Sports Talk Radio 3: Black Mass

Jim’s eyes fix on flickering images of himself as a kid. He gazes at himself, watching TV, idolizing Brett Favre, John Elway, Anthony Munoz, guys from that era.

He watches himself watch highlight footage of Elway’s helicopter dive in the Super Bowl and then sees himself, as a kid, jumping to his feet, in his bright orange Broncos pajamas, in his bedroom, screaming and punching at the air.

Jim then watches footage, grainy tape of his high school football days.

Like most kids, he originally wanted to be a quarterback, a gunslinger like Favre, but he had grown so big, so quickly, that by middle school, when he was already 6’0 and pushing 200 pounds, he’d been placed on the o-line, sent to the trenches.

And he loved it. He’d taken to the position, played guard, tackle, and relished the animalistic nature of it, the constant violence, and was exalted at being able to legally pummel, beat the shit out of other human beings.

With his size, tenacity, and smarts, he’d dominate, light-up linebackers, lay d-lineman on their backs. Bashing, beating back the opposition, he’d feel like a lion dominating the Sahara, like a big rig in a demolition derby.

Yes, sure, it was dirty, thankless work, but knowing he was part of the gears that made the offense run, seeing his quarterback’s jersey sparkling clean or getting a fist-bump from a running back after a big gain, and most importantly, winning games, cashing big checks, that was all the affirmation, adulation he’d ever needed.

Jim views highlight reels of his college and pro years, his best blocks, his teams’ most notable victories, then sees himself slapping five with his teammates. He’s entranced with his image, himself in the prime of his life. Himself, a specimen of peak human ability. Himself, alive and strong, in his uniform, pads and cleats.

Then he watches himself morph back into an 11-year-old child.

He’s in his backyard, running suicide sprints, and then he sees himself back in his bedroom, with his football posters, football pictures cut from newspapers and magazines covering every inch of the walls. His eyes are glued to a tiny TV on his writing desk. He’s in a Favre jersey and black sweatpants and is screaming at a Packers’ game, cheering on Favre. He’s smiling, ear to ear, and the tiny screen on his desk zooms forth, enlarges to cover the wall.

The picture shows Lambeau Field, the frozen tundra. Favre, under center, has a taut neck, mischievous smirk, and a canny, calculating shrewdness flickering in his eyes. Flurries, strands of snow frame him like a snow globe. Swinging his head, from side to side, he barks the pre-snap call, then summons the ball.

Dropping back, Favre cocks his throwing arm, as if angling a missile launcher, and unlooses a buckshot of leather, the ball exploding from his hand, ascending in a perfect spiral, the ball gliding beautifully through the snow, rising and falling like a parabola.

The precision-guided pigskin then lands, strikes a wide-open Andre Rison, right on his front numbers. Rison, legs pumping, moving like twin pistons, gallops valiantly across the goal line, then tosses the TD ball to a bright-eyed, ruddy-faced kid in the crowd...

Yeah, the kids are alright...

But not the “fans.” The fans’ images return. The buffoons. The middle-aged suburban, fat baldies. Those guys are scum, Jim thinks. And they’ll turn on you in an instant. They don’t care if you’re in the hospital, pissing blood. They just want to be entertained.

Raw video footage runs of a time when a young wide receiver on his team took a scary spill, diving for a ball and landing, vertically, piledriving into the turf, injuring his neck.

The dude lies crumpled, motionless on the field, and Jim is jogging over to lend him a hand, but is stopped by the coaching staff, who are panicked, faces masked in terror.