The NFL sacks itself

Prediction: in five years someone is going to offer you a cushy seat to an NFL game for just $25 and you still won’t go. Neither will the diehards who paint their faces and torsos in team colors to depict their fanaticism.

In five years, it will be impossible for the most powerful enterprise in all professional sports to give away tickets to attend games in their state-of-the-art tax-payer financed stadiums.

I know this because I am one of the most privileged people in all American fandom: I am a Pittsburgh Steelers season ticket holder.

Have been for 20 years. My father held the tickets for 40 years before that. When he died, it was understood he’d hand the tickets down to me in a way other parents hand down deeds to lakeside cottages and heirloom strings of pearls.

That’s how valuable these tickets were.

But in the last 10 years, we’ve all enjoyed a technological advance that’s rendered attending a game meaningless.

It’s the high-def big screen TV.

What was once unthinkable has become fact: people would rather watch the games on TV than attend them in person.

Who can blame them?

There’s no traffic, no miserable weather, no lines at the bathroom and the only way you’re likely to encounter a vomiting drunk is if you’re reckless with the jello shots.

I have here on my desk four tickets to Sunday’s home opener against the Atlanta Falcons. Three days before kickoff and I can’t find a buyer for the four $81 seats in section 507, row JJ. 

I’ve called all the people who always say, hey, lemme know if you ever get spare tickets. I’ve sent out word in my bar full of sports nuts.

I’ve received no offers, only lame excuses.

Now, I must face the unthinkable. I might actually have to attend the game myself.

Understand, I’ve been to over 250 professional football games in my life. I’ve been going since I was 7 and have seen and done everything there is to do at an NFL game.

In fact, by many standards I could be considered one of the NFL’s most loyal fans.

Know how they reward that devotion? They screw me every chance they get.

When Pittsburgh opened the new Heinz Field in 2000, they made me and every other season ticket holder shell out for Personal Seat Licenses that line the pockets of owners that hold cities hostage with their franchises.

They’ve steadily raised my ticket prices from $46 in 2000 to $81 this year. 

They charge me $7.50 for a glass of warm beer.

For TV purposes, they hold games on Thursdays nights and holidays when people want to be home with their families.

They make me pay full price for two meaningless pre-season games.

But now the tables are turning. One of the big stories of this year will be empty seats at these palatial stadiums. It’s happening already.

People are staying home in droves and guys like me, the canaries in the mines, understand there is a significant problem. If I can’t find a buyer for my opening day seats then the league is in trouble.

And this is when the weather will be mild and enthusiasm high. Guaranteed, if the forecast had been for 22 degrees and slushy December snows and the Steelers were out of playoff contention, I wouldn’t be able to sell my tickets for less than half face value.

But what makes my prediction so salient is the NFL is about to commit one of the most egregious self-inflicted wounds in sports history. Owners are about to lock out the players in the hopes of getting a larger share of the revenue pie.

Yes, during a down economy in a sport where rookies earn $50 million signing bonuses and owners revel in $1 billion stadiums, they’re going to tell their fans, sorry, it’s not enough.

And they’re tinkering with the integrity of the already injury-riddled sport by lengthening the seasons by two games to 18. 

So, mark my words, we are about to witness the unthinkable: The mighty NFL is on the verge of an historic tumble.

Me, I lifelong fan, will still be cheering. Only instead of yelling, “Go Steelers!” as I have my whole life, I’ll be yelling, “Go Screw Yourselves!”

Because there won’t be anyone left to screw in the stadiums.

NFL not rich enough: Needs "Throwforward" unis

My life curse is that I, a man who can’t even earn a dime for himself, sees how the already filthy rich can grab even more loot.

Take this past weekend. I spent $75 to attend a professional football game between my hometown Pittsburgh Steelers and the Baltimore Ravens.

Now, when it comes to brazen money-grubbing organizations, the National Football League has few rivals. Already awash in billions in profits, the ownership continues to find new and creative ways to squeeze money from their diehard fans.

They think nothing of charging attending fans $50 to park, $7.50 for 12 ounces of lite beer, insist we pay full price for meaningless pre-season games, and hold entire cities hostage by enforcing cruel TV blackouts if the stadiums don’t sell out.

They showed their contempt for fans on Christmas when they scheduled an 8 p.m. game between the Tennessee Titans and the San Diego Chargers. Fans in Nashville had to choose between leaving home and hearth on the holiest day of the year or sitting outside in near freezing temperatures to watch professional football.

So the stadium was about half empty. More and more fans with better and better big screen TVs are wisely opting to stay home.

That’s why an increasing number of games are being broadcast on the premium cable channel, The NFL Network. If fewer people are going to attend the games, they need to make money off those who like to watch it at home.

Pay-per-view professional football, brought to you by The NFL Network, is already here.

