The Big Game
School and such are kicking my ass, so I haven't had much time to work my random thoughts into anything close even my usual borderline coherence. So, instead, a short short story I wrote to help me process the Super Bowl debacle.
The Big Game
The day after the Big Game, the Commish sat at his desk with his furrowed brow in his hands. He was staring at the 8” x 10” photograph that sat on his desk, recently removed from a manila envelope addressed with only his name, and he was very, very pissed off.
The photo provided what appeared to be conclusive proof of a Fix. A Fix in the Big Game. A Zebra, an Owner, and a shitload of money.
The Commish finally tore his eyes from the photo, leaned far back in his chair, and looked heavenward. But no Big Guy Upstairs could save him from this. It was his deal, his league, his Sport.
Of course the problem was, that last part wasn’t true. It wasn’t his. He's merely the steward, and as the photograph can attest a pretty fucking inept one at that. The Sport belongs to itself.
And he should have fucking known, shouldn’t have been able to sleep a wink last night yet he slept like a baby. An overweight, drunk baby with grey body hair. The Big Game had been prime for foul play. Teams with squeaky-clean reputations. Not particularly close but not a blowout. Pivotal and controversial calls by the Zebras coming early enough in the going that their impact could be obscured, made debatable by the chaos of the action.
Why not those assholes from back East? the Commish thought. They are practically expected to cheat every time they play, and I could handle that. Why not a blown call in the final moments, one I can point to and say “See, there it is, it’s not the Sport but the Zebras what are fucked up,” and let it all go with a firing?
Why this? This is bad, he thought, this is very bad.
His intercom buzzed, and he jammed his finger down on the button.
“Goddamnit, I said I didn’t want to be disturbed!”
“Yes, sir, but it is about the parade, and…”
“Not now, no! No interruptions.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
No, he thought. No, you don’t. Maybe three people in the world understand. A Zebra, an Owner, and Ben Franklin, multiplied over and over a dozen dozen times.
The Commish stood up, walked over to the television in the corner of his office, and switched it on. The Network was playing highlights of the Big Game, interviews with Players and Coaches and Jubilant Fans, all with the sound mercifully muted.
The Commish watched their silent mouths. Wooooooooo! I’d like to thank our fans… We did it, baby. We did it. Nobody believed in us but we believed in ourselves. I’m going to Disn….
He snapped it back off, disgusted. This is a fucking mess. And what am I going to do about it?
Today the Commish announced a Fix in the Big Game? C’mon. Look, it ain’t like we can just play it over, huh? So, I’m supposed to rip victory out of the hands of these Fans? Because, I can’t give a victory to these other Fans if I do, can I? Only a Game can do that.
No. Letting this out wouldn’t do anything but release a flood of doubt and cynicism that would rekindle every bad feeling stored up over the years in every Fan. Every bad call no longer a vagary of the game but evidence of another Fix. Sure, it would start with the Fans that were screwed yesterday, but every grudge that lingers in the world of Sport, buried half-dead in shallow graves, and they are multitude, are Legion, would be reborn, their existence vindicated by this, the Fix in the Big Game.
The Commish ripped open the top shelf of the filing cabinet under the TV, fished a flask of bourbon from the back, and took a long pull.
The Fans have to believe in the Story of Sport. His job was to protect the Sport, and the Sport was built upon the unshakable faith of Fans. There is room in the Story for the Losing Fan, who can take the denial of victory out on Players and Owners, can rail against cruel Fate, and line up dutifully the next season and the next. But, the Fan that is screwed by the System, who has victory stolen by a representative of the System, may find it an exercise in futility. Why play if They can simply cheat, take away my Joy on a whim?
He took a longer pull from the flask. So, what, I guess now I’m their Daddy? he thought. Protecting the Fans from things they don’t want to know? If I was really working for the fans, my job would be to protect the integrity of the Story, but instead I’m supposed to prop up a fucking Myth.
“You, sir, are a schmuck,” he said to his empty office. “You damn well knew what you were getting yourself into.”
He remembered what it was like when he could still be a Fan. Remembered the Joy of My Team chasing down the Championship, remembered how easy it was to convince himself that he had contributed to it, had earned his share of Joy, rationalizing it, allowing himself to call it Joy, to give it parity with all other joys, because of the purity of it, of Sports.
That was the story They sold, that the Commish was selling now. Fairness, Team and Civic Pride. The Commish realized he had been around long enough to see Players sacrificed on the altar of Team, often by their own hand, to see communities carried on the crest of waves of spontaneous Civic Pride in the Race for a Championship crashing straight into disastrous decisions. And the Commish had called on those ideals time and again, never with any hint of irony; he would have said, if asked “This Is Sport.”
He had no right to be surprised that Fairness would in turn demand its pound of flesh when its cover was blown.
I don’t get to be a Fan, he thought. I’m a fucking Suit. The Fans believe in the Story, and the Suits prop up the Myth. I don’t work for the Fans, I don’t even work for the Myth. It’s just another tool, like Team, for protecting the system that produces and lives on the Myth. If I forget that, if I get fucking noble and try to protect the Story, the system that produces the Story will fall apart.
And what then?
His suit felt suddenly heavy, and the Commish sagged.
This is so much worse because it wasn’t a Coach or a Player but an Official, he thought, part of the System. Not a rotten apple but a parasitic infection in the bark. You don’t chop a tree down for one bad apple, but you do kill a sick tree before it brings down the entire orchard.
The Commish straightened up, threw the flask into the cabinet and slammed it shut. He walked back to his desk and pressed the button on his intercom.
“Get Him on the phone.”
“Who, sir?”
