Lamentations on the Loss of Gordon Hayward

DATELINE:  Hard Break for Celtics

 GH

Gordon Hayward came to Boston to play for the Celtics. He was a superstar ready to write his Destiny today in big letters. Instead, five minutes into his Celtics career, Destiny wrote him off.

If ever you wanted a lesson in how ephemeral are the superstars of sports, this abject lesson is a horror story. Gordon Hayward went down in a senseless act of the cosmos and its mystery waves.

But as terrible, gruesome, and awful is the injury to Gordon Hayward, it’s not as bad as what happened to Len Bias, the Celtics hope of the future so many years ago in the aftermath of the Bird years.

Bias died of a drug overdose that caused a heart attack. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Does it matter? He was an unproven talent.

Unlike Len Bias, Hayward is an established star, not some vague potential. Gordon Hayward will live to play another day.  However, we don’t know how this injury may affect his ability to play at the same level that made him a superstar.

Boston hardly knows him and now may never know him as the new centerpiece of a Big Three to bring more championships to Boston. That dream may have just evaporated five minutes into a new season.

The season will go on for the Celtics. But the heart of players may have gone out with Hayward’s injury. The stomach to move on will settle down.

Grizzled old vets like Al Horford may take the injury of a teammate in such a devastating fashion in stride. It is the nature of the obvious horror that has an impact on the younger players. The Celtics core is young and impressionable. It tells them a message of sobering fright: your days in the sun can be over in a blink, or a twist of an ankle: in the crack of a bone.

Bones can be fragile and can snap like twigs in the wind. There may be no reason that can be discerned as to whom it condemns—and who may escape. The quantum physics of the universe is cruel.

The psychological damage is immeasurable on the psyche of players—and even fans. The tragedy belongs to Gordon Hayward.

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What Would Marilyn Tell Harvey Weinstein?

DATELINE: Hollywood Sexual Harassment

MM Grand Marilyn

Despite all of the complaints by actresses about Harvey Weinstein, we keep wondering what legendary star of the 1950s, Marilyn Monroe would have to say about the Hollywood scandal.

Miss Monroe spent her entire life trying to find respect as an actress in an industry where she was treated like a cheap platter of hors d’oeuvres.

She might tell us she is not surprised by what’s going on today. She might tell us nothing has changed. She could tell us that some of the most important people of the 20th century sexually harassed her and abused her.  And, it was all in a day’s work.

That was the price you had to pay to become a superstar while trying to find roles that served her talent. She was the plaything of athletes and president. On that score, not much is changed.

Our superstar athletes and our President are known sexual abusers.  Or at least use locker room talk regularly when they grab women unceremoniously.

Miss Monroe had to leave Hollywood to go to New York stage in order to find dignity as an actress. But she didn’t realize this condition of sexual cruelty was the norm of her career choice.

Hollywood derived from sexual innuendo, sexual hijinks, and serial sexual users.

Harvey Weinstein and a plethora of male stars and producers have victimized men, women, and children, since Hollywood’s earliest days.

We think Miss Monroe would tell us, if you choose this life as an actress and you are beautiful, you better be ready for what’s going to be thrown at you.  It’s no big deal to be the victim of injustice.

 

This Week in Patriot Superstition

 DATELINE:  The Devil You Say?

 off off-season     Most Off Off-Season Ever!

If you wait for Bill Belichick to let you know what’s going on in Patriot Nation, you’d be the victim of a fake news blockage.

Stephone Gilmore, one-time scapegoat of the big loss two weeks ago, suddenly has developed a concussion and will be unavailable for Sunday’s big game against the New York Jets.

The Jets, usually Pat patsies, are looking like the team Rex Ryan always hoped they would be. So, for the Pats to abruptly announce that Gilmore, one of their high-priced staples, is now suffering sudden concussion is a big deal. It is also a bit weird.

There were no reports of Gilmore injuries all week.

Maybe he fell in the bathtub. Perhaps he had one of those latent concussions that befall Tom Brady. His wife insists he has them, but Tom has no memory of that—and plays regardless of any headaches.

On top of this, another Patriot had to be extricated from his car in a terrible three-car accident on the way to Foxboro Friday night. He was rear-ended—and now he too is out for the foreseeable future. This is rookie Harvey Langi who was with his wife. Both have serious injury and have been hospitalized.

The fluke problems continue to mount up on the Patriots. We know the root cause, but no one is talking about it.

