Once again, America finds
itself engulfed in the suffocating fog of yet
another “Great White Hopes” era, another grim
resurgence of privilege and prejudice that
routinely stains the very fabric of our
society.
It never went away, it was
merely unfashionable, but not any longer!
In the arena of politics, this
lamentable reality is glaringly exemplified by
the grotesque coronation of this divided
nation’s most glorified Great White Hope…
Donald Trump, backed by his loyal MAGA Klan.
Their stranglehold on power, fueled by bigotry
and nostalgia for a whitewashed past, serves
as a chilling reminder of the depths to which
our nation can sink.
But the rot doesn’t stop there.
Cast your gaze upon the world of sports, where
the echo chamber of racial bias reverberates
loudly.
Hard court lady
hoopster, Catlin Clark, is a baaaad
woman,
no question; she will redefine women’s
Basketball, but she is, no fault of her own,
unquestionably both a Great White Hope and a
Trojan Horse, stuffed full of the expectations
of MAGA fans who want to see her get paid, and see her put
those mean, nasty lesbian Black girls back in
their 2nd place.
MAGA fans, and there are
millions, love to see her talk stuff to Black
women. It’s that simple.
Catlin is Larry Bird,
and Bird was undeniably a Great White Hope,
who saved the NBA because he had enough
talent, and enough game
to
battle Magic Johnson.
Witness the nauseating
spectacle of White quarterbacks, bathed in the
adoration of a predominantly White fan base
and a sports press that mirrors their
complexion. It’s a sickening charade, a
reminder that even in the supposedly
meritocratic arena of athletics, privilege and
pigment still dictate who receives the lion’s
share of acclaim.
President, Astronaut, and
Quarterback. Alpha-male positions have been
traditionally reserved for White guys, only.
From the hallowed halls of the
presidency to the hallowed turf of the
gridiron, positions of alpha-male dominance
have long been the exclusive domain of White
men. Frederick Douglass, a titan of intellect
and integrity, should have shattered this
ignominious tradition over a century ago, and
been America’s 1st Black President. Yet, the
entrenched forces of White supremacy, like
petulant children guarding their toys, refused
to relinquish their grip on power.
This past weekend,
the theater of testosterone and touchdowns,
the NFL, found itself thrust into turmoil when
two Black men, Atlanta Falcons head coach
Raheem Morris and General Manager Terry Fontenot, dared to defy the
shackles of convention. In a move that rocked
the league to its core, they brazenly snubbed
the approval of the white plantation owner,
Arthur Blank, by drafting ebony Signal Caller,
Michael Penix, Jr. out of Washington
University. This audacious act came hot on the
heels of the team’s earlier signing of the
heralded Great White Hope, Kirk Cousins,
leaving pundits and press alike agog, branding
the move as unfathomable and asinine. It’s
clear that much of the vitriol hurled their
way stemmed from the perceived an affront to
the White QB establishment.
The news blindsided Cousins,
revealed to him mere moments before the
fateful pick was made. Are we to take this
seriously? These are the same fans who
bristled with indignation when Aaron Rodgers
and Russell Wilson dared to assert their
influence on draft decisions, clamoring for
them to “shut up and play.”
Yet now, suddenly, a player
with a solitary playoff victory in a career
spanning twelve years is deemed worthy of
notification and approval for a transaction.
The hypocrisy is as glaring as the stadium
lights on a Sunday night.
The gridiron, that hallowed
battleground where gladiators clash, has long
been a bastion of WASP dominance. It’s a
legacy born of fear and prejudice, where the
notion of a Black signal caller was anathema
to the established order. It’s no coincidence
that it’s taken an eternity to see the
emergence of three Black quarterbacks selected
within the first six picks of the NFL draft.
The white men in power were
hell-bent on keeping the playing field as pale
as possible.
Enter the Denver Broncos’ brain
trust, the Sam Walton Family, executing a
breathtaking about-face. They pivoted from the
“uppity, pompous” Russell Wilson, who dared to
challenge the status quo, to reach for their
own Great White Hope in Bo Nix, a White Signal
Caller. The message is clear: in the game of
football, just as in society, the entrenched
forces of privilege will stop at nothing to
maintain their grip on power, even if it means
stifling the talent and potential of those
deemed unworthy by their narrow standards.
I toil away in the
educational salt mines alongside a good ol’
boy Libertarian and let me tell you, he hit
the nail square on the head. Picture this: Bo
Nix at quarterback for the Broncos, and
suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, the team
needs a white receiver. Boom, bang - you’ve
got yourself Butch
Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, or better yet,
the Dukes
of Hazzard reincarnated.
Bo and Luke, tear up the field in a vintage
orange and blue Charger, the Confederate flag
fluttering defiantly from the roof, just like
in the iconic TV series.
And the merchandising frenzy
that follows? It’s like a tidal wave crashing
onto the Walmart shelves across the
seven-state Rocky Mountain Empire. Tee shirts,
mugs, caps, pajamas – you name it, it’ll be
adorned with the bronzed visages of our
newfound gridiron heroes.
The White fanbase is starved
for sports heroes who look like them, and some
dudes from the Extreme Kite flying or extreme
Tiddly Winks teams on ESPN 8.
Black presidents and
quarterbacks become the boogeymen in
barbershops, churches, sports bars, and on gun
ranges across MAGA land, the scapegoats for a
perceived loss of their precious country.
Spoiled brats and paper tiger bullies, that’s
what most MAGA men are – and here’s the
kicker, a lot of white men are MAGA men too,
if you catch my drift.
Sure, not everyone who voted
for Trump is a card-carrying racist, but let’s
face it: every MAGA racist proudly casts their
ballot for him. And within the sports world?
It’s rife with Trump supporters, from players
to owners to the media to the fans, like a
toxic undercurrent coursing through the veins
of our national pastime. And that, my friend,
is not just conjecture – it’s a cold, hard
fact.
