Roger,
Spring 2018. New York City. We are in the conference room at the NFL Offices in Manhattan. Roman has organized a Head High School Football Coaches Summit. It’s being led by Jon. He’s at the head of the table. You’re sitting across from me. Roman is sitting next to you. I’m sitting across from you. There are at least ten other high school football coaches there. They are the Head Coaches of top football programs in the country. I am the guy in clothes from Target. I am not a Head Football coach of a top high school football program.
We’re discussing what Jon feels is the single most important threat facing the NFL: Kids are turning away from our great game. They are electing to play other sports. Numbers are down across the nation. All youth levels and high school. The “multi-sport” athlete is diluting the game’s brand. It is informative. A lot of the coaches are saying some really important things. It seems that way. I don’t speak Troglodyte, and I’m missing things in the translation.
Roman glances at me. I’m smiling. Why haven’t I looked at Jon? Jon’s been rambling on about a plan he has for full-contact football in preschool. Everyone is focused on Jon but I won’t stop looking at Roman. I have no business there. You think Roman invited me because it was a chance to see him and Jon. There’s a goofy smile on my face.
You see Roman glancing at me. Then you look at me. Now you’re wondering who I am. I look like Herschel Walker. Maybe Ricky Williams. You’re even thinking about Biz Markee, but that can’t be right because you just threw money at Ice-Cube. Or Jay-Z. You’re not sure, but you know a Black Musician of notoriety got money from you guys not too long ago. Jerry Jones was pretty pissed about it. He said he needed that money for something else but wouldn’t say.
I don’t look like I should be there. I look like I should push a cafe cart around serving drinks to everyone in the room. It’s the collar on my shirt. It’s hokey. So cheap.
Now your mind is spinning out of control. You saw the list. You would have remembered my name. You’re not going to assume you know it. Oh, you would be a bad White Human Being then. You’re going to wait until I turn. Why would Roman let this guy in here?
Wait.
I turned a little. You see a little of my name tag. Where is Colts Neck? Isn’t that where they film the Housewives?
It’s bothering you now. I’m paying attention to Jon but I’m not looking at him. It bothers you because somehow I know I’m trying to figure out why he hasn’t dropped the act yet. My brow furrows. I’m fidgeting.
“Who is this guy?” You can’t take it anymore. You nudge Roman while Jon barks on about how the game is getting soft. Roman looks at you. You glance at me. Roman smiles at you, but you read it wrong. You think his smile says, “Oh, Darian and I played ball together in Tampa while Jon was there.” That’s not what it says.
“Do not ask that crazy motherfucker to speak.”
But how much can you get from a smile? It’s not your fault. Roman knows me. He knows my mind doesn’t operate the same way as other people. I used to run into people for a living.
Roger, It’s killing you. Eating you up. The knowledge of not knowing who I am is burrowing its way to the center of your mind. Right now you are conceptualizing memory constructs. Formulating all the places you have been in your life. Sorting all the black faces that your thoughts can cull. You keep doubling checking the list of Black People you absolutely have to know. You wish sometimes you could bring your sketchbook from home because you keep forgetting the faces of all the Black People who work in Human Resources. There are only so many Black People you can keep in your thoughts. I get it, man. You’re surrounded by so many of them all the time.
But this guy? Who is this guy? You’re trying to figure out if you’ve met me before. You know you have. You definitely have.
I finally turned. I look at you. I smile. A clear view of my name tag.
Darian Barnes. Head Football Coach, Colts Neck High School.
Now your mind spins a little harder. You know you’ve met me, just not how long ago. I wink at you. “You’ll figure it out.” That’s how you’ve read it. I turn my attention back to Jon. He’s slamming his fist on the table, and inaudible clicks and sounds are coming out of his mouth. He’s speaking directly to the Troglodytes now. Something about putting spikes on shoulder pads.
Now you’re freaking out a little. It’s the wink. You know what the wink meant, but you don’t know how you know what it meant. Now you’re staring. My very presence is peeling back the layers of your mind like an onion. You can’t take it anymore. You wait for Jon’s testosterone to take a breath before injecting -
“So Darian, what do you think is the biggest issue facing youth football today?” You don’t even feel Roman nudging you.