Just a few months ago, Tom Brady tempted fate deliberately by challenging superstition. He smashed a mirror with a hammer and walked under a ladder to prove there was nothing to these old tales of impending doom.

No one is laughing now.  And no one is acknowledging that Tom has been foolhardy once too often. He must think those special pajamas he wears make him look and behave like Spiderman.

Instead, he looks like the man with arachnophobia.

The rest of us are foaming at the mouth with Friday the 13th worries.

If the Jets beat the Patriots following a jinx day of the week, you know that Tom has tempted fate and called in the Devil’s boys.

We should warn Tom that the Devil is the author of confusion and often takes a pleasing form. The Devil is in the details and in the Botox. Every day a little Devil.

High Cost of Men Accosting Women

DATELINE:  Naked Oscar in Gilt

oscar

In Hollywood, it is growing abundantly obvious that the only men who haven’t groped women are gay. That lets out repulsive men like Harvey Weinstein. What women would have gone with him willingly? He’s a toad—and clearly heterosexual.

We hesitate to ask if gay Hollywood icons have groped other men. We’ll have to ask Tab next time we see him. So far, we haven’t heard any charges—but since Hollywood is a place where copycats rule, you can expect the gay rapists to be fingered before Xmas.

You may expect a new sense of revisionist history: condemnation of formerly critically successful movies will be on the agenda because the participants and producers were sexist swine. Cue the recall of Oscar—a naked man in gold gilt.

In the meantime, we are hearing that Oliver Stone, Ben Affleck (but not Matt Damon), and sundry other men have proven their heterosexuality by accosting actresses. It must be a rite of spring.

Men, not accused of molesting women, will now be outed as disinterested parties (clubs where men dance only with other men).

Of course, at the time, usually in the distant 1990s, actresses expected to remain silent in the face of these kind of onslaughts. So, it is only 20 years later that a spate of rape charges is coming forth. We aren’t sure whether the statute of limitations has passed on some of these cold cases. We also wonder if an accusation is deadlier than actually finding someone is guilty.

Women are now boycotting Twitter because it is part of the male-dominated system. Apparently, these same women have missed the boat that Twitter also has favored the Russians over Hilary Clinton.

Since women are nowadays the primary readers in our society, writers like Hemingway are likely to be dunned more than ever. Expect a cadre of writers to come charging out of the closet soon.

If we start making judgments based on the thrilling days of yesteryear, no one will be safe. Twenty or thirty years ago was a different world, even if it pretended to be the Golden Age of Enlightenment.

If women are prepared to press the issue of male malfeasance, you can bet your bottom dollar and top drawer that these guys will go into rehab, aka “therapy,” which is certainly a way out of the dark and deep woods of the groped past.

As for us, we have always viewed light in the loafers as a standard defense.

 

The Long & Short of 3-Hour Movies

DATELINE:  Time is Short

Agreed

We have just informed well-intended friends who always recommend long movies to us, that our tolerance level has passed beyond endurance.

We are no longer putting three-hour movies on our dance card.

Gilligan’s Island started out as a three-hour tour, but turned into an epical series with TV movie sequels.

In our misspent youth, we watched Lawrence of Arabia multiple times. That was four hours a shot.  We also took in films like Cleopatra, or Ben Hur. It may be we saw them more than once.

Today long films are not a sign of epic historic proportion, like the Bridge on the River Kwai. We watched recently again Once Upon a Time in the West, which was not only long—but slow. Those oldies were fascinating, whereas today’s movies are pompous, overwritten stories by directors who happen to think of their own self-importance before the audience’s bladder.

Hitchcock thought film should err on the short side to match the human kidney tolerance. Even he exceeded our new guidelines by pushing movies to two-hours.

Nowadays we always figure there are six minutes of credits at the end. That helps if we skip that, though we are loath to do so.

We still believe the best movie is under 90 minutes. As much as we dislike Woody Allen, he had the right idea. Many of his best movies were only 75 minutes in length. Including credits.

Before you point out that we have watched many series like Downton Abbey, Bette and Joan, and Endeavour, all recently, we would point out that those are episodic and run usually an hour.

Most of the time they’re also self-contained. It took 25 years to film all of The Poirot Agatha Christie stories. We don’t intend to take 25 years to watch them. However, they are usually about an hour in length.  A few of the classics are shorter movies. More than tolerable.

The upshot of our complaint is that we are no longer in the market for epic movies to be watched in one long sitting. Our life is now counting down to a precious few days.

If we’re going to spend time on a movie, hovering over three hours in length, it had better be special.

