RETAIL APOCALYPSE

I’m not much of a shopper.  Never have been.  I get the typical replacement stuff like socks, underwear, another pair of shoes as needed, but that’s about it.  Last year I made a rare significant clothing purchase in that I bought two suits for the first time in about 15 years.  Because of my long-ingrained aversion to shopping, I’ve kept some distance from this “retail apocalypse” that’s ravaged the United States in recent years.  I see it of course; with the vacant box stores, half rented strip malls and the lonely, empty commercial business districts found throughout.  Perhaps I’m an unwitting accomplice to killing American retail with my shopping habits, or lack thereof, though I’m sure there’s plenty of blame to go around.  Mr. Bezos?

Not long ago a close friend of mine was celebrating a milestone birthday.  We’ve known each other since junior high and I wanted to find something that was original and meaningful as a gift.  He’s at a stage in life where he doesn’t need much, and since I was a little lean in coming up with interesting ideas, I decided to take a stroll through the Crystal Mall in Waterford, Connecticut in hopes of finding something that would catch my eye.   I didn’t go there with terribly high expectations.  Crystal Mall seems to disproportionately cater to those a bit younger than me, with a surfeit of stores carrying sneakers, New England Patriots merchandise (will this team ever go away?), and a slew of products sporting a marijuana leaf on it.   Back in 1984, the year the Crystal Mall opened, I would have been right in my element; likely with a part time job in one of the stores after school.  These days I probably look like a narc.  

The Crystal Mall, like many malls, is situated not far from the highway where you first pass a vacated Toys “R” Us along the right-hand side.  There’s a large “For Rent” sign already somewhat faded that’s posted on the edge of the parking lot with the leasing agent’s details at the bottom.  You don’t get a sense the phone is ringing much in terms of prospective tenants.  The building already looks like it’s been empty for at least five years, only to be accentuated by the fact that there are no cars, as in zero, seen in the parking lot.  The only presumed activity is from furry little critters moving in as a result of poor old Geoffrey the Giraffe getting kicked to the curb.  Up the street, Eastern Mountain Sports (EMS), is in the later stages of their liquidation sale.  EMS, a Northeastern retailer of about 15 locations, has never had the catalog business or outdoor accessories to be a mini LL Bean.  Nor do they carry the requisite type of manly items like firearms, knives and archery equipment to be a full-fledged outfitter like Cabela’s either.  As a result, they’ve meandered for years as an oversized store selling warm clothing and overpriced backpacks that can be easily founded elsewhere.  Now the squeeze is on.  The sale’s been going on for a few months already and will probably continue indefinitely until the last down vest is sold.  If you’re willing to bother, there’s actually a small placard posted on the lower right-hand corner of the front door listing some Frequently Asked Questions.  You have to literally crouch down in order to read them unless you’re less than four feet tall.  The gist of the message is two main things: One, all sales are final; so those polypropylene socks better damn well fit, and, Two, EMS, at least as a company, is not going out of business in case you saw this sale as yet another sign of local economic turmoil. Instead, it’s simply a move to a less expensive location that’s conducive to providing a more intimate, rewarding shopping experience that you can’t get by ordering online.  Where and when they’ll relocate has not been determined, and while you get a sense that Eastern Mountain Sports has at least a few vital signs remaining, it’s days of doing business in Waterford are all but over.  I proceed to the mall.

I tend to park on the west side of the mall for no reason other than habit.  It’s actually the least convenient place for me since the stores that I somewhat like, as well as the food court, are all on the opposite side of the mall.  But I do it anyway.  Parking on the west side is easier these days since the anchor store that once was a Sears remains unrented; so there’s plenty of spots.   Simon, the Crystal Mall’s corporate parent, acknowledges this cavernous vacancy by offering these upbeat words: “NEW. NEXT. ON ITS WAY…more shopping, dining and entertainment in the works.”  As to when these happier times are scheduled to arrive is still anyone’s guess.  

It’s hard to decide where to start once you get inside since, like Eastern Mountain Sports, nearly everything in every store is on sale.  Mind you this is not the Barney’s Warehouse Sale that supersedes a glorious summer getaway to the Hamptons, even when the dog days of August make the most refined Manhattanite snappy and cantankerous.  These are permanent markdowns; at least as permanent as the store remains open.  The misspelled “Bleeker Street Slip On” shoe by Nunn Bush will still be 40% off come Memorial Day -- so there’s no need to panic.  Feeling somewhat relieved that I didn’t have to attack these markdowns with 5:00 AM Black Friday vigor, I systematically walked from store to store; going in where I wanted to, passing by where I didn’t.  I started with the Payless Shoe Store directly across from me.   

It was nice to see a Payless Shoe store indoors for a change.  Most of the Payless Shoe Stores that I knew were often found in ratty, nondescript strip malls, usually wedged between something like a Jackson Hewitt tax prep office and a shithole buffet.   This store, however, was just one among the 2,100 locations that are planned to be closed by May.  As I walk in, I see that the lone, middle-aged woman working there was talking on the store’s landline next to the register.  She nodded as I walked in but didn’t end her telephone conversation on my account.  I didn’t care.  I could also tell it was a personal call but I didn’t care about that either.  I didn’t need another pair of shoes, but since everything was 30-50% off, maybe, just maybe, I could part with fifteen bucks if, say, a pair of purple Airwalks in a 9½ D just happened to be waiting for me on the rack.  But those purple Airwalks were not to be found, and as I was about to conclude my quick visit the clerk hobbled over with one crutch to the aisle I was standing in.  I was the only customer in the store, perhaps the only one that had been there in the last hour or so.  I hadn’t noticed the crutch when I walked in, but I couldn’t help but think she looked a bit piratesque in the way she galumphed toward me.  I was conflicted for a moment with the pirate comparison, considering that I could see this woman was, at least for time being, somewhat disabled; not to mention facing possible unemployment soon as well.  And yet, the insensitive man that I can sometimes be was still waiting for her to let out a big loud “Aaaaarrrrrrggggghhhhh” the way pirates do.  The clerk and I made eye contact, a human thing that’s practically verboten these days.  She looked lonely, craving for some kind of interaction in the windowless cell that would soon cease to be a Payless Shoe Store.  You’d think she’d been in solitary confinement for the past 23½ hours the way she looked at me.  Like I was the prison guard coming to escort her to the yard for that treasured half hour of sunshine.  I wasn’t in the most conversational mood that day but I would have talked to her for a few minutes.  But since this was her turf, I’d let her make the first move.  And yet, all she says is…

“Do you need any help finding anything?”