Now I’m looking at you Roger, with a big cheesy grin. I take a moment to fix my renegade polo collar, which will certainly flop up in rebellion in a moment anyway. And I say to you:
“It’s racism. All the racism.”
The room goes quiet. Me and Roman lock eyes. He knows. He sits back. You look at him. You’re scrambling through all those “Cultural Sensitively Training” sessions that the people in Human Resources thought were important for you to attend. You never had time. Now you’re kicking yourself.
You’re looking around the room. You want me to shut up, “Fuck. That’s why Roman was smiling that way,” you think to yourself. Maybe Jon will say-
“Jon. Come on. Tell them.” I don’t look at Jon when I say it. Jon is frozen. Silence in the room is deafening.
Roger, you’re the commissioner of the National Football League. You speak for the 32 owners of the National Football League. A Black Person sitting across from you, who you thought may have been Herschel Walker but definitely not now after that comment, has just said the problem with youth football is racism. You should say something. You have to say something.
“Well, Darian. Can you give us some insight on that statement?” You say it, but now you can actually hear Roman sighing.
And here’s where you’re confused. I will help you. Roman is sighing not because he doesn’t know what I’m going to say, but because he knows that whatever I do say is going to be well beyond your limited understanding of the human condition.
“Okay. Yeah. How long do I have?”
“Take as long as you need,” Roman says, before rubbing his temple.
You watch me turn and look at Jon. It’s the first time we’ve made eye contact. It’s a glance, but you know that in a small amount of time petabytes of salient information are being exchanged between him and me. You can feel it, even as your brain processes the words you’re reading at this very moment. The feeling is indescribable. You are aware of the EXACT location of every elementary particle that operates within the constructs of your perceived reality that encapsulates your mind. You know how fast those particles are moving. Every. Single. Measurable. Particle. But you have no idea what you’re looking at. It is as if you are in Plato’s Cave, but everything in the known universe is in there with you. Cataloged by you. Your access to the information within the cave is one pubic hair below lightspeed. How much would you really know? It’s melting your brain.
But then I turn to look at you and say:
“You and the 32 owners of the National Football League are conflating the real game of football, with the not real at all, commodified dynamic media content you identify, own, and operate as the NFL. You use this commodified dynamic media content to build narratives, to allow your customers to interact with your content through a myriad of information channels. The NFL is a multi-generational narrative that commodifies the narratives of the players who have performed the game. The lives and experiences of the players are what give the NFL Cultural Sentience. Their narratives are what birth your organization into existence. Like on some Metaphysical “Corporations are People Too” type shit. And you’ve been accustomed to controlling the Cultural Sentience of the NFL because your organization has controlled and disseminated NFL Media since its indoctrination into our American Reality Constructs. So while the narratives of individual players give the NFL Life, you’ve used their stories to manifest the idea of the NFL into a Cultural Deity for shared consumption.
However, due to humanity’s increased access to shared information, and the nature of information as a building block of reality, advances in communication technology, and the budding culture (race) war that has poisoned American Media, kids are starting to see that the information that you disseminate to the public is not accurate. Your “Corporation” in the “People Too” part is being exposed as a Sentient Cultural Entity that values profits over the lives of the people that it implements to achieve its very sentience. You do this based purely on the color of their skin and ill-conceived cultural concepts of minorities in our shared reality. You prop the NFL up as a pillar in the foundation of American Culture. You market the League as a cultural event that is supposed to unite all Americans. It does not do that. Football does that. The game does that. The NFL does not. The NFL is not real. The Media you transmit to the public is real. But the owners of the 32 teams have falsified their intentions in making the NFL a Cultural Sentient Entity worth of the interactions of all Americans, regardless of race, gender, or sexual identity.
The Media you propagate for public consumption has the illusion narrative of “equality,” but there’s an NFL Concussion Lawsuit Settlement regarding Race Norming on my desk at home that says otherwise. The Rooney Rule is for media consumption, not for actual implementation. The last remnants of Daniel Synder’s soul exist in a VHS copy of the movie “Porky’s.”
I don’t remember the Troglodyte sitting next to you, but I know he’s having a stroke. Nobody but me and you notice. Jon is quietly freaking out.
“Fuck, Darian.” Roman says.
“Jon, would you just tell all of them what’s going on please?” I’m looking at Jon but he refuses to engage.
