A Little Bit of Light

It is ugly. It is a billion-dollar behemoth that rolls, unimpeded, over everything. A cash spigot that seemingly will not be turned off. It fills cup after cup of generational wealth for all who can crowd close enough.

Those lucky souls consume multi-million-dollar homes and Lamborghini SUVs like you and I do water and bagels. In this exalted income bracket, vast, unimaginable amounts of money become de rigueur, their new normal.

Money can buy anything. And everything.

With the exception of happiness.

We have only to consider the parade of misshapen personalities that have emerged in the first half of this NFL season: Jon Gruden, Henry Ruggs III, Aaron Rodgers, Odell Beckham, Jr. and now, Dalvin Cook. Despite the ocean of riches offered them and the bounty of benefits that accompanies being rich and famous, it's just not enough.

Beauty, it is said, is skin-deep. But ugly goes all the way to the bone.

The riches aren't enough to wash away their hatred or their arrogance. Ditto their selfishness. The immersion course in entitlement and impunity works so very, very well.

But there is a break in the display of racism, sexism, battery and the flaunting of privilege. There are people who, despite the mountains of cash and (in this case at least) less-than-ideal professional circumstances, manage to act like grown-ups.

I speak of former Detroit Lions quarterback Matthew Stafford.

I don't know him. I don't even live in Detroit. But even without close-in access to either the team or Detroit's media, will hazard the opinion that Stafford is an okay guy. He persevered for a dozen years with mostly not-so-great Lion teams, rarely throwing an undue number of interceptions much less petulant, trade-me-now tantrums.

In a sea of ineptness and futility, Stafford was a island of ability. A player who produced at a high level regardless of whomever he was surrounded with.

So I was happy when I learned he'd been traded to the Los Angeles Rams. If anyone deserved a shot with a contender, it was (and is) Stafford. And even with my moderate interest in professional football, can see he is making the most of it.

As of this writing, Stafford stands as the highest-rated quarterback in the NFL. Not Patrick Mahomes. Not Tom Brady. Not (eyeroll) Aaron Rodgers. Nope. It's the dude from Detroit. Playing with actual NFL-quality personnel, Stafford has the Rams in the thick of the highly-competitive race for the NFC bye.

I'm no Rams fan, but am thrilled that Stafford has at last been given a platform from which to shine. With a multitude of character-free personalities being handed a disproportionate amount of life's riches, it is a relief to see a fully-developed, mature human being get some.

Rock it, Matthew.

America's Hottest New Party Game: Pin the Quarterback on the Bear

Depending on your definition, professional sports may exist solely to entertain you. Wins? Losses? A three-dimensional, living testament to persistence and an inspirational example of dedication and desire?

Not so much. Provided you're able to momentarily forget about the treadmill to oblivion that is your job, call it mission accomplished. And on that front, the Chicago Bears are wildly successful.

The spectacular mismanagement that has put the Bears in their current position is technically unimportant. What matters is that it's entertaining!

Just listen as Bears fans clutch hope to their breast while a succession of sugar plum fairies dances across their collective imagination: Deshaun Watson. Matthew Stafford. Carson Wentz. And most recently, Russell Wilson.

None of them had (or has) a snowball's chance in Phoenix of ever appearing in a Bears uniform, but that has never stood (or stands) in the way of a good fantasy (aided and abetted by the local media).

But the ugly reality is that the Bears are crippled. They have no cap space. No storehouse of superfluous first-round picks. GM Ryan Pace and head coach Matt Nagy might be the only ones to realize it, but the stay of execution issued by chairman George McCaskey last winter isn't as gracious as it appears.

They have a single offseason to find a ready, willing and able quarterback, revamp an offensive line that—on its very best day—is mediocre and import some wide receivers worthy of the name, all while soothing the ruffled feathers of their presumptive franchise-tag nominee, Allen Robinson.

It's a tall order. Especially for two guys whose success could best be called sporadic.

But Stafford is a Los Angeles Ram. Wentz is an Indianapolis Colt. The Houston Texans have shown no sign of granting the frustrated Watson his wish and if it even needs to be said, Wilson is a very long way from being an ex-Seattle Seahawk.

Only the fans and media tied to the local franchise would be desperate-enough to even entertain the idea.

And if you're Andy Dalton, Ryan Fitzpatrick, Sam Darnold, Cam Newton, Jameis Winston or Marcus Mariota, why would you want to play for the Bears, anyway?

The print media has generated acres of coverage. The electronic media has consumed enough electricity to power a small nation for months. And it should be noted that out of that coverage have come two very salient observations.

One: given their decades-long inability to draft and develop a franchise quarterback, do the Bears have any idea how to properly assess candidates at the position?

And two: is a front office who equates collaboration with an end-of-the-rainbow destination instead of a required component in a functioning executive suite even qualified to lead a professional sports franchise? Much less a mom and pop grocery?

Not from here.

Ahh, but I'm just rabble. A bit player in the nameless and faceless throng. A cell in the teeming great unwashed. Or, to paraphrase Teddy Roosevelt, the fan in the arena. 

Fair-weather follower that I am, I can cackle with delight at a franchise who more often than not is its own worst enemy.

Frustrating? Yeah. Entertaining? As fuck.

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