“Ah…no, not really…just looking at what you might have in my size,” I answer, then add, “I see the store’s closing.”  I realized after I said it that that probably wasn’t the best way to propel the conversation.  Kind of like reminding a guy on death row he’s got three days before receiving his lethal injection.  

“Yeah, we’ll probably stay open until the end of May now.”

“Oh…right.”

She then broke off contact and one-crutched her way down the aisle before she vanished.  Perhaps if she put business aside for just a moment and simply opened up about the weather or anything else for that matter, I probably would have been a little more responsive.  But I was put off by her being so rote and pedestrian with me despite the huge void she was transmitting.  It’s easy to disconnect when the circumstances look bleak and revert back to what’s familiar, especially while being under constant surveillance and other demands.  I could have been a little warmer myself, I’ll admit.   But once I confirmed that I wasn’t seriously shopping for shoes, she just shut down like some beaten down lab rat that’s been subject to constant blaring noise.  Then she just disappeared…somewhere.  Probably the last I’ll ever see of her. 

In the Crystal Mall You Can Buy Dress Clothes from the Prix Fixe Menu

I go a few doors down, past the Old Navy store and into A&J All Star Sports.  A&J is one of a few shops in the Crystal Mall that’s a homegrown merchant and not a national brand.  They specialize in sports memorabilia and various team merchandise. They’ve got some fun things in there, but much of it comes off as frivolous in an area that’s been in belt-tightening mode for years. The store changed owners a few years ago and hasn’t felt the same since.  The previous owner was a guy named Sam who had this refreshing street kid vibe about him despite being around 55 years old.  He showed no restraint with his language, about the only employee in the whole damn place who gave themselves license to be unfiltered.  For that alone I always made a point of visiting his store; where one night we had a wonderfully expletive laden discussion about the tedium of the Super Bowl in the days leading up to the game.  This was probably five years ago.  I don’t have many therapeutic conversations like this in eastern Connecticut, and it was a welcome flashback to my days of living in the big city. Nevertheless, Sam had to have seen the writing on the wall and got out while he could.  Can’t blame him, but it’s too bad he’s gone.

I go inside and there’s a TV mounted upon on the right-hand wall as you first walk in.  It’s set up primarily for those working behind the counter, less so for the customers, in that they don’t get batshit bored when things are slow; which is presumably often.  Before I can even see the TV, I already recognize the bombastically urban voice of Stephen A. Smith from ESPN.  He’s giving a throaty rant for the umpteenth time about how Lebron is failing to carry the Lakers and if they could only woo Anthony Davis in a trade from New Orleans and blah, blah, blah.  It was becoming a pretty exhausted subject by that point in early March, but it’s hard to keep things fresh in the world of 24/7 sports yap. I like Stephen A., I used to enjoy listening to him on the car radio while covering my sales territory in the big city.  These days I just catch him sporadically.  I stop to watch for a moment.  I’m somewhat mindful that I’m being completely ignored by the lone individual, not standing, but sitting behind the register staring at his phone oblivious to everything.  As with Payless, I didn’t really care about being invisible.  It wasn’t as if I was seeking out a pair Milwaukee Bucks tube socks or anything and needed special assistance, but still.  I walk right by the counter and turn my head in his direction before he finally senses my look to acknowledge me. 

“Hey how ya doin’,” he says still seated.

“Not bad, you?”

“You have a particular team you’re looking for?”

“Oh, I’ve got people who are fans of all kinds of teams” I say.  “Let me look around.”

“No problem.”

Though the store essentially looks the same as it did when Sam held the reigns, after giving it a harder look it’s clear that there’s less apparel for sale and simply more…stuff.  It didn’t make sense to me.  People like garb, not officially licensed wine bottle holders or some miniature, New Orleans Saints totem pole thingy for forty bucks.  What happened to the Yankees jerseys I bought for my boys a few years ago for Christmas?  I remember that we actually negotiated on the price, as if I was buying them from an Algerian souk.   When does that ever happen in a mall?  Whatever few apparel offerings they had seemed more like they were to be curated than worn.   I point to the autographed Kristaps Porzingis jersey that’s framed on the wall.  It’s a few weeks out of date since he had recently been traded from the Knicks to the Mavericks. 

No Dahling...That's Not a Slipper, but an Officially Licensed Wine Bottle Holder.  

“Is that now half price,” I ask while gesturing toward the jersey.

“I think it sells for around $350.00,” the guy said, seemingly unaware of my subtle reference to Porzingis’s new digs.  

I wondered if he even knew he’d been traded.  I mean, it was a pretty newsworthy transaction.  The kind of thing somebody working in store like this would be on top of.  It was clear this guy was way too used to not selling much.  I exited the store and let him get back to looking at his phone.

What Dat? Well...It's a Saints Totem Pole Thingy For Around $40.00

I walk into the corridor and hear Linda Ronstadt’s rendition of “Poor Poor Pitiful Me”.  It had been a while since I heard that song – any version of that song for that matter – and was wondering if they were playing it for my benefit.  A little bone for at least giving the Crystal Mall a slice of my time.  I wasn’t ready to lay my head on the railroad tracks just yet, but I’m sure others were.  It wasn’t exactly the kind of song you’d expect to hear as mall background music; at least not these days, and so I sat in an unused vending massage chair until the song played out.

