by brenton crozier bdcrozier@gmail.com
Another weekend has passed along with another snub from the national media of the good people of Jacksonville and their Jaguars. The Jaguar’s fans are sick and tired of it. So I took it upon myself to launch a campaign to get our due national press coverage. I couldn’t help but notice the type of attention other cities and teams around the country were getting.
On ESPN, Philadelphia fans synchronized a ritualistic Terrell Owens’s jersey burning with a chant of “Dallas sucks,” to the dismay of the on-scene correspondent who forced a disingenuous smile. The sporting airwaves still recall the now infamous Albert Haynesworth using Andre Gurode’s face as a welcome mat.
My proverbial light bulb burned out, but I replaced it and realized that we need a soap opera quality drama here in Jacksonville. The Jaguars were dismantling the New York Gents (an upper crest New York Country Club) 28 to 0 at halftime, so I waded into the elated but slightly bored Jaguars fans at Alltel.
I bumped into Jaguar faithful Brett Dascher, Jenni Wakefield, Blair Fields, and John “Alf” Pedoulais. And as I expected, they completely agreed with my sentiment that we need a juicy soap opera scoop here in the River City. “Hell no, it’s 28 to 0, who needs drama?” John said to the agreement of his jubilant beer toting buddies.
Now that they were on board with the plan, it was time to get into specifics. I suggested starting a Representative Mark Foley towel fight in the locker room rumor. My female cohorts were quickly distracted discussing the possibilities of having a locker room towel fight of their own with Jacksonville wide receiver Matt Jones. It seems that Arizona quarterback Matt Leinart somehow made it into their discussion.
Hoping to make some drama of my own, I threw a Hail Mary and asked the ladies if I could score in their end zone. Once again, the words “hell no” were used by the group. My new friends made their way back to their seats; by this time, the Jaguars were gnawing on the Jets player’s limbs.
The game had reached 31 to 0 and the Jaguars were about to score again. To combat my boredom,
I plotted additional scenarios. I could stir up a team conflict by planting Marcus Stroud’s protein bars in Reggie Williams’s locker. Or tell the Jaguars Dance Divas called “The Roar,” that the other dance troupes around the league were calling them “The Whores.” My ideas were getting more abysmal than the Jet’s secondary.
As I was leaving, I bumped into Jaguars fans (I’m pretty sure the handful of Jets supporters sprinkled throughout the crowd had all left) Jenn and Todd Hite and Wade Bramlitt. My plea for an attention getting spectacle was received with the same fanfare as earlier, “There’s no need for drama, the drama was on the field,” Todd informed me.
Impermeable defense and a budding offense may not be good enough for national media attention, but it is good enough for me and the loyal fans.
At least the Jaguars won (41 to 0), and I could still make a night of it. I needed some recommendations, but was clued in by the group that “No, Club Paris is definitely not hot.”
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