Uh-oh!...What now?

Twenty three years of labor peace - Pffft - gone! For twenty three years that golden goose has been getting plumper and juicier. This is no stringy free range goose, this is a butterball goose, corn fed, Swedish massaged, hand carried from the feeder to the pooper, seriously pampered. And now, not only does it have an appointment with the chopping block, there are two different sides claiming ownership and the right to slice up that golden goose.

Set that goose on a scale and its weight is not measured in pounds, but in increments of greed. When last weighed, golden boy had hit the coveted Exxon mark, right above the Haliburton mark and just below the Mark Elliot Zuckerberg line. We're talking serious greed, the kind that makes a person forget their family, friends and Boyscout oaths.

What now? What do we as fans do now? Don't hold your breath, this could take longer than that (Unless you can hold your breath for six months or longer). For some of us, this is bordering on sickness, an addiction if you will. What are we going to do? Baseball isn't going to do it. Basketball is definitely not going to do it. Soccer? Oh hell no!

You see this is the problem, we LOVE the NFL. Well, maybe not the NFL, but professional football. And that is what the greedy parties are counting on, our addiction and/or love. Greedy bastards! Sure there is college football, if you like the less attractive, younger sister (Or, the less attractive, younger brother for you Momma), methadone to some of you. Sure, it will hold you over for a while, but what happens when you, or more likely I, snap? Not good.

Can you or I walk away from the sport? Just take a stroll out the door on a Sunday afternoon, get some exercise, spend time with loved ones, be productive members of society, and never look back at the sport that broke our heart? Hmmm...Can you quit heroin cold turkey? Maybe some of the strong ones. But what about us, shall we say... impulse challenged? Potato inclined? Movement stagnant?...specimens? What about us?

We now have six months to develop and nurture an ulcer, and the possibility of perforating it come mid September. And I assure you, developing the ulcer is going to be the fun part. The perforation will come on a dark Sunday with no other choice but to do chores, all the while struggling internally with which side to curse more fully, the players or the owners, neighbors watching as you stop raking leaves to gesticulate wildly and contort your face as you converse with ghosts. At that point loved ones will be gathering quietly and talking in whispers about an intervention of some sort. Just pray to almighty God they don't offer Soccer tickets.

What happens to BTSC? Bean will have to go back to clowning at birthday parties. Maryrose will have to go back to stripping in front of Walmart for senior ladies offering services without their dentures. Momma will have to...Well, she has that choir thing, so she may be okay. Others? Seaton Hall and Steelers? ESGB? The horror!

Did the Bastards think about this when they decided to fight for a few percent more in their paychecks? Not likely. Fans? F A N S? No, doesn't ring a bell. Oh, the people paying for all this, you mean the rabble, the masses, the consumers, the chumps. Now I know who you're talking about. Them.

Us, struggling with our dignity.

Both sides talk and posture about hurting the other side, but can either side be hurt as much as the fan, the only participant in this sporting triangle who does it purely for the love in their heart? The only way our voice can be heard is through silence, utter and total. Silence of the wallet, silence of the television tuner, silence of the ticket machine, all of it. This is not for the weak.

The good news is: the longer the labor unrest, the cleaner we will get. Forget that you were in front of the television in your underwear, hair uncombed with a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 six Sundays in a row. Forget that you had to explain to your six-year-old why you were growling at the t.v. Lay to rest that your spouse has a restraining order against you. Write and apology letter for defecating on Big Ben's front porch. You will slowly heal. And the more you heal, the more able you will be to resist the temptation when the owners and the players get done dividing up your money.

There is another world out there. It has light, and friends, and loved ones...Oh who am I kidding, there has got to be something that lets you sit in your man cave, drink beer, grunt, yell and swear that you love as much as watching three hundred pound men try to mash each other into applesuace, we just have to find it. If you say Cricket, you die.

Or maybe I'm making too big a deal out of this...Er, whatever.