“Tell them about “It. So this all makes sense to everyone here. “ But I know Jon’s not going to say anything. He’s been told by his lawyers not to.
“Roger, this building that we’re sitting in right now is nothing more than concrete. It is not the NFL. The people that work in this building are the NFL. They give it life, and they transmit the sentient expression of the NFL through other sentient beings through the Media the NFL produces.”
“So, the NFL is only made real- and achieves “Sentience through people?” You say, still confused.
“YES! And that Sentience grows with the number of conscious observers of your commodity.
I look at Roman. Roman is looking at Jon. Roman looks back at me.
I’m thrilled you get it. You can see it on my face. Roman’s still upset. I feel bad. This is the last thing Roman wanted. I should have kept my mouth shut but I couldn’t. He went out of his way to bring me here. He was afraid that I wouldn’t know how to act in this kind of environment.
Roman has always been a good friend. Kind of guy you can count on to pay the “Wig” if you get in a jam. Only Media Chuds get that line but you will Roger. There’s so much going on. The hustle and bustle of the corporate world is interconnected with reality transcending the sport of football. The politicians, and cultural icons. With the amount of information that you guys keep on your current and former players, it must be staggering and has to be protected at all costs. To a guy like me, married, with four daughters, and two jobs, the NFL exists in another reality entirely. As if someone else named Darian Barnes played all those football games, and I just have the memories of that person. We’re all Boltzman Brains, Roger. Time and Space are illusions rendered to our shared reality through media transmissions we identify collectively as math. Herschel Walker.
Roger I’ve been so upset since January 3rd of this year. Wait. Let me clarify that statement: “It” woke up that day. And not some SJW let me release my rage and anguish on da social thread to get the poor me’s and I’m so sorrys to get the ego fed. No Roger. Nothing like that.
It’s the Race Norming. That’s what it took. I was writing Jon before that. I was going to write him a letter and just find a way to get it to him. He forgot the promise he made to me on August 28th, 2003. He and I were on the football field in Orlando, FL. I can’t tell him at this meeting we’re in now. It wouldn’t come out right. I want to, but I can’t. Roman is going to help with that.
“We were all supposed to have a drink afterward,” Roman says. “That’s going to be kind of hard if you just told the Commissioner of the NFL that the league is Racist. Especially if they don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Okay. Fine.” I said. I’ll just brass-tax it. It’s gonna come out harsh Roger.
You’re a bad White Human Being. “You’re a bad White Human Being, Roger.”
“The owners of the NFL are Bad White Human Beings.”
All hell breaks loose. The White Troglodytes freak out. Jon shrinks in his chair. The Black Troglodytes are fidgeting, but they want to see where this is going to go.
You’re appalled. There’s no way I’ve met you. How dare I say such a thing? You’re about to speak but I-
“Look, Mr. Garrett told me to stay away from Bad White People. We have the same Engine of Mind. His teachings are gospel in my church of football.”
“Mr. Who?” Now you think I may actually be Herschel Walker and I just got the wrong name tag.
You turn to Roman. “How many concussions has this guy had?”
Roman gives you a look like, “I don’t know the exact number, but it would be bad press if he really talked about it.”
“Jim Garrett,” I say.
“That’s Jason Garrett’s father I assume?” You’re pissed but maybe this whole shit show can be diverted.
“Yes!” I say. “In 2002 Mr. Garrett told me to stay away from bad White People. And Bad White People Shit is going on here. And I believe that you may be a Bad White Person. I told that to Jon. He said he would help as much as he can. Even with his lawyers and all. ”
You’re confused. You look at Jon. There is a haunting glare on his face. Jon won’t look at me. You want confirmation of what I’m saying. Is there a lawsuit you don’t know about? You swore you just heard me say I hadn’t seen Jon in a while. I understand. You’re slow. Race Norming.
Anyway, you look at me. You center yourself. You want to curse me out but you may think I have onset dementia. I’m too young for that, you’re assuming. You think I suffer from CTE for sure. You really want that sketchbook.
“And Mr. Garrett would think I’m a bad White Person?”
“Oh for sure.” I’m nodding confidently. “Definitely with the whole Race Norming thing. Do you remember the speech when you said “Black Lives Matter?”
