by Brian   

        Dear Almostathletes readers,

        I need your help. 

        Someone out there needs to explain the infatuation with attending NFL training camp to me. I promise I’ll keep an open mind when you explain why hordes of people take a day off of work, regardless of whether said work includes a blue or white collar, don their favorite player’s jersey (fyi—I saw a dude with a Mike Mamula jersey in Cape May last weekend), brave whatever incessantly hot and humid climate in which their favorite team practices, and watch…practice. We all know how AI feels about practice, but at least he was the one running the sprints, participating in the drills, and running the offense. 

        What possible gratification do fans get from attending NFL practices?

        I know what many readers are thinking right now, “What about MLB Spring Training or Midnight Madness? They both involve practice.” My arguments for both are pretty elementary.

        MLB Spring Training takes place in tropical locales, involves Tiki bars or Lake Havasu, and sundresses.

 

         NCAA Midnight Madness is less practice than pomp and circumstance. The players dunk, the fans go berserk, and then it’s on to Kappa Sigma for a late night kegger. Couple that with the fact that Midnight Madness involves college coeds and the argument makes itself.

          Without a reasonable facsimile in the NBA or NHL, we’re back to square one with the NFL. 

          Part of my consternation over the allure of the training camp is based on the NFL’s infinite intricacy when compared to its other professional sports brethren.  It’s not like Tim and Tommy Jones

can sit in the stands at Lehigh and diagram plays, discuss the cover-2, and design new fangled blitz packages. The majority of fans who attend training camps just love football, and that much I can understand, but even an undying passion for the game couldn’t draw me from an air conditioned cocoon with the promise of “being part” of a practice or of bragging to my friends through a Facebook status update that I went to camp.

           The latter brings me to another major problem I have with camp goers. At some point today, I’ll be in my car and my index finger will flick on 610 WIP or 950 ESPN, like some sports obsessed Pavlovian dog, only to hear dozens of fans discuss who they were impressed with at camp, who let them down, and who signed their hats.  Perhaps this is the root of the issue. Attendees, for whatever reason, feel a sense of entitlement because they braved the heat and watched practice, so they grant themselves “insider” status. Ultimately, unless their name ends with Didinger, I couldn’t possibly care any less about how Nick from Fishtown would assess the offensive line’s play or how Coach Mike from Horsham thinks the Eagles’ secondary stacks up against the rest of the NFC.

           Before readers respond, let me assure everyone that I love the NFL and look forward to its start every year. That being said, I implore someone to explain the training camp phenomenon to me before I dust off the ol’ Chris T. Jones jersey, grab my clipboard, and head out to Lehigh.

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            Speaking of the Eagles.

            Head Fuhrer Dictator Coach Andy Reid gave the media another dose of his trademark Belichickian charm after word leaked out that starting middle linebacker, Stewart Bradley, was lost for the season with a torn ACL.        

            Apparently, Reid, upon taking the job in 1999, channeled his inner Jabez Stone, pricked his finger, dropped an ounce of blood, and made a “pact” with the media that he would be the one to disclose all injuries. Reid’s philosophy has always been that he be the papa bear of his Cub Scout troop, so he disallowed any media members to talk to players or to team personnel about anything that had been preordained as falling under Reid’s enormous umbrella of power.

            I’ve been crowing for this guy’s firing for years, but each time I’m met with such contention because of Reid’s sterling ability to get to big games. Hey man, I could drive myself to the Playboy Mansion but it doesn’t mean I belong there or would know what to do when I got there. If Birds’ fans aren’t finally getting tired of the triumvirate of power (Lurie, Banner, Reid) by now, I’ll have to resign myself to the fact that it’ll never happen.

            If a decade of just misses, shoulda-coulda-wouldas, and extended warranties on bad investments happened in any other sport in our town, the collective axe would have fallen long ago (just ask the fellas who have worked for Ed Snider right across the street). Every time I see Reid take his seat behind a microphone that might as well be off, I convulse, wretch, and change the channel. The disturbing irony about Reid’s latest temper tantrum is he’s clearly not familiar with the old “can’t have your cake and eat it too” adage. On one had, this guy wants a gag order in place while he, on a weekly basis, says absolutely nothing in press conferences, but on the other hand, he uses his pulpit to blast those media members who are just doing their job (save for Dave Spadaro who is nestled snugly between Lurie and Reid) by reporting an injury.

            It’s getting to the point at which it’s difficult to root for these guys. Between Reid’s petulance and McNabb’s annual injury/choke, it might be time for a divorce.

            Really, Andy, it’s not me; it’s you.

One Response to “Of Training Camps and Totalitarian Head Coaches…”

1. Jon Dyer says:

   08/04/2009 at 3:48 pm

   In an age when the Playstation has become more of a babysitter than ever before, I think it’s mildly refreshing to see parents taking their kids on a day trip up to Lehigh. Even though its only practice, just seeing the players out on the field is enough for kids especially when it comes time for autographs. That being said, I also hate it when people go to training camp to get some kind of insider access to the team. You know nothing about football, you probably get confused when the clock always stops 2 minutes before the end of each half, so just stop calling WIP please.

   PS-I was in Cape May with my girlfriend last weekend and saw a guy in a Mamula jersey, probably the same guy, and casually said “Great work at the combine” to him as I walked by