Richard Spencer, the neonationalist guy who first used the phrase “alt-right,” recently weighed in on the Super Bowl and his glorious team, the New England Patriots. Many people I know spoke similar sentiments. But.
Spencer commented that the Patriots victory was “a win for the NFL’s whitest team.” Quarterback Tom Brady, according to Dick, was “an Aryan avatar.” And noted evolutionary reject David Duke, formerly of the KKK, now running for office in Louisiana, tweeted: “Can White people celebrate that the greatest football player in history is White and an open Trump supporter?”
Isn’t the question obvious? Don’t you think that a lot of drunken white guys openly root for players according to race? Don’t you think that March Madness will bring out the same sentiments?
Sport, as it exists today, is about well-paid gladiators. Black players get the “Oprah” exemption, the one where she is “good colored,” and loveable. But love them off the field, away from the TV screen? Are you fucking kidding me?
I had a Philippina landlord in Chicago who calmly told me she was white—General McArthur had told her people that, during the Great War. And from her lofty perch as a White person, she denigrated Blacks and Hispanics with rapier-like precision. Except. . . she loved Oprah. This was her exact quote: “Oprah, she white, not like those blacks.”
All black players in the NFL, the NBA, the NHL, in my humble opinion, should refuse to play for billionaire owners who espouse nationalism. All black college athletes should have to take a course on white nationalism, just so they become gladiators with eyes wide open.
I weaned myself off of football this year, so I assume I’m in the 1% on the issue of the old pigskin. This wasn’t moral high ground by any means. I just became sick of the spectacle. As a child, I heard my dad and others talk about “black bucks,” like Jim Brown and Bob Gibson. Remember that satanic commentator Jimmy the Greek, as he spoke openly about the breeding of blacks for the benefit of sport?
My dad, like most dads, would refer to black baseball players as a credit to their race. I absorbed this wisdom. But then I became educated and learned that there was no such thing as “race.” The term was coined somewhere in the old British Empire, over tea. It had no actual meaning.
Now we know that every last one of us comes from one of eight tribes in Africa several hundred thousand years ago, that color is but a function of evolution, that Icelandic people didn’t need melanin, and over time they turned as white as driven snow.
Aryan. Black. Negro. White. Asian. Yellow. These are mere words, handy for the unwashed when they need somebody to hate. The President of the United States, the puppet of Bannon and Spencer, found gold in that mine, and here we are. Science and knowledge are out. Creationism, that oxymoron of choice for witch burners, jingoists, politicians and snake oil salesmen, is one of Kellyanne Conway’s alternative facts and a fervent belief of our Secretary of Education. Betsy DeVos, mind, has a dunce cap up her ass.
Hell, let’s lose the stadiums, and everybody let’s get violent. Tom Brady won’t profit from these free-for-alls, poor Aryan avatar. Holding footballs won’t protect him when the masses eat the rich.
What would Sweeny Todd and his pie making friend Mrs. Lovett make of Trump steak? “Too fatty, my dear.” But Tom Brady, as Archie Bunker would say, “is cherce.”