In my younger and more vulnerable years, I had a predilection for discovery. To where this penchant has absconded is a mystery, but it may have been found within the diligent study of Mike Ditka, a man�a legend, rather, that has had one of the biggest influences on the common man�s diurnal life. How, one may ask? It is not for me to say, except that one must embark on his/her own quest of spiritual enlightenment. More on that later. Those who are unaware of Mr. Ditka�s contributions are obviously not American, and therefore, not worth the space in this dissertation which they have already purloined. Perhaps the late Sen. Joseph McCarthy would like a word with them, but I digress. To refresh everyone else�s memory: �Iron Mike� was an indomitable, omnipresent entity thriving on the sidelines of the Chicago Bears� football dynasty in the �80s and early �90s, i.e., he was the coach. He even led the underdog ensemble to the pinnacle of American rules football, a victory in Super Bowl XX (twenty-roman numerals) on the 26th of January in the year of our lord (or the pig, with respect for our oriental constituents) 1986. He almost single-handedly spawned one of the greatest Saturday Night Live skits to date, with the inception of the Superfans. These overweight, overanxious, alcoholic, hirsute, and heart disease prone Chicago urbanites worshipped Ditka as their co-messiah, along with his apparent antithesis, the African-American, skinny, bald, mild mannered Michael Jordan of �Da Bulls� basketball team. His detractors may claim that he was generated on the floor of the locker room showers, perhaps as an explanation for his zeal with regard to football. That assertion can be interpreted as a compliment to his actual hometown of Aliquippa, Pennsylvania. It is a drab, unforgiving steel town that makes Birmingham, England seem like paradise. There are no mansions there, just government subsidies (hovels) slightly more livable than �manufactured housing� (trailers), the perfect place to foster an iron-coated redneck such as the Coach. His father, however, as of 1992, refuses to abandon his little industrial corner of the world in favor of, say, temperate Florida, but that�s the original Hammer for you. Pitt (University of Pittsburgh) was a natural choice for higher education for such an eclectic quad-sport athlete such as the Little Ditka (football, baseball, basketball, and wrestling). He was a mediocre receiver on the football field, but he earned national recognition as an All-American defensive end his senior year while finishing 6th in Heisman voting in 1960. He even appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show, making the captaining of his team almost insignificant, though he carried on proudly. His comparably meager accomplishments in baseball and basketball do not even warrant publication, since the unauthorized biography only lightly grazes them. Conversely, it is of note that he never lost a wrestling match and won several inter-fraternity titles throughout his collegiate career. It was once said by Beano Cook of ESPN that Ditka was �the toughest guy ever at Pitt; the ultimate competitor.� Well, that was sure easy with alumni like Tony Dorsett and Dan Marino. Did either of those sissies ever chase down and tackle the interceptor of a pass intended for himself? Ol� number 89 (Ditka) did. It is quite abstruse why someone would not choose to explore the life of this esoteric, if not outspoken giant among men. He only won one Super Bowl, yet he is one of the most eminent personalities in the game. Even his mane of hair induces respect and envy among some of the less fortunate Mr. Clean look-alikes on and off the field. But, I digress� Prior to this literary undertaking, I assumed, correctly as usual, that Coach was, is and always will be a pompous, pretentious, portentous jerk, and that�s a euphemism to be sure. These preconceptions were exacerbated indefinitely by the harsh, grating report by Armen Keteyian, the author whose less-than-exalting discourse impelled me to �upgrade� my assessment of Ditka to outright �asshole�, pardon the disparity in intellectual prose. From his own mouth: �I don�t want a book written about me�. you�re an asshole�. It�s bullshit.� He can coach, however, and that is incontrovertible. To say that Mike Ditka has not faced cacophony is an outright cock-and-bull fabrication of the highest degree. Without discord of any kind, he�d probably have been an accountant, or any other more docile profession. Perhaps even his heart attack in 1988 would have been precluded or forestalled in some way. Even his children claim he�s too involved in his career to meet their superficial needs of a �father figure�. His daughter Megan: �I don�t think he knows how to love.� How can the egocentric progeny of �Iron Mike� Ditka complain so implacably? As I have avowed many times, I would offer pecuniary imbursement for the honor of the Ditka surname. I must assert that these whiny brats are evidentiary of the reverse Oedipus complex, and they have no idea how good they have it. Ditka subconsciously projects a few themes and theories from which one ought generally abstain: that intimidation, internal and external strength, and violence incite victory and success. One can only wonder if he pays his dues in the National Socialist Ger�err, American Workers� Party, and also if he�ll ever coach a decent team again, though most of the �gridiron battles� nowadays are fixed to create revenue for a sagging league. |
| Who assigns a Book Report to a 12th Grade class? Mr. Clean--I mean, Mr. hartman, that's who. Mr. Clean's the smart one, he never opens his mouth. Passed this though. 65. Jerk. |