What your view of sports and life would be if you had too many concussions
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention a few key facts about the ceremony in Canton last night.
First and foremost, congratulations to the eight people inducted last night. Seven of you deserved it. The names Eddie DeBartolo, Brett Favre, Kevin Greene, Marvin Harrison, Orlando Pace, Kenny Stabler, and Dick Stanfel all earned football immortality in one way or another.
Then, there’s Tony Dungy. Now, it’s official…nobody deserves to be in the Hall of Fame less than Dungy. For the longest time, the official position at Dubsism was that Joe Namath was the least deserving enshrinee; he’s only in the Hall of Fame for guaranteeing a Super Bowl win for the at-the-time upstart American Football League.
But at least Namath earned his ring. Dungy’s was handed to him because somehow he got matched against a worse play-off coach than himself. But that’s only the tip of the iceberg as to why he has no business being in Canton. It’s not like I haven’t addressed this before.
So, I wake up on Super Bowl Sunday morning to find out Tony Dungy was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame. That’s just fucking sad. I’m going to cut to the chase here. I’ve written my thoughts on Tony Dungy more than once; the things relevant to this discussion can be found here and here. I could take the easy way out and just make this post an exercise in block-quoting, but there’s some things I’ve said that with the passage of time need a bit of expansion.
The bottom line is that if the Pro Football Hall of Fame is for the honoring of greatness, then Tony Dungy has no business being there. Absolutely none.
You can explore the depths of my anti-Dungy argument here. Once you read that, you will understand the crux of my argument: Tony Dungy was inducted into the Football Hall of Fame for no other reason than he was the first black coach to win a Super Bowl. Comment all you want, but be sure you read the argument first; there’s specific and quantified points you’ll need to address.
Now, let’s talk about Brett Favre. The very first post on this blog was about the godawful scenario which manifested itself in Minnesota the day King Brett I ascended to his Viking throne. You can spend an afternoon going down the gopher-hole of stuff I wrote about Favre in Minnesota…the bottom line is it was all about trying to convince even the most phlegmatic Viking fans there was no fucking way they were going to win with King Brett I.
And they didn’t. I’ll admit, I took great joy in watching that Viking dream die that day on the floor of the Superdome. Some of the sweetest things in life: a caipirinha made with fresh lime and real Brazilian rum, corn-on-the-cob fresh from the garden, and the collective angst of Viking fans. Listening to Minneapolis sports radio that night was six-and-a-half hours of amplitude-modulated manna from heaven, and it only got better as the dejected throng of purple kept drowning their sorrows in case after case of Grain Belt beer.
“Those Saints are cheaters!” they cried. “”All a bunch of dirty players!” became a common refrain. Naturally, in usual Viking fan tradition, they completely ignored crucial facts like FIVE TURNOVERS and TWELVE MEN IN THE FUCKING HUDDLE. Once you boil it all down, the Vikes fell short once again, but this time I was there to say “I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO!”
How could I have known? Am I some sort of psychic? Do I have an actual working crystal ball? No…I can read, that’s all.
Before you get the idea this is about trashing Brett Farve…it isn’t. King Brett I is one of the all-time great quarterbacks; there really isn’t much denying that. It’s just he was such a wonderful vehicle for illustrating six decades of Viking futility.
Lastly, and most importantly…nothing the Pro football Hall of Fame does is legitimate until Jerry Kramer is inducted. Do you hear me, Canton? NOTHING!