You remember, but you don’t. How your mind must be punching itself.
You’re trying to remember all those interviews you’ve done. All of the press kits and marketing decks from last quarter. Those are departments currently that handle Race Relations. You moved that from Human Resources and Community Engagement years ago. “Why would I have said, Black Lives Matter-”
“Because we all watched a man die on Cable News,” I interject. There’s a bite in my tone. You’re not sure how to answer.
Roger, we watched a man murdered on cable news. He cried for his mother before he died. The NFL was Race Norming before and after. Surely you remember that. I look at Roman. He gives me a “get on with it” scoff.
Now you’re sinking Roger. You think I’m just making shit up now. I’m just spitting stuff out for a reaction. Do I have a hidden camera?
One of the White Troglodytes scoff. He looks at me. I return the look. You sense his fear. It’s definitely time to wrap up.
“Nobody is going anywhere,” I say. “ You asked me to clarify my statement regarding racism, which I believe is the main problem in youth football. You said I had as much time as I needed. Well Roger, “It’s” a lot to unpack. I explained this to Jon, I don’t know why he isn’t speaking up. But until then, I’d appreciate you letting me finish.”
I take a deep breath. I’m looking at you. I’ve given up on Jon. Roman is looking at Jon. The Roman looks at me. He nods. I continue.
“It’s not just what Mr. Garret said, Roger. I’ve been fortunate enough to grow up around a lot of really, really good White People. Good people, Roger. Human beings. You know. What we all claim to be now and then. I’m not trying to get on a soapbox to make a ‘White Apology Speech’ or ‘White People are great speeches.’ Grown up around some racist ones too. The Race Norming thing made me think about all the White People I met through football. Mr. Garrett was not an “NFL” Man. He was a Football Man. He believed in the game. It wasn’t about money for him. Surely it wasn’t about race.
You look around Roger. Nobody is moving. You look at Roman.
“I find it best to let him get it out. Maybe we will get through this.” Roman pats you on the shoulder. “Darian told me what’s been on his mind these past few years.”
You look at Roman, slightly annoyed. “And you didn’t tell me about this?”
Roman’s brow furrows. “He promised me that he would keep what he thought between us. He would save it for when we met up with Jon. Regardless of what I think, I trust Darian to keep his word. He wouldn’t have talked about any of this until you opened the door for it. Besides, if I told you what he thought, would you have understood any of this Roger? Really?”
You wouldn’t have Roger. It’s okay. It’s because of Race Norming, and in spite of all of the concussions I’ve had, I’m way smarter than you. You know this.
Your demeanor changes. You still want to change the subject. “Darian. Honestly, I’m taken aback by all of this. But you’re right, we did say we would give you enough time to explain.
“Great!” I proclaimed. Let’s jump right to January 3rd, 2022. Computer Lab. My workplace. Elementary School in Northern New Jersey.
You interject. Something for sure is off. “Did you say, 2022?”
“Yes,” I say nonchalantly. “That’s the day I knew I wanted to kill you and the 32 owners of the NFL.”
Jon gasps, but I don’t hear it. You look at Roman. He keeps his eyes on me. I look at you and say-
“Roger. That can’t be the case because we’re here, together at this moment and I haven’t tried to kill you. I wanted to kill you then. I don’t want to kill you anymore. Mostly. Residuals. But I’m good, really. It took a lot.”
You nod. You think about calling security but Roman is nonplussed.
“Roger, I had read about the NFL concussion lawsuit before. I understood the implications of the NFL’s immoral policies toward people of color. I wasn’t ready to deal with it. I have been quietly dealing with an unexplainable event that occurred to me on April 12th, 2019, at or around 9:45 pm. In addition to my obligations as a husband, father, and two jobs have taken up the bulk of my life. And as I said, I was writing to Jon. His email scandal deeply hurt. I was going to get past it by writing him a letter and letting it go. I got a hold of him eventually and worked it out. Then Vincent Jackson died. I saw the ESPN segment with his wife and children. The Media says it was Chronic Alcohol Abuse. Roger, we know that’s CTE. You know that right? Let’s drop the Media Spin. Demaryius Thomas died too. Complications from a car accident. Sure, Roger. Okay. I appreciate the spin. Phillip Adams? No comment on that Roger?