Brady’s Former Bunch

DATELINE:  Back-ups to Tom

 

Sunday was a football day without much interest unless you like to sing the National Anthem while everyone stands.

Of most interest to us, three of Tom Brady’s former backups were the starting football games for other teams.

We suspect Tom was caught up in the NFL Red Zone, trying to keep tabs on his former acolytes. They range in age to young pup to old-timer. Brady was their senior, going back to the beginning.

The most successful of these QBs was the most recent of these. We speak of Jacoby Brissette, now the starting quarterback of the Indianapolis Colts. He is a temporary replacement and back up for Andrew luck, but probably looks like he deserves to be the starter.

Alas, the curse of Tom Brady is to always be the back up.

Also playing against each other were Matt Cassel, the man who took Tom Brady’s place during the one season Tom was injured. And Brian Hoyer who has kicked around for some time and is now starting for the San Francisco Deplorable 49ers. He replaces that unemployed Kapernaeck kneeler.

It’s nice to know there is life after Tom. However, for Tom, life begins at 40, whereas for the rest, it will end in the NFL much sooner.

These former Patriots form a trio that should give Jimmy Garrapolo some sense of confidence that one day he too shall start a game somewhere in the NFL.

However, if we saw anything from the fate of three Brady back ups, it was that it is a difficult task to follow in the footsteps of Tom Brady. After studying him for years, these quarterbacks still cannot ambulate like the greatest of all-time.

They are about as memorable as the trio Nat King Cole dumped when he went solo.

Sad to say, Cassel, Brissette, and Hoyer, may have already had their day in the sun. Alas, their day in the sun was a day in the shadow of Tom.

Old Doc Brady’s Homeopathic Remedies

 DATELINE:  Bad Book Advice?

 tom in lost horizon Lost Horizon-bound: Dear Tom

Medical experts are lambasting GOAT Tom Brady, also known around here as Old Doc Brady, for dispensing false medical information in his new best-selling book.

As a result, Tom took to defending his half-baked ghost-written book at the post-game presser. He knows what he knows—and he tells what he believes. Usually on the offense, Tom took up a defensive position.

Brady recommends hydrating to prevent sunburn. Doctors are incensed, if not downright burnt to a crisp over this fallacious advice.

Dressed all in black, like an undertaker or hangman, at a recent press conference, Dr. Tom defended his cure-all advice. He came across like Johnny Cash bad-ass.

Most people fail to realize Tom’s new book is actually a satire. It’s like James Hilton’s Lost Horizon, the novel about a fantasy world called Shangri-La.

The lost Himalayan city called Shangri-La is a place where people stay young forever, owing to some secret rejuvenation in the water. Who knew Tom’s hidden paradise is just north of Foxborough in Brookline.

In his private Shangri-La, as far as we know, Tom could be getting Serum from goat gland injections like old Somerset Maugham used to do. What better way to stay young for an old GOAT than to have goat serum!

If you follow Tom’s highly expensive regimen, you would end up spending $500 for Botox in each area treated. You’d spend $300 for his specially tailored pajamas. And his food program cost another $300 to $400 per month. You can never be too rich or too thin.

This homeopathic doc is certainly not the grizzled, but lovable, sawbones from Stagecoach, the classic movie. Tom sees himself as young Dr. Kildare.

Those trying to stay young forever would have a better chance of finding eternal youth by going to the Himalayan mountains than to follow Tom Brady’s secret recipe.

Alfred Hitchcock & Agatha Christie: Never the Twain

DATELINE:  Giants in Separate Corners

   agatha       hitch

Recently the question came to us: Why did the two great forces of mystery and suspense never collaborate?

The answer may be surprising. They were both highly successful, popular and beloved: one in film and one in literature. They were both British, lived and died around the same time, and trod the same grounds of creativity.

A few claim Hitchcock was a misogynist: but his greatest collaborators were women (apart from his wife Alma). He enjoyed the works of Daphne DuMaurier (Rebecca, The Birds) and Patricia Highsmith (Strangers on a Train).

Apart from that fact, both Hitch and Agatha loved to use the setting of trains for their greatest works! Hitchcock could have directed Witness for the Prosecution in 1957, his peak, and most think he did direct it:  but it went to Billy Wilder who used Hitch’s techniques to great effect. Hitchcock could have directed Ten Little Indians in 1945, but chose to avoid the Christie works altogether.

Hitchcock told Francois Truffaut that he disliked the genre of the ‘who done it.’  He found it antithetical to his idea of what made for cinematic story-telling. He likened the genre to a crossword puzzle, with revealing clues as the main point of the story. It was bread and butter for Christie, but Hitchcock hated the notion and revealing the killer at the end of the story.

