If you’re among those unfortunates (deplorables?) who decided not to plunk down more than $3,000 for a nosebleed-inducing spot at today’s game in Houston, take heed: “Congratulations on having more sense than money.”
Tomorrow will be no different than any other Atlanta Monday: Traffic that’ll make you wear down your choppers with all that gnashing; kids trying to get out of heading for the bus, faking an illness that might be blamed on one-too-many nachos; lines at Hartsfield Jackson that’ll make you consider that a job without travel might mean you have found a cure for hypertension.
Taking one giant step back, tomorrow may be the Christmas when you got everything on your list. Then again, and I really hope we can avoid this, it could be like an IRS audit, root canal and having to buy a new transmission, all rolled into one little ball.
Here’s hoping, by halftime, we’re not mumbling incoherently, something that sounds like: “Houston, we have a problem.”
History tells us that we’re not real good at occupying front and center. All those playoff appearances by the Braves netted one solitary World Series championship. In 1995. As in 22 years ago.
It gets worse: the Hawks: zilch. UGA and Tech were once the best in the land. It seems like it was before “talkies.” Think early ’80s and ’90s, respectively.
But the Falcons logo could be the poster child for flailing futility. Born in 1966, our birds have made a mess of things more times than they’ve shined. One trip to the Super Bowl in 1999, the city poised to celebrate a win over the Falcons. Then…
To swipe one from Lee Corso: “Not so fast!”
We hit the sack that Saturday night, visions of sugarplums and Dirty Birds dancing in our heads, only to find out that defensive back Eugene Robinson had an interesting way of celebrating his Athletes in Action/Bart Starr Award for the player who exemplifies outstanding character and leadership in the home and community.
We wince, remembering Robinson getting arrested for trying to share his good fortune with an undercover Miami vice cop. It was time for Don Meredith to croon “Turn out the Lights, the Party’s over.”
The birds got smashed and a lot of fans did the same.
Hold on here! I’m conjuring up memories of Fred Flintstone’s buddy, Bad Luck Schleprock, and Eeyore all rolled into one rapidly deflating ball.
Since that last Super debacle, we’ve become more big time, more sophisticated. Why, we’ve grown so much that we have the insight to abandon functional, fairly new stadiums and move to new digs.
If appearing to have enough jack to light cigars with $100 bills is a sign of affluence, local taxpayers look to be loaded. Or maybe we’re set up for more despair, with fans ultimately lining pockets of millionaires while lining up to pay $10 for a beer.
But that’s future fodder for local sports talk radio. Let’s deal with today. And it scares me more than seeing nude photos of Rosie O’Donnell when I make this prediction. And before you take pity, I readily admit to making this pick using my heart, not my noggin.
You have to promise that no one will set cars afire and break windows tonight. Don’t get so soused that you burn tomorrow morning’s biscuits.
The Falcons will win a close one. And here’s why:
• The last time ATL won the NFC championship in Minnesota, Gary Anderson hadn’t missed a field goal all year is what now-deceased buddy,
Tom Pollack, hollered, trying to be heard over the din of the purple-and-gold crazy house. “He’s due,” was my retort. He missed and our “Andersen,” as in Morten, kicked the Vikings to the curb and sent us to Miami.
• Tom Brady embodies greatness. He’s “wicked awesome,” as the Beantowners are often saying. Matt Ryan is pretty good, too, hotter than an Atlanta swimming pool in July. Brady has won the big prize, Ryan hasn’t even had a sniff at a chance to get the Lombardi trophy.
• We have “Nature Boy” Ric Flair blasting away all over Facebook why the Falcons will win, embodying professional wrestling balderdash by calling Julio Jones “the greatest receiver of all-time.” This is the perfect stage for Julio to make good on that one.
• In New England, a guy who has a hard time crossing the street, is “wicked retaaaded.” We’re much kinder and simpler here, taking special needs insults out of play. We’d say: “Ol’ Leroy’s blew up his shed again. He’s such a dumbass.” We’re nicer.
• Never mind the insults about the way we speak, we’ve got a score to settle with people “up there” for burning our city to the ground. We’ve got the Fox, Lake Lanier, Spaghetti Junction, Clark Howard, and so much more. We’re ready, with wings, cheese dip, pizza, etc. Maybe even enough food to feed any teenagers who drop by.
We’re darned fine folks here in my adopted home.
Mike Tasos’ column is published every other Sunday. He thinks the Falcons should win this for Tom Pollack, and all the other poor souls who have waited 50 years. Forget a dynasty. We’ll be happy with one. Comments can be sent to [email protected]