I don’t want to hear how the tragedy involving Jovan Belcher really puts things in perspective.
I don’t want to see all the Chiefs players wearing No. 59 decals on their helmets.
I don’t want to observe a moment of silence before kickoff. I don’t want to read a statement from NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell sending “all of our thoughts and prayers to the families.” I don’t want to hear how, after such a nightmare, Kansas City fans needed a game to heal, or to prove that life goes on. After the game, I don’t want to hear a player—not one fucking player—talk about Jovan looking down on us today; how he’s probably cheering from a cloud alongside Joe Delaney and Derrick Thomas.
I don’t want to hear it.
Any.
Of.
It.
Like you, I’m sickened by what happened today. It’s an absolute nightmare; disturbing and heartbreaking and awful. I do, in fact, hurt for the families of Belcher and Kasandra Perkins, his 22-year-old girlfriend. Mostly, I can’t help but think about their 3-month-old daughter—now parentless.
That said, I don’t need the cliche bullshit that comes with sports; the whole game-must-go-on nonsense that comfortably coats us like a warm blanket.
Fact: The game doesn’t have to go on and, frankly, shouldn’t go on. I mean, is this a joke? One day after a beyond-comprehension murder-suicide involving a Kansas City player, the Chiefs and Panthers are going to … take the field. Why? For what? Because the Kansas City players—many of whom have been programed throughout their lives to play through all circumstances—say it’s OK? Because the NFL needs to sell beers? Because fans are bored?
It’s disgusting, and tasteless, and offensive.
And pathetic.
