Media Day: Hunting Pink October

Do you, too, find the pink tsunami that engulfs the National Football League each October vaguely annoying, but feel sort of guilty about your unease?

After all, who could be against such a humanitarian gesture as grand as altering the NFL’s otherwise sacrosanct uniform code in order to promote awareness of an insidious disease that shortens the lives of millions of Americans? Only someone who harbors a dark inner core of misogyny, or closeted homophobia. Maybe both.

Well, you can stop feeling bad about the relief that comes with November, when the fashion nightmare of combining pink with the mucho macho colors that normally dominate uniforms finally subsides.

Turns out the whole thing is a massive and cynical fraud perpetrated by the robber barons who bring you your primary source of entertainment each autumn Sunday and Monday night, abetted by the media hordes who serve as their advance army.

Pink October has become an accepted annual tradition, as has the media flock’s praise of the league – and by extension itself – for such selfless nobility.

What a bunch of crap.

Erin Gloria Ryan of Jezebel, the sister site of Deadspin, diluted the homogenous praise of Big Football’s observation of Breast Cancer Awareness Month this week with a piece subtly headlined “The NFL’s Campaign Against Breast Cancer Is a Total Scam.”

Seems only 5 percent of the proceeds from the pink-tinged jerseys, hats, earrings and other officially licensed schwag sold by the NFL each year winds up going to the American Cancer Society, with 70 percent of that amount getting spent on actual breast-cancer research:

So, if you spend $10 on pink stink from the NFL, only about 35 cents is going to finding a cure for breast cancer. And $4.50 goes right back to the NFL, where I like to imagine that it's spent on gas for a Lake Minnetonka pleasure cruise. For the cure.

Such skimming is reprehensible enough, especially considering that the NFL is little more than a sporting cartel consisting of men wealthy enough to qualify for millions of dollars in public subsidies across the country in the form of stadium bonds and other goodies (Fun Fact: Buffalo Bills owner Ralph Wilson, who turned 94 Wednesday, receives $7 million annually from NewYork State and Erie County for “stadium operating and capital improvement costs”).

You might think profiting from the general public’s grief and good intentions is plenty reprehensible on its own. But wait – there’s more. Ms. Ryan, back to you:

But what about awareness?! Surely the NFL is helping keep people aware and alert and vigilant that at any moment, breast cancer could be lurking around a corner in a dark alley waiting with a hot pink switchblade to steal your purse and boobs. The thing about awareness is that it's all but impossible to quantify — and everyone knows about breast cancer. If you asked 100 people if they're aware that breast cancer is a thing and that it's almost impossible to predict and most often affects women, I'd bet that most of them would nod before slowly backing away from you. Breast cancer awareness is so ubiquitous that if deadly diseases attended the same high school, breast cancer would probably be voted prom queen. The "awareness" that comes from the NFL's sales of pink branded items doesn't justify the extent to which the league is taking advantage of consumers' good intentions to pad their wallets. Even if no NFL player ever touched another pink thing again, Americans would go right on being aware of the disease. Unless the Buffalo Jills or New Orleans Saintsations cheerleaders are holding up signs that show women how to give themselves breast self-exams or tickets come with 5 page printouts of places low income women can obtain breast health screening for low or no cost, the type of awareness the NFL is providing is useless, vague garbage.

Of course, when it comes to monolithic entities like the NFL, there’s not a lot you can do about it. Except maybe, if you want more of your charitable giving to benefit the actual charity involved, donate it directly to the American Cancer Society itself. Write Roger Goodell a strongly worded letter. And adjust your television’s settings to monochrome while watching pro football for the rest of the month.

APPARENTLY, THE BILLS have not yet given Shawne Merriman enough of their money.

With free-agent defensive end Mark Anderson out after undergoing knee surgery, Buffalo re-signed the 2005 NFL Defensive Rookie of the Year on Monday. After signing with Buffalo in the middle of the 2010 season, Merriman was paid $9.95 million before being released in August. During that time, a balky Achilles tendon limited him to five games and a solitary quarterback sack, making Mario Williams appear to be an absolute bargain in comparison.

 

At least Buddy Nix didn’t throw another seven-figure contract extension at him, signing the linebacker-turned-defensive end to a one-year deal reportedly worth $700,000.

ONE CHRISTMAS when I was 11 or 12, we were exchanging gifts with our extended family. This was not cause for much excitement in those pre-teen years, since presents from aunts and uncles at that age invariably meant clothes. Yawn.

My hopes rose a bit when my Aunt Shirley handed me my gift from her and Uncle Lloyd – a book.

Certainly, the possibility for disappointment still existed. But Aunt Shirley had clearly learned of my burgeoning love of football from Mom, because I tore off the wrapping paper to expose a hardcover edition of “Even Big Guys Cry,” the autobiography of Alex Karras.

Just as clearly, Aunt Shirley had not opened this book before purchasing it.

It was far from the typical, ghost-written athletic hagiography. Sure, there were sections dealing with Karras’ time as one of the most dominant interior linemen in the game’s history, as well as his transition to actor and Monday Night Football comedian.

But Karras, who died last week at 77, also talked about watching his father die when he was a kid in Gary, Indiana. And struggling to find his place in the world surrounded by bigger, more athletic brothers, two of whom also later played in the NFL. And getting laid on the steps of the Parthenon. And drunkenly riding with an even drunker Bobby Layne at the wheel after a night of curfew-busting with the legendary Detroit Lions quarterback. And getting suspended for a full season, along with Green Bay’s Paul Hornung, for betting on games.

I was too young to have seen Karras play or hear him on Monday Night Football and too old to have caught much of his acting on "Webster." So, to me, Alex Karras is Mongo in "Blazing Saddles" and, moreover, the guy who wrote "Even Big Guys Cry."

It was honest, profane, and very, very funny. I had never read anything like it about anything, much less football, which at that point was the dominant force in my life. Along with “Ball Four,” Jim Bouton’s epic chronicle about a pitcher’s waning life in the major leagues, and “The Great Shark Hunt,” a collection of Hunter S. Thompson’s magazine pieces from the 1960s and ‘70s, Karras’ memoir was one of the seminal literary influences of my pre-adolescence, a book that helped form my view of sports, popular culture and the world. Not to mention my sense of humor.

So, RIP, Alex. And thank you. I think.