with W. Heard

After thousands of years of societal progress, we’re still pretty simple. We still like shiny things (men: rims, women: jewelry). We still like imbecilic comedies (“Jackass 3-D” made $50 million? Really?). We still love the trifles and debauchery of other people (The Real Jersey Shores of Atlanta… or whatever that God-awful show is called). Basically, we’re still ancient Romans. We fancy ourselves as advanced and philosophical, but nothing gets us riled up like going to the gladiator pit.

Our gladiator pit is the NFL.

We cheer the winners and they get the spoils of war: fame, riches, women, shiny things. The losers are forgotten (well, to be fair, they get riches, women, and shiny things, too…). Go out there and make me forget that I have to go to work tomorrow (or worse, that I have to look for work tomorrow). That’s what we tell them. Run fast. Jump high. Throw long. Hit hard. Do it all. Then, do it again. That’s what we tell them.

And so they did. They kept running faster, jumping higher, throwing longer, and hitting harder. And we loved them for it (once a week, at least). No one cared how they managed to keep getting stronger, faster, better. We just loved the whiz-bang and the whoosh-pow!

We’re still pretty simple.

Well, now it’s reaching the breaking point. Literally. Players are getting broken. The “concern” started in full force last season when the league suddenly acknowledged that getting your head knocked on a regular basis for several years could cause brain damage down the road. These are probably the same people that don’t want to acknowledge that ice melts until they see it dissolving in a hot frying pan.

The “concern” reached a fever pitch this past week when about 1/3 of the league looked like Michael Spinks after a run-in with Mike Tyson. “Bloody Sunday” took on a whole new meaning on October 17, 2010. I get the feeling the league was asking itself, “How did we get here? What’s happening to the players?”

Maybe they’re pretty simple, too.

The cover boy for last week’s carnage has been Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker James Harrison. He didn’t have the worst hit (somehow, that occurred between two “little” guys, Dunta Robinson and DeSean Jackson). But, he did have two hits and got fined the most money, $75,000. Guess he won’t be able to buy that sixth Mercedes this year. Afterwards, he threatened to retire since he won’t be able to hit like he wants to.

He’s pretty simple, too.

Actually, I’m glad this happened to Harrison. The way I see it, he’s the embodiment of what’s really the problem with the NFL (on the field). I’m sure we all remember his memorable 90-something yard interception return during the Superbowl a couple of years ago. He caught the ball and took off like Usain Bolt, even though he had about 93 Arizona Cardinals hanging off of him. Speedy Larry Fitzgerald could barely catch him. Let me sum that up: A linebacker was barely caught by a wide receiver over an almost 100 yard distance, while breaking tackles. That, my friends, is not normal. If I were a journalist, I wouldn’t be able to throw out wild accusations. But, I ‘m not. So I’ll state the obvious: James Harrison is on steroids. And various other stuff, too. His neck is the size of my leg, his leg is the size of my waist, and his chest is the size of my car. Sorry… that’s not normal.

The league is full of James Harrisons. And they’re going to kill each other. “Old School” analysts are screaming about how the game is getting “soft” and how there are too many rules limiting the defense. Well, the NFL pretty much has two options for making the game safer: enforce stricter rules on the field, or enforce a stricter banned substance policy.

No one talked about steroids in baseball until someone the media didn’t like very much (Barry Bonds) started obliterating records. By then, it was too late. Steroids were everywhere. They HAD to be everywhere. We loved the whiz-bang of 800 foot homeruns and the whoosh-pow of 128 mph strike-outs.  Stolen bases? Bunts? Sacrifice flies? Who needs that? We want to be entertained.

We’re pretty simple.

And here we are with the NFL. Baseball has been demonized for turning a blind eye to steroid use, but the NFL has gotten a free pass. Now, we have 275 lb quarterbacks and linemen that run like gazelles. And that’s fun to watch. Until they actually run into each other. Then… it’s kinda disturbing. Isn’t it? Are we that blood-thirsty? Do we really enjoy jaw-breaking collisions? Do we crave Jacked Up moments? Do we really need more?

Are we not entertained??!!

Honestly, it doesn’t matter. We don’t hold the power. We don’t make the decisions. New rules or no new rules, we will tune in. But the NFL needs to consider its labor force. They can’t claim to care about safety and then continue to allow rabid, ‘roided up James Harrisons to smash each other. And they can’t ask them to do it for two more games a year than they do now. That’s just more injuries. More concussions. More knockouts. More Bloody Sundays. Or, maybe they can. After all, we’ll keep watching.

We’re pretty simple.