  

I then walked briefly into a Native American “craft” store and looked at the artificial dreamcatchers that were almost certainly imported from China.  Once again, the woman working behind the register was talking on the landline about something besides the store’s faux spiritual motif. There was a large wolf tapestry made out of the same fabric as a Motel 6 bedsheet hanging in one corner; a radiant aura beamed from the wolf’s howling head.  In the opposite corner a similar tapestry triumphed a grizzly bear’s primal energy.  Grrrrrrrr...  It was about all the bullshit I could take in a span of 60 seconds.  I turned around and left to the yapping woman’s complete indifference.

Next, I went into the children’s clothing store, Crazy 8.  Across the hallway was one of four vacant storefronts that I counted.  That number to soon double.  If my sons were just a little younger, I could have taken full advantage of their going out of business sale.  Not just that specific location, but the whole chain, which, along with its parent company Gymboree, Inc, is folding for good as they file for bankruptcy for the second time.   In fact, Gymboree and Crazy 8 have already officially shut down their websites to commerce, they’re just waiting to dump whatever inventory that’s left through their stores.   A few doors down, Chico’s, a clothing retailer for women, is completely absent of customers despite having everything at least forty percent off.  Even Victoria’s Secret, which at one time provided more innuendo than a Melrose Place season finale, sadly attempts to stave off its mortality K-Mart style: buy two bras, get the third for free.  

I now hear “Stuck in the Middle with You” by Stealers Wheel in the corridor.  No clowns or jokers on either side of me unfortunately, the place was too empty.  The only thing that I was stuck in the middle with were apathy and boredom. 

I enter Spencer’s, the novelty chain of more than 600 locations.   I never knew this store very well since there wasn’t one near where I grew up.  That’s not to say where I was raised was too snooty to have such a place, it’s that we already had a thriving mom and pop enterprise who had established themselves as the de facto provider of fart spray.  Any national chain moving in on their turf would likely burn to the ground under mysterious circumstances, or at the very least have bricks repeatedly thrown through their windows.  The world of fake dog shit and cock shaped bric-a-brac could be pretty unforgiving in the 1980s, and the executives who ran Spencer’s understood that it would behoove them to set up shop elsewhere.  Regardless, Spencer’s had demonstrated in the past that it can sustain where there’s less competition.  But I wonder how Spencer’s makes it these days, that is, assuming they are still making it.  From what I saw in their Crystal Mall location, I can’t help but think everyone’s out of fresh ideas when a set of ping-pong balls saying “FUCK” on them sells for $4.99.  Or…for a few dollars more you can buy a bib that reads “I am proof that Mommy puts out”. There wasn’t anyone working in the store when I came in.  The lone employee on duty had stepped out for a few minutes, so it was a missed opportunity to loot the store and sell vibrators out of my car from across the local high school.   I decided to take the high road and not steal anything, but then realized that taking the high road in a place like Spencer’s all but defines irony.  When the guy, who was probably around 23 years old, returned, I asked him about the ping-pong balls.  He pulled them high off the rack where he had to extend himself with the tips of his toes.  He was ready to hand them to me but then hesitated since he could tell I was more curious than serious about buying them. 

“You…ah… want to get ‘em,” he asked rather unsure and halfheartedly.  

“Nah…just hadn't seen these balls before,” I said; and then thought that if this guy can somehow remain sane enough to keep this job for another 90 days or so, he’d have a good shot at being a manager. 

“No worries” he said, extending on his toes again to replace the item.  After hearing “no worries” used a few other times that day, I had concluded that that was the unofficial moment when a store employee gladly excused themself from trying to sell you anything; especially in a store specializing in low-brow falderal like Spencer’s.   I got out of there and went to the food court.

Signs Like This are Ubiquitous in the Crystal Mall

There were more discounts along the way to the food court, the GNC and Talbots both having 50% markdowns of different sorts.   I reached the food court in the mall.  It’s about the only place in the mall where you still pay full price, if not premium price.  I say premium price since I somehow paid almost nine bucks for four soft tacos and a small Diet Pepsi at the Taco Bell there.  That seemed high for Taco Bell, especially when ordering off the basic menu, but I didn’t squabble over the price.  As a result, however, I did grab more than twice as much “Fire” sauce than needed, as well as maintained my steadfast commitment of taking restaurant napkins to later be stashed in the center console of my car.  I scan the place and see what looks like a bunch of hollowed out souls.   That pale, blank look of overweight people ignoring each other but giving their phones full attention.   I have dark thoughts about how this food court could be the next in the long line of recent mass shootings and make a mental note of where the exits are.  Of course it won’t mean a damn thing against a lethal round from an AR-15, but I still plan for the worst.  I hate that I have these thoughts, but I do.  This mall just has the scent of something awful looming at times, and so I eat quickly despite knowing that getting killed by a rampaging gunman is still statistically slim.  

In the rear of the food court a tall, lean Asian man stands in front of the Wok Express.  The backlit images of saucy, glazed General Tso’s Chicken above the serving line look scrumptious.  The man is standing there with a plate full of free samples.  I can’t tell exactly what he’s offering, but I can see the toothpicks pointing perpendicularly upright from the morsels of food.  He forces a smile to any passersby and extends the plate out to them.  You can tell he’d rather be doing something else, but he keeps his game face on.  It’s just his turn for sample duty – way it goes when you work at Wok Express.  He seems surprised that he’s not getting as many takers as one would expect.  Even if it’s only a little cube of moo shu pork or whatever -- it’s still free -- what’s not to love about that?  Yet this is proving to be harder than it should be, and so the man turns toward his Wok Express cohorts and shrugs his shoulders as if to say…like, what the hell?  He perseveres, keeps handing out his plate to anybody around him but is unable to generate much interest.  He looks back once more where they gesture to him to keep going…it’s part of the job, do it!  But it’s to no avail, just a few takers even at the height of lunch hour.  I admire the man’s refusal to give up, though I have no doubt that every time he looks back he’s hoping they’ll tell him to come in off the floor.  He continues to look around, this time making a better effort to make eye contact, but his expression seems to be less about the samples and more about recruiting anyone willing to trade places with him.  Still no takers.  He then rolls is eyes upwards, as if to count the minutes left in this demoralizing task. 

