Football season is right around the corner, and I can’t say that I’m really looking forward to it. Diana is, because she’s got Amazians Troy Polamalu and Hines Ward on her team, and I’ve got, let’s see…a suicidal wide receiver and an overrated quarterback whose name sounds like a key-rappy rib joint.
Mostly I’m bummed about the upcoming football season, however, because of Michael Vick. In court papers filed today, Vick admitted to dogkilling, saying that “‘collective efforts’ by him and two others caused the deaths of at least six dogs.” And here are some recent headlines regarding his case:
Since we love disgracing people, this should be fun for us, right?
Even Vick’s estranged father, Michael Boddie, with whom Vick hasn’t spoken in 22 years, tried to get on this shameful gravy-train wreck, telling the Washington Post:
“Nobody dragged him. My son has a fascination with animals anyway. He’s a natural dog lover. In our neighborhood in the projects, little boys would get dogs to chase cats in the lumberyard. The big thing with little boys, [they'd] get a dog and sic ‘em on the cats. That’s what they’d do for fun . . . Yeah, [Vick] did that as a kid.”
Speaking of children, what this whole mess brings up for me is how I felt as a kid, when I first learned to love football. I’ve worked hard not to feel this way, because it’s irrational and unfair, but I can’t help it.
I want superstar athletes to be role models. I want their lives to be as flawless as their game. I want them to be heroes. And they’re not.
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