You may think two of Hitch’s intriguing films, at the least, were of the who done it school:  Psycho actually revealed who the killer was, but not in the way you expected it to be in the final reel. Stage Fright was one of Hitch’s least favorite films and he filmed it because he was told it was a Christie story, but turned out to be one of his weakest entries.

In Shadow of a Doubt in 1943, Hitchcock had two minor characters discuss how to murder each other—and referred to Hercule Poirot, the Belgian detective of Christie, in less than flattering terms.

It’s almost tragic that Hitchcock did not direct Witness for the Prosecution or Murder on the Orient Express to see how he might have handled the material. Both films are brilliant stories and wonderful films, but the echoes of Hitch are omnipresent.

So, we were left without any collaboration between the two greats of 20th century murder mystery. It’s not much of a mystery, but it is a tale of audience misfortune.

Holmesian Logic Applied to the Las Vegas Shooter

DATELINE: The Third Man or Stephen Paddock?

Welles as Third Man Welles as Harry Lime

A few friends have asked us to apply Sherlockian logic to the Las Vegas shooter case that has baffled so many people—and confounded police.

Authorities find Stephen Paddock a conundrum that defies profiles created by criminologists.

We deduce, first of all, that investigators have been probing deeply beyond obvious facts. The obvious often is deceptive and will mislead investigators.

After all, it was Sherlock Holmes who famously said that you need to eliminate all the impossible factors—and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

We must ask ourselves, what is served by misery, violence, and fear?

Paddock’s actions justify a private revenge, making his secrets all the more imponderable.

So, what can we deduce about the man who had millions of dollars from life as a high roller? He was confident in the risks and his odds of beating them.

Paddock was a fugitive from the law of averages.

This was an angry man who felt disrespected by society, despite his success as a gambler. He felt his status as an older, white male gave him no advantage in terms of respectability. As the sands of life passed by, he was dissatisfied with his lot. He hated time. It was cheating him.

Over the years, he found the ease of beating the system put him above law and society. He won millions of dollars by playing games against those he felt were dolts of society.

Paddock mistrusted other people—and had no need for their assistance. He worked alone in his problem-solving. People were manipulated to serve his own goals.

Paddock was a coward. He could not face the people he loathed—those who found happiness in simple living. He preferred the edginess of risk-taking. Thus, like infamous fictional killer Harry Lime, he took up a high position to commit his crime.

If you recall, Lime looked down on people from the perspective of a Ferris-wheel where his victims looked like “dots.” The film is The Third Man. It was easy to dehumanize those who would die if they are merely squirming dots in a dark night.

The armaments at his crime scene suggest he knew this could be a “glorious” Waterloo for him, but the use of cameras indicate he planned for the possibility to beat the law of averages to kill again.

Red Sox Players Don’t Like Boston Much

DATELINE:  Boston Not Their Home

fan Red Sox Fan

We heard that Las Vegas shooter Stephen Paddock considered coming to Fenway Park to bestow the city of Boston with his insane mass murder on the joint. This horrid revelation has not made a ripple with this year’s team of disgruntled, unhappy Red Sox players.

This will be our only piece about the Red Sox this year, as their season is coming to a close soon. Yeah, they are in the playoffs. Not that anyone in Boston gives much of a fig. This bunch is not liked.

Baseball fans love Fenway. They are lukewarm toward these players. If you believe baseball is business, these teammates come to the office, pick up their paychecks, but would rather play in any other city. They have no ties to Boston.

It could have something to do with the media. They hate the media, including homers like former Sox Hall of Famer Dennis Eckersley who was berated and attacked earlier in the season by pitcher David Price, a pitcher whose option likely will put him elsewhere in a season ahead.

He hates Boston.

Dustin Pedroia has played his entire career in the city, but has never embraced the town like David Ortiz, the last Sox player to be part of the community.

You figure after a dozen years, Pedroia would have some ties to Boston. He doesn’t.

Perhaps they have heard racial taunts at Fenway. Some fans dispute this allegation, but the players seem stand-offish to the Olde Towne. Most don’t like the liberals around here.

Young players are stuck here, but would rather play elsewhere. For example, Jacoby Ellsbury never embraced Boston, and preferred to move on to the Yankees where he is happier being anonymous than a star in Bean Town.