It's bad enough to be in a place that can't sell anything for money.  It's ten times worse if you can't even give away your stuff for free.  A typical day for a mall on life support.  You can almost count the remaining heartbeats on one hand. 

 

A CASE FOR GASE

Jet fans are pretty hard to please.  This Saturday January 12 marks the Jets’ 50^th Anniversary of winning Super Bowl III; their one and only Super Bowl appearance.  There’s supposed to be a celebration of some sort, somewhere, to commemorate this; but since there aren’t a whole lot of Jet fans that were alive or old enough to remember that game very well, it might not be much of a party. There’s no need to belabor how the team has done since then, Gang Green’s futility has been chronicled ad nauseum.  A half century of ignominy is hard to forget.  And a half century of unexplainable blunders is even harder to forgive (fill in the blank as you see fit, but do allow yourself sufficient time).  And so when the Jets announced that Adam Gase was to be their seventeenth head coach in franchise history, the immediate reaction was to pooh-pooh the decision.  Some recent stinging Tweets include: “The Jets are the Mets with football helmets”, “Exact reason this franchise has been a joke for 50 years”, and “I mean, Gase did develop 35-year-old Peyton Manning”.

It's Been 50 Years Since the Jets Won Super Bowl III

So what do you want Jet fans?  You had your three years of Bill Parcells, albeit a pre-owned version with high mileage, but still, he got you to the AFC Championship game in 1999.  You want him back at age 77?  How about Pete Carroll?  You had him for a year in 1994, before sacking him in favor of Rich Kotite (again, fill in the blank as you see fit, but do allow yourself sufficient time).  Sometimes you just don’t know how great your partner is until they get away.  Are you looking to break up his marriage with the Seattle Seahawks?  You even had Bill Bellichick for a day, but he’s probably been a bit too prosperous since then to return your phone calls now.  There’s even been cries for Rex Ryan to return.  Enough already!!!!

So what do want?  Since firing Todd Bowles eleven days ago the Jets have been exhaustive in their search for a new coach.  Eight candidates were interviewed in all.  Besides Gase, The Jets have spoken to:

Kansas City Chiefs Offensive Coordinator, Eric Bieniemy.   Bieniemy has only one year of experience as an OC of which his mentor, Andy Reid, still calls the plays.  Yes, recruiting offspring from the Reid family tree is as in vogue as finding the next incarnate of Sean McVay, but Bieniemy isn’t ready for the job just yet.

Former Indianapolis Colts and Detroit Lions Head Coach, Jim Caldwell.  Two stints of mediocrity is enough.  You seldom, if ever, get a third chance in the NFL with his body of work.  Had the Jets hired Caldwell, it would forever have been perceived as failing to woo a more desirable candidate.

Tampa Bay Buccaneers Offensive Coordinator, Todd Monken.  As bad as the Bucs were in 2018, most of their woes were on the defensive side of the ball.  For the most part they were still able to score points with the perennially streaky Ryan Fitzpatrick and the perennially unpredictable Jameis Winston at quarterback.  Still, hiring respectable coaches from bad teams isn’t very sexy or exciting.  And at age 52, he just isn’t Sean McVay-ish enough to bring any wow factor either.

Former Texas Tech Head Coach, Kliff Kingsbury.  Seems everything about Kingsbury’s availability had this Hurry, While Supplies Last feel to it. The Jets talked to him, and then Cardinals signed him in the same time a frog snares a fly with its tongue.  Seems that being Facebook friends, or whatever Kingsbury’s purported connection to Sean McVay was, was enough due diligence for Arizona to offer him the job.  He’d last ten seconds in New York.  Good riddance…

Baylor Coach, Matt Rhule.  The mystery candidate that only the Jets seemed to have on their radar.  Seems that Rhule’s New York City roots may have had something to do with the Jets’ interest in him, but even the Jets seem to know that’s a pretty fluffy reason to hire someone. He’d probably be a fave with the New York media and a great drive-time interview on WFAN.   That is, until he started losing.  While what he’s done so far at Baylor has been considered respectable, his 8-17 record with the Bears is a tough sell.  It’s a long leap from Waco to the Big Apple, even if you grew up there; not to mention his only year of NFL experience came with the Giants as a low-level assistant in 2012.  At 43, his name will likely pop up again for future NFL coaching jobs.  For now, it’s probably wise the Jets took a pass on Rhule.

Dallas Cowboys Defensive Assistant, Kris Richard.  Who?

Former Green Bay Packers Head Coach, Mike McCarthy.  This was the heavyweight candidate that, not surprisingly, drew the most attention in this search. The guy “the Jets have got to get”.  McCarthy’s strained relationship with Packer’s QB, Aaron Rogers, helped to exonerate his blemished reputation after getting unceremoniously fired after 13 seasons.  After all, it was the villainous Rogers that got him fired!  Give McCarthy a pass, it’s not his fault for having Lady Macbeth as his quarterback.  Everyone bit on the spin for a short while, but then questions started to arise.  As in…if McCarthy really was still that great of a coach, why doesn’t he have any leverage?   Wouldn’t he be getting offers at least somewhat comparable to what Jon Gruden ridiculously received in Oakland?  Why weren’t the Jets in a three-way bidding war with, say, Tampa Bay and Cleveland over McCarthy’s services?  Something was amiss.  “Anonymous sources” and “those with knowledge of the situation” began leaking rather unflattering things about McCarthy; questioning his game management, his preparation, his decisions and, what’s akin to receiving last rites as a coach – losing the locker room.  This Super Bowl wining coach was suddenly damaged goods.  A dying brand. McCarthy was still a big name nevertheless, a safe hire, one who statistically had a much stronger case than the coach they ultimately hired.  And yet, there’ve been numerous “known commodity” coaches who never matched the success with their second team as they did with their first team. Guys like Mike Holmgren, Mike Ditka, George Seifert, Jeff Fisher, Tom Flores and Jimmy Johnson all fit in that category, among others.  The Jets had to have seen that with McCarthy, not to mention the bad buzz coming out about him, and thus decided to “go in a different direction.”  What’s the problem with that Jet fans? 

