Thursday, January 11, 2007
How the Bengals indiscriminately ruined the holidays for everybody in Cincinnati.
(Written Tuesday, January 2, 2007)
It was like watching a disabled child reach for a stick of candy from a street vendor only to trip off the curb, fall into a muddy puddle, then get run over by a truck.
The Cincinnati Bengals football team presented the finale of this heart-wrenching, conspicuously feeble and sad performance for two weeks only during this holiday season, leaving most of the greater Cincinnati area at a loss for words, hope, self-worth and Who-Dey football for another eight months.
The Bengals had been the laughingstock of the National Football League for more than a decade before Marvin Lewis and the exciting Cincinnati offense resurrected the organization roughly four years ago. Times have been good since then, and Bengal fans have re-embraced this team as if it never embarrassed the city with a nationally-recognized loser-persona called "The Bungals."
Today, shouts of "Who Dey!" and Bengals garb dominate the city streets during fall Sundays as professional football unites Cincinnati's populous. From the city to the suburbs, the west side to the east side, the rich to the poor, the stupid to the smart, Cincinnati has been temporarily engulfed with pride and confidence. Parents and children wear matching Carson Palmer Jerseys. Families delegate different player jerseys to each member. Mom: Palmer; Dad: Chad Johnson; Oldest girl: T.J. Housmenzadeh; Boy: Justin Smith; Baby: Rudi Johnson.
The adoration and appreciation not only cross class, racial and gender lines. The mostly barren wall of a gay bar in Northside reads: Who Dey! (What was I doing at a gay bar? … Maybe you should be the journalist.)
With such universal support from such a desperate demographic, you would think the Bengals could take themselves seriously. Eight different players were arrested this year, and we accepted that. Chad Johnson changed his name to "Ocho Cinco," incidentally questioning our official language. We laughed it off. Chris Henry reminded us of ourselves at his age, throwing up out the window of moving vehicles. We shook our finger at him, trying desperately to conceal our laughter.
And what did it get us? A dramatic, seemingly game-tying drive melted away by a bad snap in the Denver snow. A missed 38-yard field goal the following week that eventually would have sent the scatterbrained, underachieving team to the playoffs.
Against Denver, most players did their part to lose. Against Pittsburgh (Oh God how we hate Pittsburgh and its ketchup-loving, stupid-accented, mill-working fans!) the organization seemed to slowly suck the life out of Cincinnati fans with no regard to our sex, age, class or holiday plans.
When the Bengals went 8-8 in 2003, we noticed the disabled child's interest in the shimmering stick of candy. We hoped he would go after it. When the team repeated the 8-8 record in 2004, the street vendor offered the candy to the eager, enthusiastic child. The child reached out during 2005, as far as he could, nearly grabbing the candy with an 11-5 record. That poor, poor child. How close he was to the elegant, tasty dream!
This season was a reminder that the world ain't fair, and that accidents still happen to those who don't deserve it. Perhaps clock-management was to blame for the strangely approached kick on Sunday. Maybe Shayne Graham applied too much chapstick before attempting the season-saving boot. Whatever the case, despite repeated opportunities to rescue the seemingly helpless child from that metaphoric mud puddle, the Bengals forced us to watch one of our weakest violently embarrassed and brutally killed. None of us could stop it from happening.
As one of my more-poetic friends put it, "We're all just a bunch of fucking losers."
Welcome to 2007 Cincinnati. Have a great year.
The Cincinnati Bengals football team presented the finale of this heart-wrenching, conspicuously feeble and sad performance for two weeks only during this holiday season, leaving most of the greater Cincinnati area at a loss for words, hope, self-worth and Who-Dey football for another eight months.
The Bengals had been the laughingstock of the National Football League for more than a decade before Marvin Lewis and the exciting Cincinnati offense resurrected the organization roughly four years ago. Times have been good since then, and Bengal fans have re-embraced this team as if it never embarrassed the city with a nationally-recognized loser-persona called "The Bungals."
Today, shouts of "Who Dey!" and Bengals garb dominate the city streets during fall Sundays as professional football unites Cincinnati's populous. From the city to the suburbs, the west side to the east side, the rich to the poor, the stupid to the smart, Cincinnati has been temporarily engulfed with pride and confidence. Parents and children wear matching Carson Palmer Jerseys. Families delegate different player jerseys to each member. Mom: Palmer; Dad: Chad Johnson; Oldest girl: T.J. Housmenzadeh; Boy: Justin Smith; Baby: Rudi Johnson.
The adoration and appreciation not only cross class, racial and gender lines. The mostly barren wall of a gay bar in Northside reads: Who Dey! (What was I doing at a gay bar? … Maybe you should be the journalist.)
With such universal support from such a desperate demographic, you would think the Bengals could take themselves seriously. Eight different players were arrested this year, and we accepted that. Chad Johnson changed his name to "Ocho Cinco," incidentally questioning our official language. We laughed it off. Chris Henry reminded us of ourselves at his age, throwing up out the window of moving vehicles. We shook our finger at him, trying desperately to conceal our laughter.
And what did it get us? A dramatic, seemingly game-tying drive melted away by a bad snap in the Denver snow. A missed 38-yard field goal the following week that eventually would have sent the scatterbrained, underachieving team to the playoffs.
Against Denver, most players did their part to lose. Against Pittsburgh (Oh God how we hate Pittsburgh and its ketchup-loving, stupid-accented, mill-working fans!) the organization seemed to slowly suck the life out of Cincinnati fans with no regard to our sex, age, class or holiday plans.
When the Bengals went 8-8 in 2003, we noticed the disabled child's interest in the shimmering stick of candy. We hoped he would go after it. When the team repeated the 8-8 record in 2004, the street vendor offered the candy to the eager, enthusiastic child. The child reached out during 2005, as far as he could, nearly grabbing the candy with an 11-5 record. That poor, poor child. How close he was to the elegant, tasty dream!
This season was a reminder that the world ain't fair, and that accidents still happen to those who don't deserve it. Perhaps clock-management was to blame for the strangely approached kick on Sunday. Maybe Shayne Graham applied too much chapstick before attempting the season-saving boot. Whatever the case, despite repeated opportunities to rescue the seemingly helpless child from that metaphoric mud puddle, the Bengals forced us to watch one of our weakest violently embarrassed and brutally killed. None of us could stop it from happening.
As one of my more-poetic friends put it, "We're all just a bunch of fucking losers."
Welcome to 2007 Cincinnati. Have a great year.