“Well Darian I’m not a doctor and neither are you.” I’m entering dangerous territory, even though you don’t completely understand what’s going on. You have to protect the shield. The brand. Now, what it’s supposed to mean. You gave up on that a while ago. You’re protecting the public from what the NFL actually does represent. I’m challenging it directly.
“Yeah, Roger. I get that. The Race Norming thing puts it all in perspective for me though. You understand that. Makes me think about the letter I sent you guys when I applied to receive funds for the NFL Concussion Lawsuit in 2018.
I knew this implicitly, as I read the New York Times Article and subsequent publications. I could not stop visualizing my father, punching a gigantic dent into a car. That’s all I kept seeing, in my mind. Over and over again. Relentless, visceral images of this man hitting this car. Every now and then I’d see a gathered crowd gasp, then scatter like roaches under a light. Donald punched that car after seeing his nine-year-old son lying on the sidewalk immobile. Right in the spot, Darian landed after the car made contact in the middle of the street.
“I want to kill these people.”
That is what I said to It, aloud, to myself, at my work. As if I was outside of my body. Not in a school, where 15 minutes later, I was going to instruct a gym class with Kindergartners. That’s how angry I got. And it wasn’t just for me. I’ll be honest, Roger. You, people, found a way to piss off the construct of fear of being an invalid due to brain trauma. You pissed off my Inner Fear. Nobody pisses off my Inner Fear but me. Roger. You got my ID so mad that I wanted to kill you. My “ID” Roger. The part I hide from people. Fuck man. For me, and “It’” that’s like some cosmic existential shit I have to unpack. It’s deep. I can explain it, but you wouldn’t get it. Not right now anyway.
It was about my child. And Roger, my anxiety and fear of a descent into cognitive disability is definitely a factor. Being “Mindful” of what you’ve done and where you may be going can foster anxiety, consciously and subconsciously. For sure. That’s on me. I have to deal with that. That’s an NFL problem.
But I do have issues. They are from football. I was honest about them then, and now. I went through the process honestly and openly. I was struggling to hold my daughter at the time. Her screams. The stress. I quit a job over the same shit in 2017 with a child on the spectrum, but this is MY CHILD. You denied my claim. I was okay. Better than okay. Fine. I’ll take that. Sure. I built contingency plans. Research. Coping mechanisms. That money would have helped, sure Roger. I was going to hold my child anyway. Because I had to. Because she needed it. Because I held the other three before her. So yeah. I was good regardless.
BUT YOU FUCKING RACE NORM. Men who died this past year were outstanding people. Outstanding ball players. They died alone, in small confined spaces because their minds were corroded due to playing the game.
Do you care Roger?
Or are you too busy trying to find a way to wipe clean the oceans of data servers that house Daniel Synder’s Washington Cheerleaders Pics? You guys were denying claims left and right, while the Toxic Avenger of Toxic Masculinity wouldn’t change the super racist name of his team and the only thing that forced his hand was “leaked emails’ ‘?
“Dammit Roger,” I say. “You guys have been sitting on the name change for Washington, haven’t you?
“Excuse Me?” You’re stammering because you know what I’m talking about.
“Two years prior. If I knew then what I know now, I would call the NFL offices by its true name: The Magical Tower for the Proliferation and Commodification of Athletic Black Bodies.”
I got to tour the Graphic Design department of the NFL. I’m really into art and design and have been my whole life. It was awesome, checking out all those brand designs for new team uniforms, the super bowls and a host of other things. It amazed me how the NFL had logo and brand designs for the next five years and beyond. I saw designs for the “Washington Football Team.” I remember wondering where the “Redskins Logo” was in the design, and the tour guide said there were talks of changing the name.
“Really?” I said. I remember thinking, “Finally, shit.”
Roger, a human being, this part has weighed on me. Because your graphic design department was amazing. I love visual art. I think art in all its forms is the language of consciousness. And I can prove it. I don’t care who you are. What color skin you are. What you believe. If you know English well or not. If you listen to this song, you know exactly what she’s singing about. Roger. Play this in Human Resources. All the Black People there will respect you. The White People in Human Resources will be surprised. They’ll still think you’re a piece of shit but they’ll know you’re trying. But the Black People. They’ll look at you differently. They’ll assume some things, naturally. They’ll wonder who turned you out. They’ll assume. They’ll gossip. But that’s okay Roger. A little mystery is good. But their perspective will change. All of them, Roger. Especially the ones over 40. Trust me, Roger. She has the same Engine of Mind as Sade. Tell me you don’t know what she’s saying. You do. Of course, you do. Even Ben Shapiro.