And so that leaves things with Adam Gase.  The Jets new coach.  Just as many established coaches have petered out after enjoying past glory, they’ve been a number of other head coaches who, perhaps hired a bit prematurely in their first jobs, went on to have tremendous success elsewhere.  Mike Shanahan, Bill Belichick and Tony Dungy all fit that bill quite well.  Gase is only 40, with already three years of head coaching experience: not too long to get burned out, but long enough to hone his craft.  Gase looks like he’s in perfect position to get the Jets flying, especially with Sam Darnold as his quarterback.  His biggest blemish is that he sparred with his boss, Dolphins owner, Steve Ross.  Like who’s never done that in a job?  It’s not like the Dolphins are among the NFL’s stalwart organizations anyway.  You have to go back to the Reagan Administration to when they were relevant.  Has anyone noticed that they’ve yet to fill their coaching vacancy?  What does that tell you?

There’s a case for Gase.  Park your cynicism Jet fans and show the kind of patience that New York is famous for.  He just might end up being that coach you’ll hate to love.

Adam Gase

KLIFF KINGSBURY

There’s something very Hollywood about the Kliff Kingsbury hire in Arizona.  A name that 48 hours ago was hardly mentioned amongst the potential NFL coaching candidates, and then – poof --- he’s the new head coach of the Arizona Cardinals just like that.  You can almost picture some bubbly junior level front office staffer, one who’ll be a general manager eight years from now, with a big bright smile that says “Boy have I got something for you” as he walks into his boss’s office. He slips Kliff Kingsbury’s brand new headshot -- so new you can still smell the remnants of photographic chemicals coming off the tacky matte finish -- across Team President Michael Bidwell’s desk and silently, but eagerly, await his response.  Mr. Bidwell takes a moment, picks up the head shot and holds it upward against the dimmable lights affixed in the ceiling.  He swivels his chair an additional forty-five degrees for extra effect, pauses for a beat, and then swivels back in the direction of the young man and says, “That’s it! That’s the guy! Does anyone know if he can coach?” 

“I believe so Mr. Bidwell.  I mean…I’m definitely hearing that he’s coached.”

“Who else has he met with?” Mr. Bidwell askes with a more noticeable sense of urgency.

“Well, I know the Jets are talking to him.”

“The Jets!?!?!...NEW YORK?!?!?!  Get him here to Phoenix…NOW! He needs to know how sunny and warm it is here in the wintertime. He’ll freeze to death back east.”

“Yes Mr. Bidwell, I thought that’s what you’d say.  In fact, he’ll be arriving here at 10:00 this morning.”

Mr. Bidwell looks at his watch, it’s a quarter past nine.  His new coaching candidate is scheduled to arrive in 45 minutes.

“Well I guess we better get ready,” Mr. Bidwell says.

“Absolutely, we’ll have fresh fruit and croissants sent to the conference room before he shows up.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Bidwell says.  “By the way, what’s his name?”

“Kliff Kingsbury.  Kliff with a ‘K’.”

“Kliff with a ‘K’?  I love him already...make sure we can reach his agent.”

That's Kliff Kingsbury Coming to a Stadium Near You

And thus, what we have here is maybe the first NFL coach ever cast in his position instead of hired.  The headline from Variety reading: KLIFF KINGSBURY GETS KAST TO KOACH KARDINALS. For the record Kingsbury has coached of course; where he went 35-40 in six years at Texas Tech but was fired for making only three minor bowl game appearances during his time with the Red Raiders, winning one; the 2013 Holiday Bowl versus Arizona State.  Kingsbury was then hired to be the offensive coordinator at USC but has since been plucked away by the Cardinals before even starting the job.  Kingsbury has no NFL coaching experience whatsoever, but, like most hot coaching prospects, Kingsbury sits in the catbird seat in that he’s an offensive minded coach that brings that oh-so intangible whispering quality to his quarterbacks -- that secret sauce that every NFL GM is crawling over broken glass to pour on top of his team.  With regard to Kingsbury’s experience with quarterbacks, he’s worked with some good ones, including Patrick Mahomes, Baker Mayfield, Case Keenum and Johnny Manziel before he partied himself into a punch line.  It goes without saying that the development of Cardinal’s QB, Josh Rosen, will be among the first orders of business once Kingsbury gets to work. 

But perhaps where this “hire” makes a few football purists a bit bothered is the not so subtle push to get this 39-year-old coach with strikingly chiseled looks out there; very quickly, just as the window for NFL coaching jobs was starting to close. Hurry, only 24 hours remain for extending offers to K.K.  A huge beneficiary of market conditions, as well as a fad that in hindsight will seem soooooo 2019, this Sean McVay understudy is going to have to win quickly in order to shake off his flavor of the month status.   Whether he lasts remains to be seen, especially since his predecessor, Steve Wilks, only lasted one season with Arizona thanks to going 3-13 last season.  Nevertheless, for the next 15 minutes at least, Kliff Kingsbury can enjoy being the NFL’s Tom Grunick from Broadcast News.  

No Doubt one of NFL's "Hottest" Coaching Prospects in 2019

McCARTHYISM MAY NOT BE THE BEST MOVE FOR THE JETS

The Green Bay Packers are the first of the eight NFL teams to fill their head coaching vacancy.  They hired Matt LaFleur, the 39-year-old former offensive coordinator for the Tennessee Titans.  LaFleur appears to be quite emblematic of what everyone in the NFL is supposedly looking for; which is a young, offensive minded coach that has a connection with quarterbacks.  In other words, the next version of what they hope will be the Los Angeles Rams’ wunderkid, Sean McVay.  Green Bay of course has had a five-week head start over the competition in their coaching search, ending thirteen seasons of Mike McCarthy’s service when the team, rather uncharacteristically, fired him on December 2 -- one month before the regular season ended after a humiliating Lambeau loss to the 3-13 Arizona Cardinals. 

The announcement of LaFleur’s hiring will likely ratchet up the stakes with the other seven NFL teams still looking to fill their head coaching positions.  Nobody wants to settle by missing out on the plum candidates, and nobody wants to pretend that giving Jim Caldwell a third chance will be a charm.  Of all the teams looking for a new head coach, few organizations seem to be under the same level of pressure and scrutiny as the New York Jets.

