The Dead Zone
There are only two infamous rivers that flow north, the most famous of which is the
Nile. The other river has been the life blood that pumps through my veins,
offering historic panoramic views hidden throughout its depth. It
direction of flow is guaranteed, as it is flanked by an esker running the full
length of the state, seen like the great wall of china. The magnificent aqueduct
of stone, that
carried the infamous Clinton's Ditch over it, was built upon the hands of an Irish
Immigrant Song, is now history laying obscured. The songs of a flanking Mill
Run, of the
mighty Flour City, that churned the husks of bread for the early nation are
still alive today. The
river features three gorges, one an immense escarpment, hidden and made extinct
by the last ice age, flanked by an untouched forest of small lakes and eskers.
Many miles to the west, a separate infant lower gorge, traversed by its new
path, contains three picturesque
lower falls at one end and an upper region, at the opposite end, that is known
as the Grand Canyon of the east. This canyon contains three impressive
falls of its own guarded by a high hydroelectric dam. This particular river
also contains a dead zone ... a place that has always haunted me with it lore
... where nothing lives, knowing that this scared region, which is hidden from
view, may contain within it a lore of wealth. It is this region, this dead
zone, that stirs within me this day, as there was never a purpose for this
region, and its history. That is ... until this
day.
In studying the art of war, there are many axioms that transcend history that
have been studied by the greatest minds in history. There is one axiom
that incessantly rings through my mind ... there is no greater spirit, no
greater warrior than one that finds itself standing firmly upon the field of
death. It is this Dead Zone, where true Beserker
Rage and Fury spawns. On their travels, toward that fifth
championship, and now sixth, that passed through our dome, it could have all
been derailed on that day with a "Were-Bear" step closer to
Odin. Too many ... the wretched of this league ... that were once clearly
in our rear view mirror ... have gone on to pass us by.
Sickened!
Peer deeply into the
future, and there are two clear paths that even the uninitiated see lying before
us. One is strewn with a field of Walking Dead. As you walked the
streets of Cleveland, on that cold fall day, these eyes of despair could not be
mistaken. Their very souls had been ripped from their bodies only to be
soiled upon with insult of a long awaited displaced championship. Does
this Dead Zone approach?
The never ending insults, the latest of which is Bud Grant being labeled #1, as
to have never won an NFL championship, where revisionist history by the NFL
network, plays its role and takes its toll. Those striving to breath free
must be put down before us at every opportunity. What is
now Super Bowl I through IV was at the time the World Championship of American
Football. These revisionist Super Bowls were not NFL Championships as
there were two separate leagues.
January 4, 1970 was an NFL Championship won by Bud Grant's team, something that
can never be taken from him, and no one says
boo to the NFL network's blunder and insult. The next time Len Dawson
states, maybe we were just a better team (on that January 1970 day) ... ask Mr.
Leonard about the 27-10 beat down that he, and his team took on opening day of
the 1970 season up in Minnesota. It was on that day when our warriors were
allowed to play Minnesota Viking football rather than having to execute some
obscure plan that didn't fit our mold. Maybe the reminder of this physical
beating will finally take that smirk
off old Leonard's face. By the way, this bit of cellulose ranks very highly on my list of Viking
greatest games ... a day Mr. Leonard would soon like to forget. An
off-season full of Stram's inflaming commentary to stir the cauldron of regret
and tug at the souls of the faithful. Maybe you weren't the best team on
that day!
Now NFL films, which had officially closed the book on Bret Farve, lists his bio
epitaph stating that he's only won one championship (1996 season) in his illustrious
career, something that probably gnaws at his very soul to this day. Bret
is now staring directly into the death of his career ... only this time, if he
chooses to do so, it will be on his terms ... untethered ... free of his
indentured servitude. At this stage, Bret knows that he can be no savior,
only the seasoned captain, on his final voyage, to maybe help guide us through
the cracking thunder of an immense squall. What is his purpose ... could
it be to plant the seed from the death of his yarn of legend. How would
this tale of lore stack up to a couple of lousy worthless
coins.
Now combine the final word on Bret,
with the stench of Elway's, "No one has ever gone out on top" jaundra,
that derailed our Moss-um 98 season, only then to be passed by by lowly 99
Ram's, 2000 Browns (and signal cheating 41-0 Giant's), and 01 laughing stock Buc's.
Still waiting ... still waiting!
There is a debt to be paid that is long over due that balances on the precipice
of a Berserker
Nation. Odin ... Odin! Sway upon Viking
winds.
Yes! When you strap
on those horn, be sure to look deeply down as what pushes back upward upon your
feet ... where your find yourself ... you're deep into that hurt locker.
Regardless of Bret's choice, Childress will find himself deep in that locker
too. Only a "Were-Man", and the lament of the truly insane
... have a chance to escape the DEAD ZONE!
They fight they way they
do because they have no expectation and no chance of escape, because they are in
the dead zone ... The Art of War! For many ... this can only be true!
The Viking Ghost
Writer
MyVikingBlood.com
Date: July 16, 2009