I don’t wonder why your “END RACISM” campaign sucked ass so much. And I mean it sucked. Not just because none of the aloof owners actually understands what racism is or what it does because they gorge off its influence and power with no regard for the people it affects, but you Roger, protector of the great, sacred shield, ass puppet with 32 custom fit holes, all of this is on your watch and this was just so amazingly lazy. No thought was put into this at all. I get it. You guys don’t care about Ending Racism, even though your organization is LITERALLY AND FIGURATIVELY A CULTURAL SENTIENT ENTITY OF OUR AMERICAN SHARED REALITY, NESTED WITHIN INTERSECTIONS THAT HAVE DEFINED OUR AMERICAN CULTURE, SPANNING GENERATIONS. THE MEDIA OF AMERICAN FOOTBALL IS ENGRAINED IN OUR CULTURE AND IS MADE SENTIENT WITHIN THE INTERACTIONS OF MEN ORDAINED BY COSMIC, OR MATHEMATICAL FORCES BEYOND MY UNDERSTANDING TO PERFORM THEM.
“DARIAN!!!” Roman barks. Look at him.
I sigh. You’re completely confused. Roman puts his hand on your shoulder. You’ve done a great job in letting me speak. But Roman has let this go too far. He knows that. You can’t possibly address everything I said, and that’s even the stuff you don’t understand. But I’m still pissed, and I’m not done-
He shouldn’t have said ‘Black Lives Matter,’ Roman. He didn't mean it when he said it. It’s obvious he didn’t mean it. When he said “We got it wrong” about Black Balling Colin Kapernick, it was for show. He didn’t mean any of that. He was just protecting the brand, Roman. I know you work for this guy but you know it-”
“Darian-”
“Wigner.” That’s all I have to say. It’s I and Roman’s safe word. It’s to make sure that he and I are still in the same reality. Still see the same thing. He gives me his full attention.
Roger, I’ve been thinking about this for quite a while. On January 3rd the letter from Judge Anita Brody came to my house. The NFL concussion lawsuit settlement. My wife texted me a picture of it so I wouldn’t forget to look at it. Read it. There was a big logo on the oversized envelope. Blue and Yellow. To make sure we wouldn’t throw it out. Get out attention. The man who died on June 1st of this year needed the NFL’s attention. I didn’t need to read this racist, immoral shit. The fact that it even went to litigation means that the NFL fought to minimize its SystemSin. That’s what it is Roger. It’s a sin against the covenant of humanity. You have taken my attention away from taking care of my family and myself with this.
Roger, at the time I was reading a research paper on Integrated Information Theory. Researching the work of Chiara Marletto. Screenwriting to appease my “It.” All of that, and being a human being for the human beings around me.
Roman takes a breath. He doesn’t want to curse me out in front of his co-workers. The Troglodytes became uninterested and started playing desktop football with Post-It notes. I let it go for now.
“You should have this conversation with Jon. Alone.” He’s rubbing his temples. He’s being patient. “Jon will understand because you and Jon share ‘It’.”
Your ears perk up. You are still trying to process the last ten minutes. “Hold on.” You look at Jon. Nothing. You look at me. You can tell I’m not in the mood for your questions. I had to tell you about killing you, and you can see how uncomfortable you made me.
“What’s ‘It’?” You ask.
“Way above your paygrade Roger.” You took it as, “Bitch, shut up.”
It’s too much for you. You’ve been reasonable so far. Way beyond the threshold of your intestinal fortitude. You’ve dealt with Black angst and frustration before. You’ve watched it on MSNBC when Jerry is not watching. You get it. Black People are upset.
“Dammit Jon, are you going to say anything?” You’re not just mad or deflecting. You’re generally curious. Shit, this is his meeting. He’s the one that thinks football is dying, not you. He’s the one that keeps rage screaming through voice text about returning football to its glory days. You actually have access to all the data. You exactly have an idea of what’s going on. Nothing that happens in the NFL doesn’t come by your desk first. What the hell is this guy talking about? Why are you even here?