So why would I bother trying to make such a greedy, nefarious organization even more money? I guess I just can’t help myself so here goes:

The NFL needs to start selling replica Throwforward uniforms.

That’s a term you’ve never heard before. But most fans have certainly heard of the obnoxious Throwback uniforms.

Once nearly every fan in America had purchased for about $250 an authentic replica NFL-issued jersey of their favorite team, the NFL realized the apparel market was saturated.

So in a greedy panic they turned on a time machine and began forcing teams to wear throwback jerseys from the olden days. That way the truly obsessed fan would need to spend another $250 for a jersey that represented their team in, say, the 1930s. Then the 1940s. Then the 1950s, and so on.

And here’s the thing: the uniforms are uniformly hideous. I’ve seen plenty of archival pre-1970s footage of professional jerseys. In faded black and white photographs, the uniforms appear drab.

It gives the impression that our ancestors grew up in a time when no one smiled and everyone wore hand-me downs from folks with the fashion sense of bitter Pilgrims.

But when our favorite teams raced out onto the field wearing their throwback jerseys we were stunned to learn we were wrong.

Our ancestors weren’t boring. They were insane.

The jerseys had psychedelic stripes, odd insignia and bewildering color schemes that jarred the senses. It’s a shameless marketing ploy that interferes with the enjoyment of the game.

The genius of the Throwforward jersey is that NFL flacks could unveil jerseys that will be worn by the home team in, say, the year 2029.

It would let daffy fans of teams like the perennially hapless Detroit Lions delude themselves into thinking that maybe by then -- cross your fingers -- the Lions will be competitive.

And the best thing from the NFL perspective is that they’ll be able to justify charging $1,250 per jersey because that’s what the actual price will likely be in the year 2029.

So there you have it. Throwback. Throwforward. For an increasing number of disgusted fans like me, there’s only one direction we feel like throwing any more.

And that’s up.

Mine, all mine

My efforts to raise a child free of selfishness are being met with catastrophic failure.


Although I’ve always doubted the authenticity of the anthropology, I remain charmed by the legends of Native American tribes that have something like 30 words for snow and none for words like mine.

I have about 15 distinct words for snow and after December 25 they all involve profanity.
Once Christmas has passed every snowman becomes abominable.

But it’s the lack of the word “mine,” legend or not, that appeals to me. I believe the more people use the word mine and its possessive derivatives, the greater their tendency to start troubles that lead to shooting wars.

“This oil is mine!”

“This water source is mine!”

“This gold mine is mine!”

So I’m trying to steer our 2 year old away from the world of greed and grab and into a world where sharing is instinctual and the use of the word “mine” only leads to confusion. I want her to be like those proud Native American tribesmen and women who shared their harvest, their talents and all the rich glories of Mother Earth, at least until my caucasian ancestors came here and said, “America is mine!”

I knew going in that this would be difficult for reasons that have nothing to do with our materialistic society.

It’s because of the contentious makeup of Lucinda. Not only is she a classic example of a child who does the exact opposite of everything you tell her to do, she’s already mastered the good cop/bad cop routine for even the most innocuous conversation.

I’ve looked lovingly into her capuchino-colored eyes and gushed, “You are so beautiful!” She instantly turned python and hissed, “No, YOU’RE beautiful!” Clearly, to her it was the most stinging insult she could conjure.

I was playfully singing the great Pete Townshend/Who rock anthem, “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” and the sober little contrarian deflated all the assertive vigor from the lyric by replying, “We WILL get fooled again.”

So my efforts to impart any residual wisdom are already facing an uphill battle. I try to tell her about sharing and she just looks at me the way cows look at passing trains. The concept doesn’t take.

It doesn’t help that her older sister’s room is a virtual fortress defended by armies of Barbies and war-worthy Webkinz. Josie’s gone as far as putting up signs on her door with instructions about who and under what circumstances anyone is allowed to enter her room. It’s a document precisely designed to restrict her sibling from entering.

It’s court-worthy writ and, I’m sure, will be held up as legally binding the instant Lucinda learns to read.

Worse, all my instructions about sharing crumble whenever the poor kid reaches for any of her sister’s toys and is invariably met with, “No! That’s mine!”

The Barbies? “Mine!”

The Webkinz? “Mine!”

The crayons? “Mine!”

So it’s no surprise that Lucinda’s starting to ape her sister whenever I reach for things like an apple, my car keys or domestic beer from the family frig.

“Mine! Mine! Mine!”

And, honestly, I’m not one to talk. Try as I might, I’m still a possessive failure who frets when one of the girls starts monkeying around with my computer, my iPod, any of snazzy shirts, my watch, my golf clubs, my DVDs, my HDTV or any of the other shiny things no self-respecting Indian brave would have had inside his humble prairie teepee.

They’re just learning by the sad example set by their father.

The girls are mine.

All mine.