“You fucking know who! Just get Him on the phone. Tell him it’s about a job.”
###
The Big Game
The day after the Big Game, the Commish sat at his desk with his furrowed brow in his hands. He was staring at the 8” x 10” photograph that sat on his desk, recently removed from a manila envelope addressed with only his name, and he was very, very pissed off.
The photo provided what appeared to be conclusive proof of a Fix. A Fix in the Big Game. A Zebra, an Owner, and a shitload of money.
The Commish finally tore his eyes from the photo, leaned far back in his chair, and looked heavenward. But no Big Guy Upstairs could save him from this. It was his deal, his league, his Sport.
Of course the problem was, that last part wasn’t true. It wasn’t his. He's merely the steward, and as the photograph can attest a pretty fucking inept one at that. The Sport belongs to itself.
And he should have fucking known, shouldn’t have been able to sleep a wink last night yet he slept like a baby. An overweight, drunk baby with grey body hair. The Big Game had been prime for foul play. Teams with squeaky-clean reputations. Not particularly close but not a blowout. Pivotal and controversial calls by the Zebras coming early enough in the going that their impact could be obscured, made debatable by the chaos of the action.
Why not those assholes from back East? the Commish thought. They are practically expected to cheat every time they play, and I could handle that. Why not a blown call in the final moments, one I can point to and say “See, there it is, it’s not the Sport but the Zebras what are fucked up,” and let it all go with a firing?
Why this? This is bad, he thought, this is very bad.
His intercom buzzed, and he jammed his finger down on the button.
“Goddamnit, I said I didn’t want to be disturbed!”
“Yes, sir, but it is about the parade, and…”
“Not now, no! No interruptions.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
No, he thought. No, you don’t. Maybe three people in the world understand. A Zebra, an Owner, and Ben Franklin, multiplied over and over a dozen dozen times.
The Commish stood up, walked over to the television in the corner of his office, and switched it on. The Network was playing highlights of the Big Game, interviews with Players and Coaches and Jubilant Fans, all with the sound mercifully muted.
The Commish watched their silent mouths. Wooooooooo! I’d like to thank our fans… We did it, baby. We did it. Nobody believed in us but we believed in ourselves. I’m going to Disn….
He snapped it back off, disgusted. This is a fucking mess. And what am I going to do about it?
Today the Commish announced a Fix in the Big Game? C’mon. Look, it ain’t like we can just play it over, huh? So, I’m supposed to rip victory out of the hands of these Fans? Because, I can’t give a victory to these other Fans if I do, can I? Only a Game can do that.
No. Letting this out wouldn’t do anything but release a flood of doubt and cynicism that would rekindle every bad feeling stored up over the years in every Fan. Every bad call no longer a vagary of the game but evidence of another Fix. Sure, it would start with the Fans that were screwed yesterday, but every grudge that lingers in the world of Sport, buried half-dead in shallow graves, and they are multitude, are Legion, would be reborn, their existence vindicated by this, the Fix in the Big Game.
The Commish ripped open the top shelf of the filing cabinet under the TV, fished a flask of bourbon from the back, and took a long pull.
The Fans have to believe in the Story of Sport. His job was to protect the Sport, and the Sport was built upon the unshakable faith of Fans. There is room in the Story for the Losing Fan, who can take the denial of victory out on Players and Owners, can rail against cruel Fate, and line up dutifully the next season and the next. But, the Fan that is screwed by the System, who has victory stolen by a representative of the System, may find it an exercise in futility. Why play if They can simply cheat, take away my Joy on a whim?
He took a longer pull from the flask. So, what, I guess now I’m their Daddy? he thought. Protecting the Fans from things they don’t want to know? If I was really working for the fans, my job would be to protect the integrity of the Story, but instead I’m supposed to prop up a fucking Myth.
“You, sir, are a schmuck,” he said to his empty office. “You damn well knew what you were getting yourself into.”
He remembered what it was like when he could still be a Fan. Remembered the Joy of My Team chasing down the Championship, remembered how easy it was to convince himself that he had contributed to it, had earned his share of Joy, rationalizing it, allowing himself to call it Joy, to give it parity with all other joys, because of the purity of it, of Sports.
That was the story They sold, that the Commish was selling now. Fairness, Team and Civic Pride. The Commish realized he had been around long enough to see Players sacrificed on the altar of Team, often by their own hand, to see communities carried on the crest of waves of spontaneous Civic Pride in the Race for a Championship crashing straight into disastrous decisions. And the Commish had called on those ideals time and again, never with any hint of irony; he would have said, if asked “This Is Sport.”
He had no right to be surprised that Fairness would in turn demand its pound of flesh when its cover was blown.
I don’t get to be a Fan, he thought. I’m a fucking Suit. The Fans believe in the Story, and the Suits prop up the Myth. I don’t work for the Fans, I don’t even work for the Myth. It’s just another tool, like Team, for protecting the system that produces and lives on the Myth. If I forget that, if I get fucking noble and try to protect the Story, the system that produces the Story will fall apart.
And what then?
His suit felt suddenly heavy, and the Commish sagged.
This is so much worse because it wasn’t a Coach or a Player but an Official, he thought, part of the System. Not a rotten apple but a parasitic infection in the bark. You don’t chop a tree down for one bad apple, but you do kill a sick tree before it brings down the entire orchard.
The Commish straightened up, threw the flask into the cabinet and slammed it shut. He walked back to his desk and pressed the button on his intercom.
“Get Him on the phone.”
“Who, sir?”
“You fucking know who! Just get Him on the phone. Tell him it’s about a job.”
###
posted by JJisafool at 4:50 PM
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