Jon has been pretty quiet for a while. And Roger, it’s completely understandable. Jon has been deemed a Bad White Person. So while he’s at the head of the table, he’s in no real position to talk. He’s trying to figure out how. He wants to. Of course.
It’s tough Roger. Of all people here, right now to do this, to say these things, I’m the last guy he thought would ever do something like this. Specifically, because of what we share. “It”. Our Engine of Mind. Think of it as the name you give yourself that no one else knows. We all have one. You can think to yourself and say “I don’t.” Stop lying, Roger. Stop lying.
Anyway, Jon won’t look at me because I know the truth about him. Beyond the Media. Jon and I are connected in a way that transcends football. I can promise you that I knew exactly who Jon Gruden was the moment I laid eyes on the man. And while Mr. Garrett is my benchmark for good White Football Men, and the Garrett family are my “sensei” of Football, there are two old Black Women, an old Jewish man, and Irishman who taught me how to be a human. My mother and father forged my spirit. My brothers, sisters, and extended family tether me to the reality of Blackness. The spirit of my friends forces me to embrace the majesty of life. My wife and children give me strength and hope to stay floating in the ebb and flow of my perceived arrow of time.
“Jon,” I say it softly. The Troglodytes are sleeping. They were told that the meeting would only be an hour and a half before going to Scores. I’ve taken too long. Their brains have shut down.
You remember that I mentioned I already spoke to Jon about this. Now you’re beginning to suspect that none of this is about you.
“No Roger. This shit is about you too.”
“FUCK man what is your deal?” you belt out. I understand. All of this is too much.
I close my eyes and rub my mind’s eye. You can tell I’m frustrated. Clearly, I don’t want to talk about Jon. You figure you’ll keep the pressure on Jon.
“Whatever beef you got with Jon, just work it out. We don’t have to be here for it. If you want us to, then fine. I’ll do that. I’ll clear my entire schedule-”
“Roger. Don’t do that on my account. Just read it till the end and you’ll understand. Don’t stress about it.”
“READ-”
“Yeah, man. Read the whole thing. Kayfabe. I and Roman are going to Kayfabe the shit out of you.”
It’s paradoxical to you. You don’t know what I’m talking about. “Read the whole thing. What the hell?”
But you keep reading. Because while you think you know what this could be, deep down you know that you don’t have a clue.
“Roger.” Jon Gruden does not want to face me because he is not ready to face a human being like me, even though we share the same Engine of Mind. He’s been bothered by thoughts of me since his scandal because once it broke, he’d eventually have to deal with me. Even if you guys never Race Normed, Jon was going to have to eventually come to talk to me. And he knew the conversation would be difficult. Because of who I am. Because of how I perceive Whiteness, and how I covet my Blackness. It has been a journey for me, Roger. Jon knows that.
“Roger, do you know what it is like to block Derrick Brooks?”
You look at me. It’s an odd question. Even in this place, the question is from left field. You nervously chuckle.
“Of course not,” you say.
“It’s fine. Roger. Neither do I. I played there for two seasons. I don’t know what it is like hitting him either. It’s not for lack of trying.”
“Okay.” You’re waiting for the punchline.
August 2002
“Before I got to Tampa, I was with the Giants. The Rookie hazing was pretty straightforward there. If you were a rookie at the New York Giants, at some point, during lunch or dinner, you would have to stand on a chair. Then you would state your name, your college, and your signing bonus. Then you would have to sing a song. You only had to do this once. That’s it. Follow so far?”
You nod.
“Well, my turn had come up. These guys didn’t know that I sang karaoke all the time. All the time Roger. So that was a big deal. I had a bigger problem. What kept me sane during Training Camp was three songs: “Dreamwalkin” by Eric Tagg, “Harlequin” by Lee Ritenour, and “Malibu” by Lee Ritenour, sung by Phil Perry. Phil Perry’s voice is amazing. Anyway, none of these songs I was prepared to sing, and wouldn’t sing aloud in that kind of setting. So I chose “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” by Elton John. I figure I could do it once, belt it out, easy peasy. So I stand up on my chair. I say:
Darian Barnes. Hampton University. No signing bonus-
I got cut off from all the laughter. Roger so many people laughed. Dhani Jones laughed and pointed at me. I have to admit the shit was funny, even I laughed like, “Damn, man. Damn.”
