shortcomings, they at least had some chemistry, some on-screen vibrancy. They brought us the game of football the way we wanted it - with expression, with urgency, with fervor.
Now we're stuck with sappy, silly, mushy sentimentalism that has no place in the NFL, let alone our living rooms.
Football is war, it is out and out destruction of an opponent, but when we get sucked into the MNF melodrama we forget why we tuned in.
The broadcast booth itself, with the digital television, the high-tech tools, and the two stiffs who call themselves broadcasters sends the wrong message.
Hey, ABC (and for that matter Fox and CBS), please rid us of those who masquerade each week as experts of the game - those who are supposed to be providing us with insightful analysis of a sport which doesn't need any. The game's the thing, and the words of these annoying cheerleaders only cloud what we need to know.
The camera tells us what the score is. We can see, without being told, which team is winning the war in the trenches. We don't need to be told who's running, passing, and catching the football because it's right in front of us, in living color.
Please rid us of the sideline "reporters". When were first introduced a decade or so ago, they're job was to "report", but the role they now fill seems centered on finding the non-story.
Last week, Visser gave us an interview with lame Duck Packer Desmond Howard. All he had done in recent weeks was bury himself so far down on the depth chart that seismographic equipment couldn't have found him.
Yet, there he was on Monday Night Football talking about his dislocated fingers. He had contributed nothing for the team except to show how cold and wet a former Super Bowl MVP can get when standing on the sideline.
We didn't want to know how his dislocated fingers were doing. We wanted to see the game on the field and the last time I looked, Howard hadn't worn a uniform for the Packers in about three weeks.
Visser was back in prime time again this week bringing us an interview with the parents of Tampa Bay's quarterback Shaun King. Oh, what a nice thing to do. What a nice gesture. What ridiculousness.
While Visser's monotonous moment with the parents bordered on banality, we lost sight of one of the best games of the year. For what seemed like an eternity, we lost sight of the brutality for which we had tuned in to watch. We could care less about how the Lord had blessed the King family.
And besides, why the interview with these particular parents? Maybe next time we can find Jeff George's in-laws or how about John Randle's day care provider?
It's time to look at what we're watching. Time to stand up and say we're not going to take it anymore. Time to force television to look at itself, to reinvent itself.
We no longer need the posturing, pretending, and pathetic performances behind the microphones each week.
What we want is pure football. We want to feel the power, not the infirmity of bad journalism.
We need to say goodbye to the Vissers, Boomers, Michaels, Maddens, Summeralls, and Glanvilles. We need television to get back to the game we all love and all want.
We are ready - ready for some real football.