An Old Posting
Go back and check out the blog
posting of August 16, 2016, which was loaded with a lot of truth about
then-candidate Donald Trump, leading me to the naïve conclusion that he could
not be elected. I could not believe that
American voters were that stupid or gullible (take your choice). Yet they turned out to be exactly that in
enough states to get him the necessary electoral votes and still are today, and
everything I said back then is still pertinent.
Check it out by CLICKING RIGHT HERE to read what I wrote back
then.
Today's Democratic Party must recognize that
millions of Americans have been conditioned to accept lies as truths, to pick
someone to vote for the way they select brands of deodorant or beer and who still
smoke cigarettes despite clear evidence, printed on every package, that
smoking can lead to cancer and heart disease.
Forget about these (to borrow an
expression from the 2016 campaign) ‘deplorable’ people as well as those like the
many distressed soybean farmers who have lost their markets because of the
President’s destructive tariff policy and, unbelievably, will still vote for
him.
The path to victory for
Democrats in 2020 is to register as many new voters as possible, particularly
among young people and among those of Latino or African American heritage,
groups that have been particularly hard hit by Trumpublican policies. Resources should be directed to that end in crucial States like Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan, Wisconsin and Florida. That is the name of the game. Period!
It is useless to attempt to
convince those who voted for him in 2016 to change their minds. Too many of them enjoy the mud and filth
surrounding the President, just so long as it protects them against what they've been convinced is “socialism”
and anything that suggests a change in what they believe to be the traditional
demographic composition of the nation.
They have been convinced that the Washington pig sty in which the
President wallows is a fragrant bubble bath.
It isn’t.
Jack Lippman
A Football Story
A glance at your TV will
indicate that the football season is upon us.
So we reached back a couple of years into our archives for a short story
about that sport. I enjoyed writing it
and I hope you enjoy reading it. So come
and meet …
The
Running Back
Jack
Lippman
The
Opossums had a pretty good record in the small-time, rinky-dink, professional
football league in which they competed.
The NFL gets most of its players from colleges but there are always some
pretty good football players out there who never get to college and NFL scouts
never even hear about. Many of them
drift to teams like the Opossums who play in a small industrial city in
Minnesota where the locals are glad to be able to see a pro football game for
ten bucks. The players get paid about
$250 for each game and show up for practice a few times a week for which they
don’t get paid. Of course, most have
other jobs in things like construction to supplement what the Opossums pay
them, but really, all the players live for is the day when perhaps they would
be noticed by a scout from one of the NFL teams. Occasionally, one might be passing through
and might just be among the six or seven thousand fans who come out to sit in
the wooden bleachers at Opossum Park on Wednesday evenings, when there was no
football on TV, watching them play teams like the Fargo Bears or the Duluth Red
Reindeer. These fans just don’t have the
money to go to Minneapolis to see the Vikings, or to Chicago or to Green
Bay. They have to be content with their
Opossums who along with teams from seven other rust-belt towns in the upper
Midwest comprised the Northland Professional Football League.
“Men,”
Coach Lindquist called out. “I wanna
introduce you to the new owner of the Opossums. He just bought the team from
Jim Nelson’s estate, and he wants to have a few words with you. I’d like you all to meet Rocco Fields.”
“Call
me Rocky,” an overweight muscular man in his fifties spoke out.
“I
always wanted to own a football team, and when I heard the Opossums were up for
sale, I grabbed them. I played two years
for the New York Jets a while back and I think I know a little about the
game. But I’ll still let Coach Lindquist
run the team. He’s a good coach. But I do want to have some input into what
goes on around here. That’s the fun of
owning a team.”
Flash
Watson was the best player on the Opossums.
Twenty-nine years old, he had been playing football at this level for
ten years. His education, somewhere in
the deep south, ended in the third grade. But he could run faster than anyone
on the team, and maybe in the league.
All he needed was a small opening to scamper through and he would be off
to the races. But running backs were a
dime a dozen and just as water reaches its level, Flash had reached his with
the Opossums. When he wasn’t playing
football, he did day work for a roofing company and lived with his girlfriend
and her four-year old. He was a happy
guy, content to hammer shingles and play football. Oh, yes, in case I didn’t mention it, Flash
was Afro-American, wore dreadlocks and had a wiry beard reaching about four
inches below his chin.
“Men,”
Rocky continued. “Like I said, Joe will
continue running the team, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be involved. You guys ever hear of George Steinbrenner? Used to own the New York Yankees baseball
team. Loved that man! Would’ve paid to
work for him! Knew what he was
about! And one thing he insisted on with
the Yankees was that they be clean shaven.
No beards, no hair hanging below the neck, just a clean-cut American
look! That’s the one thing I’m going to
insist on for you Opossums.”
