Writing Sample--Week 1

You’ve really got a hold on me

I can’t dunk a basketball, run a sub 4.5 second 40, or hit a baseball out of Yankee stadium. I am, however, addicted to watching men that I have never met, nor do I particularly like, do all of these things. Over the past few months alone I’ve witnessed incidences ranging from NBA star Ron Artest stampeding into the stands to pummel a fan, a half a dozen alcohol-related arrests (one of which ended with the athlete getting off because his lawyer argued successfully that he did not know his ABCs), and most recently, Minnesota Viking receiver Randy Moss celebrating a touchdown by pretending to moon the Green Bay Packers’ fans and simulating wiping himself on the goalpost.

The latter incident prompted the usual media explosion, and had sports radio hosts all over the nation asking the same tired question, “Where do these athletes get off treating us this way?” Just like almost everything, the answer lies in money, and the fact that professional athletes make so much more of it than their fans.

“Straight cash, homey.”

The difference in income between professional athletes and their fans has never been greater. Atlanta Falcon quarterback Mike Vick just signed a contract worth $62 million over the next 6 years, so it’s no stretch to say that Vick lives a completely different lifestyle than the average person that buys his jersey. The disparity between the players of professional sports and their fans has grown so great that most Americans would have to watch minor league baseball or arena football to see professional athletes that are in their tax bracket.

By examining the annual income of a Wisconsin resident ($30,050), the average ticket price for an NFL playoff game ($900), the annual salary of Randy Moss ($5 million), and the amount the NFL fined him for the mooning incident ($10,000), an interesting observation can be made that illustrates the disparity between professional athletes and their fans. This admittedly unscientific observation is: the average fan in attendance at the Minnesota-Green Bay game spent a higher percentage of their annual income to be mooned by Randy Moss than he did in fines for mooning them. And why not? Shouldn’t the lowly commoner feel privileged when they get any acknowledgment by royalty even if it is in disrespect? The fans in attendance and those watching at home got a real treat for their money, a faux-indecent exposure and simulated bathroom behavior by the King of Wide Receivers. As we all know kings don’t have apologize for their actions, but Moss thought he’d remind us anyway when he met up with reporters a few days later.

Reporter: "Write the check yet, Randy?"

Moss: "When you're rich, you don't write checks."

Reporter: "If you don't write checks, how do you pay these guys?"

Moss: "Straight cash, homey."

Reporter: "Randy, are you upset about the fine?"

Moss: "No, cause it ain't s---. Ain't nothing but 10 grand. What's 10 grand to me?"

The answer is about .2% of Moss’s annual salary and about 33% of the annual salary of those that his posterior was pointed towards.

We’ve got no one to blame…

Minneapolis plays Philadelphia on Sunday and the stadium will be sold out. The TV audience will swell with those who will want to see what Moss does next, the NFL will make millions in licensing, and the networks will make even more in commercials and royalties. The truth is that the fans allow incidents like this to happen. We don’t stop going to the games, tuning in, or buying the merchandise. We watch and buy, and raise new generations of fans who will watch and buy, and occasionally complain about the sad state of the sport before watching and buying some more.

I can’t hide from the blame, when even now I find myself thinking, “why should I punish myself by missing playoff football—something I live for—because Randy Moss is an idiot?” The NFL shrugs its broad, swollen shoulders and smiles. They smile because they know they produce a product that millions have come to believe they personally own a stake in. “Look how hard we work for you,” the NFL tells us through their advertisements, “we’re with you and your family on Thanksgiving and Christmas, we give you unbelievable thrills, we sacrifice our bodies for you, and we give you something to talk about at your sad, commoner vocations as insurance adjusters, butchers, and accountants.” The problem is, they’re right. They put out a product that many would say they cannot live without. The NFL has no competition; fans don’t care that an arena football player is in the same income class as them and will probably treat them with more respect. The average fan wants to see human freaks throw 60-yard, off-balance passes for touchdowns, even if that means being told “Maybe next time I’ll shake my [expletive male private part],” which is how Moss concluded the previously mentioned interview.

The NFL is not worried because they know all about my little tantrums. They know when I say that I’m leaving them—and I really mean it this time—that after a couple of days on my own, once I realize there’s no one else better out there, I come crawling back. And that old Beatles’ song plays in an endless loop in my head, “you treat me badly, I love you madly, you’ve really go a hold on me.”