These Red Sox do not love the Dirty Water. Most probably wouldn’t understand the reference. They don’t want to be here and will disperse quickly next week when their seasonal prison sentence in Boston ends.

Good riddance to this team of apathetic nobodies.

 

Is Cam Newton a Maroon?

DATELINE:  All Routes Lead to Idiocy

cam

In case you have forgotten, Cam Newton reminded you that it’s his picture you find next to the expression “Dumb Jock” in the Encyclopedia of Sports Idiocy.

In the immortal words of the great American philosopher Bugs Bunny: “What a maroon!”

Yes, Cam did it again at a press conference. He told everyone how funny it was to hear a female sports reporter talk about routes. Cam’s favorite movie is Where the Boys Are—because he knows the route, having gone that route many times for a few bucks.

Women never talk to Cam about anything of substance. In fact, Cam is more at home with the boys and shop talk where the only playbook he reads is mostly x and o demonstrated.

He is just another pretty face in a bubble head to match his bubble butt.

Cam will never be caught with a pencil behind his ear like a nerd. We doubt that he knows how to hold a pencil or can work anything out on paper.

Yes, Cam is extremely beautiful to look at, but you probably can’t take him many places unless he is on a leash and you have your doggie bag with you.

If football ends tomorrow for the Giant Fig Newton, he can always use those amazing talents to star in gay porn where a giant brain is the least of your worries.

Don’t get us wrong: we find Cam easy on the eyes and we have enough brains for the two of us.

Nero Trump: USFL’s Revenge

DATELINE: The Sky is Falling

 USFL

Nero Trump with his USFL star Hershel Walker

If the New England Patriots played in a domed stadium, we would be tempted to say the roof is caving in.

Instead, we are more like a giant Chicken Little, running around, in a panic, reporting to Patriot fans everywhere.  We wish we could be more like William Dawes or Paul Revere, making that midnight ride.

We would be calling out as we rode down Mass. Ave. in Cambridge, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!”

In the Foxboro Empire of the once powerful and mighty New England Patriots, it’s beginning to look a lot like the fall of the Roman Empire.  The Huns are at the gates of Gillette Stadium, and it is no longer a safe haven where Patriots could their victories.

Our latest Caesar, Emperor Nero Trump, our lord of the flies, is presiding over the fall season. And the Patriots are in for a big fall.

Robert Kraft, member of the Three Stooge NFL owners’ consortium, may need to Stooges take a knife to his bath where all good members of the NFL family of owners cut their wrists.

It’s beginning to look like the NFL needs to find a Spartacus to stand up to Laurence Olivier Trump.

In the meantime, the Patriots are in decline as Roger Goodell always wanted. Yet, his intentions may be thwarted by the President who once was blackballed by the NFL and not allowed to own a team like the Patriots. Who remembers the USFL?  Perhaps only Donald Nero Trump.

With his Patriot friends, Nero Trump is out for blood from the NFL.  If you recall, some decades ago, they froze him out of the owners’ circle and denied his attempt to become an NFL owner in 1986 with his USFL team.

Revenge is sweet, three decades later for the President who was denied a chance to own an NFL team like the Patriots.

Trump Gives NFL a Concussion

DATELINE: Trump Playing without a Helmet glad gladiators

Money talks and President Trump listens. No man is an island in the NFL, and woe to islands that are decimated by hurricanes.

Mr. Stump Trump, our Lord of the Flies, has encouraged his followers to seek financial remuneration through demands for refunds from NFL teams, and some former fans have even claimed to boycott the football games, driving ratings to alleged lows.

Whether this is true or has any lasting merit is not yet clear.

On the other hand, it is clear that Trump has cast the island of Puerto Rico adrift. We don’t know if any games have had protests on the island because we don’t think anyone is playing games while their lives are facing a lack of drinking water, no electrical power, and isolation from social media.

And you thought the NFL has a problem.

Half the teams in the NFL are losers again this week. It’s the nature of the beast. However, Trump will now take credit for having players stand in respect, hands over hearts, arms linked, hands on shoulders, as the “Star Spangled Banner” unfurls. We feel that the Nazi salute is not far from Trump demands.

Millions watch games. Trump attends a fancy golf tournament at a golf club that costs $500,000 to join.  There is plenty of disconnect here with players in the NFL who make no less than that per season, with many making millions. Fans pay plenty to go to games and express their free speech right to the minions of the sport who have no rights in Trump’s world.

Respect is a one-way street in Trump’s America.

Like the ancient Roman gladiators, who died entertaining their rapacious fans, the NFL players must stand and repeat, “We who are about to be concussed salute you,” to Trump as he sits like Nero in his golf suite.