On December 31, “Black Monday,” the Jets parted ways with head coach Todd Bowles after four seasons and a cumulative record of 24-40.  This came as no surprise, as it was a forgone conclusion for many weeks prior to becoming official.  Bowles’s departure was widely linked to his lack of creativity and noticeable lack of energy in his team’s play.  His stolid demeanor only exacerbated the perception of the Jets’ lifelessness by showing little or no emotion regardless of what the game situation was.  His clock management was abysmal, and his long list of questionable game time decisions provided ample fodder for local sports talk radio that often lasted into the middle of the week.  But now the Jets are in a dilemma. They have what they believe is their true “franchise quarterback” in that of Sam Darnold; even going to the extent that maybe, just maybe, they’ve finally found their greatest QB since Joe Namath (Yes, yes, we’ve heard this before haven’t we, but he does show more promise than Browning Nagle or Glenn Foley don’t you think?).  And because of that, they don’t want Darnold’s talent squandered with the wrong head coaching hire.  The fact that Bowles was a defensively oriented coach with a potentially “generational” quarterback in need of proper guidance only accelerated the urgency to show him the door.  But now, the thought of taking chances with first time head coaches like they’ve done in the past with Eric Mangini, Herm Edwards and Al Groh is looking riskier than ever for the embattled Jets general manager, Mike Maccagnan.  What will he do?  The Jets Nation is turning their lonely eyes on this grand decision.

Todd Bowles in a Rare Action Shot Calling Time Out

Maccagnan has been under a significant amount of duress in recent weeks as well. Many of his critics said his head should have rolled with Bowles’s. But the drafting of Darnold in 2018, which involved some deft wrangling by Maccagnan with the Indianapolis Colt to get in better position to nab him, has done much to allow him to stay.  Nevertheless, the noticeable dearth of talent surrounding Darnold, as well as on the defensive side of the ball, has directed plenty of criticism towards Maccagnan.  He can correct this quickly in the off season if he has the gumption to do so.  So far, Maccagnan hasn’t come across as that sweeping front office executive that’s indelibly changed the face of his team.  But with an ungodly sum of $106 million in free cap space to spend, Maccagnan can quickly cement his name in the pantheon of great general managers if he has the backbone to do so.  But what does Mike Maccagnan say to himself when he’s alone looking into the mirror?  Does having this much cash at his disposal terrify him, or is this an opportunity of a lifetime to make his mark?  He seems tentative when talks to the media, more like a professional survivor that you find in any major corporation who deflects giving real answers when asked.  It’s time to see if he’s going to be bold or just play not to lose.  The world has a surfeit of managers who play it safe already, and they shouldn’t be working in the front offices of NFL teams. 

Mike Maccagnan

Pundits haven’t minced words about what’s at stake with the Jets’ head coaching hire – they can’t screw up…period!  And the best way to not screw it up is to go with a known commodity like former Packer’s coach Mike McCarthy.  But what does mean for Maccagnan, does he really think McCarthy is the best man for the job, or does he think McCarthy is the best man for the job because it will be easier to explain in case he doesn’t work out?  What about Kliff Kingsbury, a McVayesque kind of coach under the age of 40 whom the Jets have just been granted permission to interview?  Would such a consideration be too dangerous for not being aligned with the general consensus?   A critical hiring decision shouldn’t be based on appeasement.  It should be based on instinct.   

Take another few minutes to look in the mirror Mike Maccagnan.  But hurry…

Cody Parkey is No Uwe von Schamann

You’ll have to ask my kids to verify this if you don’t believe me, but it’s true.  I said it just before Chicago attempted the game winning field goal last night against Philadelphia that they were going to miss because, “you just can’t put the game in the hands of a guy named Cody Parkey.”  I know that sounds ridiculous, but I can’t help it.  I just think that some things are simply predestined by one’s name. Cody Parkey, as decent as a guy as I’m sure he is, just doesn’t have a name that gets you over the finish line.  He doesn’t.  I wasn’t just mildly puffing in my prognostication that he’d miss.  I knew he would.

One is the Loneliest Number, Especially if You're Cody Parkey

In fact, the NFL place kicker is quite interesting in that it was probably one of the first positions where the player’s name did as much to suggest their success as did their ability.  It was branding by happenstance; a fortuitous circumstance during a specific time in the NFL where kickers who sounded like they were from Dusseldorf fared better than ones who sounded home grown in terms of making the team.  This trend seemed to reach its zenith in the early 1980’s, when just about anything foreign sounding was believed to be better than something produced domestically.  It didn’t even have to be foreign per se, it just had to seem that way. Like Haagen-Dazs ice cream, a brand produced in New Jersey but packaged as if it came Denmark; even having the audacity to print a map of lower Scandinavia on the lid of its containers to further suggest that point.  You’d see the little arrow pointing to a star marking is alleged origin somewhere near the Baltic Sea and think: Damn, this must good!  “Korean” grocery markets were also all the rage at the time, as were female Asian news anchors, and egregiously “European” sounding beers: Hey Barkeep, a round of Lowenbrau’s for me and my friends when you have a second old chum…  And yet, inexplicably, it seemed that NFL general managers had now bought into this branding phenomenon as well.  By 1983 any kicker who sounded like he grew up next door was out, as if he were Breyers Ice Cream.  It’s doubtful that many NFL GM’s at the time would admit to such a practice.  That cunning geo-marketing would somehow influence how they assembled their rosters.  Nevertheless, there was this continuously growing crop of kickers sprouting up with names such as Donald Igwebuike, Rolf Benirschke, Raphael Septien, Jan Stenerud and Raul Allegre to name a few.  Stenarud, the elder statesmen of the bunch and de facto godfather of import-kickers, first entered the league in 1967 and deserves much of the credit with regard to “removing the borders” for NFL place kicking.    But if this was indeed a fad, good luck getting it on record.  Imagine calling out the perennially prickly George Young, the New York Giants’ General Manager from 1979-1997, on this; “Hey George did you sign Ali Haji-Sheikh because everyone is eating Haagen-Dazs and watching Kaity Tong on the Eleven O’clock News?”

