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Additional Minnesota Viking Commentary

Standing at the Door
Since 1965, this has never ever happened to me before.  It's less than an hour before kick-off, watching the pre-game show alone, and I am crying.  This isn't your typical ... the tear comes to the eye ... it's an uncontrolled slobber knocker ... and its not due to any pre-game video, any commentary prose or any other worldly stimuli.  It was simply a man facing the final grains of sand of his own hour glass upon deaths row.  It was my final mile and their were no other shoes but my own.        

Now, he is made to wait at the door.  Awaiting his sign.  He waits at that door not knowing if he is to carry the additional weight of this useless hardware, or not.  He has no decision for us because it is not his decision to make.  He is made to wait, not because the die has not been cast ... it's because they chose to hold their secrets.  The Marino was slain by the Achilles however a simple ligament shall not bind this warrior ... it is only the wind within his lungs that holds true.  The revelation, just as there were no answers on that day for him, shall be made so easy on this day, that it will be as if he took his next breath.        

Hearing that the New Orleans Saints somehow deserved this more was as if history was being whitewashed before our very eyes ... for all time.  Of all the magnificent years that we firmly grasp upon, somehow it is the one that flies under the radar that gives us true focus.  In 99, in their first pre-season game, Trent Green blows out his knee.  The Ram's are instantly in everyone's rear view mirror and then I ask myself with an uneasy feeling and a lump in my throat, "How will this affect me"?  The answer comes only to soon.  A non-awarded 2-point conversion puts us 10 points away, making that final on-side kick opportunity moot.  With the 2, there was time enough to tie it up.  Without it ... death!  In that second half, we were un-stoppable ... we ran out of time.  That unfortunate fate, on that first pre-season game, gave rise to a barnstormer named Warner that paired unmercifully with an immortal named Falk.  Does that same chemistry result under the wire of Green ... maybe not.  The curse of the Bambino was for 86 years ... ladies and gentlemen ... brace yourself ... because we now tally at fifty.           

What if we had won it all?  Would we now be one step closer to being a Steel-headed butt-hole or a cow-poking douche bag?  Would we be known as the next in the line of cheatin' Patriarchs or the clone of the ever loud mouthed 9er fan.  As so eloquently uttered by Robin Williams in his portrayal in Moscow on the Hudson he said, "In Russia, the only thing that I could say that was mine was my misery.  I could hold it, I could caress it, it was my constant companion".    No ... I choose these shoes.

So what was the true cost upon the worlds stage to obtain that ultimate prize for the gladiators of the day.  For McCray it was $20,000.  For Hargrove it was $5,000.  Not much when compared to the billions entwined within the NFL.  It's called simple math.  After the third personal foul the call was absolutely clear .... EJECTION!  Who had the power to mute that call?  In attendance, did he relish the effect ... did he bathe within the glow of its omnipotence?   

What was lost on that day, and who actually paid that price ... the true overall cost?  For some, they might think that the Fleur-de-lis of 53 had waived their genitals into the face of the omnipotent one ... however, somehow, it all seems complicit.  No my friends ... that day ... it wasn't the faithful that had truly lost ... the loss was in its entirety.  The answer lies within perspective.  For all time, the Giants get to brandish a ring, however, on that day, they were quite a bit distant from being the best to the Bills.  Less than a yard separates NYG from an inglorious past ... not much to hang your hat upon.   Deal with that!  History records what it wants but what was the reality?  Look into my eye and you shall see the burning truth.  

On this particular day, in the Big-Easy, something was ripped from the edifice.  The league-wide fan was made to play Three Card Monte.  Saying they were upset is a bit of an understatement.  They had expected magic ... what they got was Jack!   As human beings we are compelled to record history ... we live for the story. Was it money & power that burned the prose.         

Now a player awaits.  Has his career been taken from him or does defiance of the gods solicit retribution?

There is only one certainty in life.  He who lives by the sword ... dies by the sword.  It's face doth not lie within the character forged of a Viking however it lies within the swift justice within the entrails of this league.  What you do unto the least of my brothers ... you do unto me.  There is much that is seen that cannot be covered by a political screen.  It wears many faces.  The worst however is in its dealings by not knowing when to expect its wrath.  Curse the day! 

Happy birthday ... my brother!

The Viking Ghost Writer
MyVikingBlood.org
Date: July 17, 2010

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