Coach
Lindquist interrupted, “George did allow mustaches, I recall. That okay with you, Rocky?”
“Sure. Mustaches are okay, even sideburns, but let’s
get on with today’s practice, Coach!”
After
an hour of sweaty practice, Flash hung back and cornered the coach in the
locker room.
“Does
what that man said mean I gotta get rid of my beard and locks, Coach?”
“That’s
what the man said. You heard him. He’s the one that pays us so I recommend you
stop off at the barber shop pretty damn soon.”
“And
what if I don’t,” Flash answered. What
he gonna do to me?”
“Flash,
baby,” Lindquist cautioned. “Just do
what the man said to do. Cut your hair!
You know you put your ‘X’ on a two-year contract with us a couple of months
ago, and we even are paying you an extra $50 a game, but believe me, I don’t
think he’ll waste a minute getting rid of you if you keep the hair and the
beard. He could sell your contract.”
“What’ya
mean? Sell me, like he own me?”
“Yup. So far as playing football for pay, he owns
you. In fact, a few of the other teams
in the league have been calling. They
like the way you run. I can tell you
that if the beard and hair stay, you’ll probably be playing for Duluth by next
Wednesday. Flash, the one thing that
happens in this world all the time is change, and you gotta learn to live with
it.”
“Duluth? The Red Reindeer? Where it 10 below all winter long? Shit, no.
Not me.”
Watson
stalked out of the locker room, a very angry man, mumbling to himself. “Fuckin’ Duluth. I’ll show them.”
That
week’s game was with the league-leading Kalamazoo Knights. They were the only team in the league which
had what amounted to a loose agreement with an NFL team. A few years earlier, the Detroit Lions had
drafted a bunch of linemen and defensive backs who, it turned out, they had no
need for. They traded most of them away
for future draft picks but were stuck with three or four that they had to get
off their roster. Quietly, they worked
out a deal with Kalamazoo to warehouse them, and that was the primary reason
the Knights were in first place in the Northland League.
Kalamazoo’s
defense, which had been iron-clad up until their game with the Opossums, was no
match for Flash Watson. He ran for three
touchdowns in the first half and was back on the bench after running back the
third quarter kickoff for another. He
also scored all their extra points running through the Kalamazoo defense like a
hot knife through butter. When the game
ended, the score was 61 to 14, and Flash was responsible for 46 of the
Opossum’s points. But he still hadn’t
gone to the barber shop.
Next
morning in his office, Coach Lindquist pulled Flash aside.
“Pal,
I got some news for you! Pack your stuff
and get yourself on a bus for Duluth. I warned you and you didn’t listen. Rocky
has traded you.”
“Even
after the big game I played last night, Coach?
Why would he do dat?”
“Rocky
was very happy with your game. In fact,
you were so good that Duluth tripled the amount of money they were willing to
pay for your contract after they heard about what you did last night. Really, I think he would have liked it better
if you would have stayed with the Opossums but with your beard and locks, he
wasn’t going to back down. You know,
that Steinbrenner thing. Flash, it’s all
your fault that you’re going to Duluth.
Change happens and you refused to change.”
Flash
was about to curse at the coach when the door swung open and a tall black man
came in.
“Sorry
to interrupt you guys, but my time is limited, really. Gotta get to the airport and catch a plane
and my ride is waiting outside.” Looking
at Flash, he continued.
“I’m
Ned Smith. Work for the Detroit
Lions. I showed up last night to look at
some of our people playing with Kalamazoo.
Injuries are killing us this season.
We need a couple of linebackers fast, so I was looking at the two
All-American losers you played against last night. Recognized them, Mr. Watson?”
Flash
shook his head.
“One
of the guys you ran over last night was a runner-up for the Heisman trophy
three years ago. One disappointing
All-American from TCU. And the other
guy, the one wearing number 88, was All-Conference in the PAC-12. We’re bringing them both up to the Lions this
week; they both looked pretty good last night, except for not being able to
stop you, and frankly, we’d like to bring you along with them, Flash.”
With
that he pulled out a piece of paper and shoved it, along with a pen, in front
of Flash Watson.
“Already
spoke to Rocky. Known him for
years. It’s all okay with him and he’s
making a nice buck out of the deal, too.
Just sign this, Flash, so I can get outta here. It’s a temporary agreement until you sit down
with the team in Detroit next week.
We’ll work something out then.
And you can see clipped to it, there’s a check for $25,000 just to show
you that we’re serious and acting in good faith. Do we have a deal?”
“We
sure do,” a smiling Flash answered.
Turning to Coach Lindquist, he continued, “Man, change sure do
happen. Lotta change since what you wuz
tellin’ me a few minutes back, right, Coach?”
Lindquist
smiled and lit a cigar.
“Keep
in touch, Flash.”
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