For starters, this isn't that game where, "There is no tomorrow." There is no next year. The owners want a lockout. They're not rich enough. They get tax breaks, they run a monopoly -- almost every one inherited the team from DaDa, and they sell brutality like ice cream on a stick. They ignored 40 years of head injuries, a worse record than the cigarette industry, while marketing skull-fracturing hits they now fine players for dishing out, along with holier-than-thou sermons that seem to channel speeches made by the uniformed tin gods on "Cops."
They want an 18-game season, a four-month gauntlet of violence that, by comparison, makes the movie "Rollerball" inconsequential. They want regulated salaries. They are the type of communists that give Stalin a bad name. They sit in garage-size offices, surrounded by trophies, like adolescent girls who have collected stuffed animals, and if they don't get their way, they pull teams from cities or just lock the doors.
They are the most evil lugs to ever run American sports. They make MLB owners look good -- and to date, the only folks able to do that were the dictators of OPEC.
So here is what we need tomorrow:
1. Snow. Texas closed schools this week, buried... under 1 to 3 inches. Let them experience Syracuse -- now into its 120th inch for the season. Let those baby-boomer Viagra cowboys get out with shovels and see why so many people each year fall over from heart attacks.
2. Blackout. Not 15 minutes. Hours. Bring it on. Second quarter. During a play. Let the networks fill with the Terry-Howie Laughing Brigade, adding new meaning to the word "jockularity," trying to hold their audience for the next $1 billion commercial, until the only option is a replayed Charlie Sheen romp.
3. Drunken riot. In other words, business as usual.
4. Fire. Don't want anybody hurt. But I'd love to see the Jones Dome burn to the ground. Gone. Good riddance. Mercy me: The owners would have to rethink that wish list. Horror! Eighteen games... played outdoors!
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