“Shut up…”

“You weren’t just covering your crinkled backside on this?”

“I said shut up…”

“Well, at least you still have a quarterback named Phil Simms in case he doesn’t work out.”

Donald Igwebuike

Ali Haji-Sheikh

Uwe von Schamann

Trend or no trend, it still remains uncannily coincidental that internationally sounding kickers were getting snapped up at the same time Benetton sweatshirts and Bonjour jeans were flying off the shelves.  As if a paranoid general manager fearing the wrath of his owner had a better chance of keeping his job if, say, Uwe von Schamann missed a game winning field goal instead the other kicker he’d have signed from Springfield named Joe Woods.  In certain professions there’s just something about a particular guy’s name that evokes confidence more than another particular guy’s name.  Whether it’s fair or not is certainly subject to further debate, but who do you think sounds better for getting your team to the Super Bowl: John Elway or Bubby Brister? 

And that brings us back to Cody Parkey, that vowelly sounding rhyme scheme of a kicker where both his first and last names have that perfect two-syllable pentameter.  He unfortunately sounds much more like a comic strip – or main character of a companion piece to Highlights Magazine’s “Goofus and Gallant” – than a guy who’s going to get you to the next round of the NFL playoffs with his leg.  Should he have been named Cody Parker or Connor Parkey, well, maybe…just maybe…he’d have fared off better.   There’s no logical or statistical explanation for this. There’s just something in a name…

"Danish" Ice Cream Made In Teaneck, New Jersey

ANOTHER MASS SHOOTING IN THOUSAND OAKS, CALIFORNIA

Another mass shooting happened on Wednesday night.  This time it was at the popular Borderline Bar & Grill in Thousand Oaks, California; a city that prides itself in being among the safest municipalities in the country.  It’s clear that crime statistics have no bearing on predicting mass shootings; as these atrocities have proven to happen anywhere.  In fact, most of them happen where they’re not supposed to happen – you know, “safe” communities like Littleton, Newtown and Thousand Oaks.  The identity of the gunman was just released, a 28-year-old male named Ian David Long.  By dinner time you’ll probably have forgotten his name – likely upstaged by some petulant tweet from our Narcissist in Chief or perhaps by closing your eyes in the hope that someday these horrific shootings will just end.  I’ve been trying it for years.  It doesn’t work.

So far twelve are dead in this shooting, including the gunman, as well as a 29-year veteran from the Ventura County Sheriff’s Office, Sgt. Ron Helus.  The remaining victims are presumed to be young adults, as the Borderline was a popular night spot among local colleges and universities.  As with every time this happens, the debate about guns will rise to surface for a day or two; though its voice continues to get drowned out for three main reasons: 1) This seems to occur now on a biweekly basis, and thus, we condition ourselves into a false denial that, statistically, our children are still more likely to get struck by lightning than die in a mass shooting.  What else can we do but block this out?  We probably won’t die eating dinner at Applebees, right?  2) That The Left offers nothing but rhetoric since they’re covertly owned by the gun lobby, while The Right takes a hard stand on protecting the Second Amendment since they’re overtly owned by the gun lobby.  And 3) Anti-gun organizations have been largely ineffective.  Most gun control legislation is completely toothless; written for the sole purpose of scoring political brownie points without enticing the wrath of the NRA and its lesser known brethren. Background checks do nothing.  Most of the weapons used in these senseless slaughters are purchased legally anyway.  Guns exist to kill people.  The old, tired arguments we’ve heard ad nauseum such as if only there was somebody armed at the time this happened, or that a good guy with a gun is better than a bad guy with a gun, or that a man with knife can cause as much carnage as a man with a gun don’t hold up.  They never have.   On the surface people may nod in agreement about these hollow points, but privately, when one takes a good hard look in the mirror, the fact that this is an utter lie can’t be denied.  You may fool your neighbor, but you can’t fool yourself.

To dedicate time, energy and resources to “understanding” what made Ian David Long tick is doing our society a disservice. Of course we’re curious, but the more these perpetrators get their names in lights, even posthumously, the more likely it is to motivate the next aspiring mass murderer in relatively short order.  It’s come out that Long was a former Marine and may have been suffering from Post-Traumatic-Stress Disorder, or PTSD; only the world’s most convenient diagnosis to when former soldiers commit crimes like this.  You can see it’s already being set up that, once again, this latest mass shooting is about mental health instead of insanely easy access to guns.  No doubt our president will be tweeting that exact point soon enough if he hasn’t already.  And since we’ll never concede to the obvious truth that a society saturated with an estimated 300 million fire arms gets innocent people killed, we go through the perfunctory exercise of identifying other possible causes that fuel such incidents.  It’s just another lie, and yet we still look the other way regardless.  I’m sure you have the same percentage of violent sociopaths in Japan as you do in the United States, only they can’t get access to guns; which is why you never hear about mass shootings coming out of there, or anywhere else with similar laws for that matter.  Maybe they cold-cock some poor guy on the street, or stab someone on the Tokyo subway on a rare occasion, but the damage and frequency of such incidents is infinitesimal in comparison to what happens in America.  

This Picture Could Be Generic, However This Is From Wednesday Night In Thousand Oaks, California Where 12 Died

Mass shootings have become an outlet, an answer, a calamitously grandiose way for the angry and ill adjusted to end the dead end.  Everyone’s messed up to some extent, they’re just incredibly more dangerous when they get their hands on a gun.  You want an end to the violence?  Start by ending the denial.  

Hall of Fame Should Say "No" to T.O.

Terrell Owens, better known at “T.O.” is among the finalists for 2018 NFL Hall of Fame vote taking place on Saturday.  The other finalists being considered besides Owens are Ray Lewis, Brian Urlacher, Edgerrin James, Randy Moss, Isaac Bruce, John Lynch and Brian Dawkins. 