Many will contribute much of their earnings to the DumpTrump movement that is burgeoning among American citizens with and without a brain concussion.

As a Trump donor in the previous election, we receive nearly daily requests to voice our support and loyalty to Donald Trump. The requests center upon a donation of $1 to prove our loyalty. No one has asked us to boycott games and boo NFL players—yet.

Nor have we been asked to donate to relief funds for Puerto Rico by the same committee supporting Trump. The money is for the president, not citizens without homes, water, or to end a life threatening struggle to survive.

It has made us a tad sick.

It’s all the problem of “fake news media,” though it is growing unclear who the real fake is.

 

 

 

 

 

What Price Glory? Bees’ Knees Have It

DATELINE: Trump’s Magical Misdirections

trump apron strings

The NFL anthem protest is a tempest in a teapot. Trump is dealing with more Teapot Dome tempests than any president since Warren G. Harding.

You might think there is no possible resolution to the knee-jerk reaction of Donald Trump to NFL protesting players. Forget them not: Basketball of the NBA is on the horizon where the lives of black players matter big.

When Trump notes that NFL owners are afraid of their plantation slaves, we are reminded that such a mentality was quite prevalent in the early 19th century among cotton-picking businessmen. Like any good magician, Trump is misdirecting his audience away from his sleight of hand, like a Mississippi riverboat charlatan.

So, the NFL has called in team captains and owners for a meeting of the minds. Fear is a great equalizer.

Roger Goodell met on Thursday with Devin McCourty and Matthew Slater, two New England Patriot leaders—and with owner Robert Kraft. Tom Brady seems to have taken a powder with his MAGA hat.

Powers that be may well be worried over the few knuckleheads who have burned their team jerseys with blow torches and have sworn never to watch another football game.

We don’t believe it. These followers of social media are like junkyard dogs, barking up a storm, but in the heady days of Super Bowl hype, we feel they will find their mettle melted.

Perhaps football Sunday should be immune from politics and inflammatory rhetoric. Fat chance with the Lord of the Flies Donald Trump tweeting out with presidential flair and Dumbo abandon.

Arm-in-arm, solidarity against racism would seem to be a no-brainer, though some conservatives feel the venue is inappropriate. Yet, their message is lost in a blinding white-out storm.

Anticipated more than victory may be the pre-game anthem, a place in America where black men have risen to fame and fortune while the majority of their peers face daily worry that a stray bullet may end their black and bleak lives.

If Russian agents exploited ‘Black Lives Matter’ to win a national election for the Lord of the Flies, you can bet your bottom dollar that, as that Fenway Park sign told a few weeks back, racism is as American as football and baseball, not to mention basketball.

 

Lord of the Flies: Donald Trump

 DATELINE:  Free Speech & Concussed Politicians

lord

North Korea has it wrong. Trump is not the Commander-in-Grief. He is the Lord of the Flies, the William Golding horror reborn.

NFL fans of the game may be coming to a rather harsh realization. Freedom of speech cuts. Two ways. They were counter-free speechified by the players on Sunday.

You may boo your least favorite players in the stadium and to their face as they score winning points to help your team. Then, cheers. What manner is this hypocrisy?

On the other hand,  players have a right to express their feelings as well. We think they ought to just thumb noses, instead of a respectful knee to the ground. Save that for the bully-pulpit fans.

You may not like seeing players kneel during Our National Anthem.  It’s almost like praying for a better country.  Fat chance for that under the Lord of the Flies.

Mr. Trump is completely convinced that he would rather be right than president.  Trump is no Henry Clay when it comes to cold feet. He has performed no presidential feat greater than dividing the nation into red and blue. He leaves the white for separatist flags.

Perhaps his wish will be granted. We either will have the end of the world in a nuclear holocaust against another race of the Yellow Peril, or we will have a race war in America. In either case, you have to admit Trump has divided America in ways we haven’t seen since the Civil War.

Russian interference of the election is secondary to Trump hijacking of the Constitution.

Of course, we have come to expect the worst of NFL fans. They laugh and demean the idea of concussions. Ask Will Smith.

They watch gladiator athletes concussed weekly for entertainment. If memory serves, during the campaign President Trump scoffed at the idea of concussions for NFL players as a sign of weakness. Talk about brain bankruptcy.

All this goes to show that what goes around comes around, like Aaron Hernandez and Confederate resurrection.  It’s all in a day’s work for the Lord of the Flies.