Nobody doubts T.O.’s talent as a receiver. He was big target at 6’3” and 226 pounds, physical, had good hands, and when his head was straight, a hard worker.   Over his fifteen-year career where he played for San Francisco (8 years), Philadelphia (2 years), Dallas (3 years), Buffalo (1 year) and Cincinnati (1 year), he had solid statistics; with more than 1000 receiving yards in nine of those fifteen seasons, eight seasons with ten or more touchdowns, and all but one season (49.3% in 2008), where his completion percentage was below fifty percent.   In addition, Owens was a Pro Bowl selection for five of those fifteen years, a third of his career.  To even last fifteen years in the NFL is an amazing feat.  Heck, to even keep a job these days for fifteen years is an amazing feat; much less being a starting wide receiver in the world’s most violent sport.  And while the numbers don’t lie, they don’t always offer the whole truth either; which is why I am not entirely convinced that T.O. makes it into the Hall of Fame.

I say this simply because most will not recall T.O.’s brilliance nearly as well as they’ll recall his shenanigans.  The first thing that crosses my mind when Terrell Owens is mentioned is the game on September 24, 2000, when playing in Dallas, T.O., who was with San Francisco at the time, sprinted out to the iconic star at midfield, arms extended, looking up at God as if He had scheduled appointment to watch him bask in self-aggrandizement after scoring a touchdown.  Shortly thereafter, Emmitt Smith, a doubtless Hall of Famer, countered Owens’s antagonism by doing the same thing.  Rather than look heavenward, Smith emphatically placed the ball on the star as if to say, “you don’t that in this house, mother&*$#@%.”  One would think that would be enough to put such silliness to rest.  But no, not T.O.  He scored another touchdown.  Just a little one-yard garbage time reception with 4:05 remaining the game, but nevertheless, that was enough to go out and repeat what he started before.  He was rewarded with getting decked by Dallas safety George Teague.  A minor brawl ensued.  Teague was ejected.  Dallas lost 41-24, and despite scoring two touchdowns the only thing anyone remembers about Owens that day was his immaturity.  It was a game, like many others, that served as a microcosm of Owens’s entire career.  And if that’s what you remember the most, one has to wonder how much the Football Establishment wants that kind of player enshrined in Canton.  Incidentally, another wide receiver on the 49ers quietly scored two touchdowns in that game as well.  His name is Jerry Rice.

"Are you there God?  It's me, T.O."

Even if Terrell Owens played with Jerry Rice’s humility, is he still a Hall of Famer?  While there’s no firm definition of what constitutes a Hall of Fame player, there is a general consensus that a Hall of Fame player isn’t just great, but one whose greatness singlehandedly elevates the play of those around him.  A player who makes people better through a contagious aura of sheer will.  Such players could be flawed.  In fact, many of them were.  Lawrence Taylor, Charles Haley and Michael Irvin, all somewhat recent Hall of Fame inductees, had their public off-the-field issues.  It didn’t matter with those guys though, they knew their play spoke for itself and the extracurricular riff-raff would eventually blow over.  If their egos sought the adulation of the fans, the answer was to simply play well.  T.O. certainly played well much more often than not, he just couldn’t understand that was enough to get what he so desperately needed.  But he also lacked that contagious aura, remaining a loner instead of a leader.

Where it gets interesting is that, unlike Taylor, Haley and Irvin, it’s been well reported, thanks largely by T.O. himself, that Owens has never had any off-the-field incidents.  No DUI’s, drug arrests, assaulting of women or killing of dogs.  And yet, despite Owen’s self-proclaimed moral turpitude, his compulsion to grab a cheerleader’s pom-poms in front of the TV cameras is far more reprehensible.   Yes, Lawrence Taylor drove drunk a lot, but that’s who he was; a badass that drove 120 MPH under the influence.  T.O.?  He’s just needy.  A tormented narcissist whose “bucket” has a perpetual leak.  And while Owens may have to answer fewer questions than Lawrence Taylor when they reach the Pearly Gates, in football, a drunk driving badass is still more Hall of Fame worthy than a pathological self-promoter.

T.O. has also never won a Super Bowl.  He did play in one in the 2004 season when he was with Philadelphia.  A game he’s yet to get over.  Though there are plenty of other Hall of Famers who didn’t win Super Bowls either.  Guys like Dan Marino or Dan Fouts for instance.  The difference, of course, is that Fouts and Marino made their teams perennial playoff contenders with fluctuating levels of talent.  This is what the great ones do.  Most Hall of Famers usually play for only one or two teams. Owens played for five, essentially collecting a paycheck in his final seasons in Buffalo and Cincinnati the way Rip Torn pays the rent with bit parts in a raunchy comedy.   Such players stay because their organization sees their value.  They don’t want them to leave, and they can anticipate the slew of vituperative repercussions if they fail to do so.  T.O. was jettisoned, repeatedly, for his alienating of teammates and putting vanity ahead of football.  How is that Hall of Fame material?  In fact, if 2005, Philadelphia suspended Terrell Owens for the final four games of the season, where, in the cruelest of ironies, the NFL’s most attention starved player was upstaged by his agent, Drew Rosenhaus, in his infamous press conference by responding “next question, next question,” to nearly every inquiry about the matter from the press.  It’s about the only thing anyone remembers from that fiasco.  He never played for the Eagles again.

Rosenhaus speaking on T.O.'s behalf: "NEXT QUESTION..."

T.O. had three respectable years with the Dallas Cowboys after his stint in Philly, but they never got far in the playoffs, if at all.  He appeared to enter a more vulnerable stage of his life, making several teary interviews with reporters during that period; seemingly aware that his time was running out and that he had burned lots of bridges.  He played two more years after that with the Bills and Bengals.

Owens says that if he is inducted into the Hall of Fame, he doesn’t want to go in as a 49er despite that being where he played in his prime.  Going in as, say, a Cowboy, Bill or Bengal would, symbolically at least, erase many of his career’s finest moments.  Then again, that is ultimate Terrell Owens conundrum. The harder he tries to make us remember him, the more we actually forget.

The beautiful simplicity of Terrell Owens just playing football.