“But I sang it, Roger. I could almost hit those notes then. If you never heard the song you might think I had. But I got a standing ovation. Which was nice. I figured if I got to cut it would be a good story. You know, for some “I wasn’t good enough to play there but they like my karaoke.”
“They made me sing every day after that. Everyday Roger. I sang that song every day until camp broke.”
I rub my head. You’re lost. You feel like you’ve missed something-
“My locker was next to Kerry Collins. Kerry is a good man. Down-to-earth guy. He’s a “simple things” kind of guy. Even as a rookie he was always nice to me. Gave me a lot of advice. Took the time to help me when he could. He also used to call me over to his locker to fart. The first two days he did it, I thought he had legitimate reasons. By the end of the week, I realized I was his fart plushie.
I shared a game locker with Kenny Mayne. The first time I met the man he was sitting in my locker in only his underwear.
“This must be your locker.” He says.
“It’s fine,” I say. It had nothing to do with who he was honest. I get why he chose mine. During preseason game days I was in between all the guys who had been there. Ron Dayne, Tiki Barber, and the like. I was a no-name guy. I would have picked me too. Besides, Kenny was great conversation. Humble man. This is going to sound weird to you Roger, but I could “see” him. Most people you meet on this Earth for the first time, you don’t see them. You’re not supposed to really. You’re not meant to “see” everyone for the first time. General Relativity ensures that most of the time. Every now and then you meet someone who will give you their frame of reference. They’ll just hand it to you. He’s special like that. The world is funny because later that year, I had dinner at the Capital Grille Restaurant in Philadelphia with him and Ron Jaworski. They had to order for me because someone was going to definitely piss in my food. Fucking Eagles Fans are the worst, Roger. You think they’ve come down because they won a Super Bowl finally? I bet not. I’m sure they’re still schmucks.
“Darian.” Roman blurts out.
“Okay, Okay.” I take a breath. Just one more thing. I was also cool with Kenny taking my locker because of Keith Hamilton and Michael Strahan. The practice facility locker at Giants Training camp was different. Different cultures. Different rules. On my first day there, I was given a locker. The vets hadn’t shown up yet. I put all my stuff in that locker.
On the second day, the vets show up. We have practice. I go to my locker. I’m getting dressed. A shadow is cast over me. I turn. It’s Keith Hamilton.
“Sup little Homie.” Roger, I’m 6’2 250lbs. “Dis ain’t yo’ locker.
Roger. That wasn’t my locker. So I’m not getting dressed there before practice. So they move me to the other end of the row. The equipment managers help me. Practice is starting soon.
There’s only six lockers. Keith has 5, I have 1. Cool. I want to be a New York Giant. I’ll get dressed in my room if need be. But as I’m getting dressed-
“Hey buddy. What ya doing?”
It’s Michael Strahan. He’s looking down on me like Keith did, but he’s trying to be less of an ogre about it. I appreciated that.
“Hi.” I said hi. Yup I did that.
“Hi. Who told you to put your stuff here?”
Equipment managers are long gone. Keith gives zero fucks about my locker situation.
I want to romanticize this next part. But I don’t think I can. I mean, I can. Sure. Keith and Michael faced off, two polar opposite pillars of Blackness understanding that they were existentially the penultimate representation of my struggle to accept my blackness in this newfound world of hypermasculinity. The two Titans were going to decide the fate of where my locker would be placed, and what path to “Commodified Blackness” I would take.
“Put his ass right there,” Keith said, pointing to the middle one.
Michael is very easygoing. That guy has an extraordinary handle on his Engine of Mind. Like Derrick Brooks. He says to me, pointing at the same locker, “You only exist in this space.”
Those two assholes did not have the lockers next to me. No one could. They kept their shit in their one locker. These motherfuckers, and I laughed about it then and I’m laughing now as I write this, negotiated how far to keep me away from themselves. It’s fucking hilarious.
And yes, you’re amused Roger but even you are like-
“Darian-”
“Roger in a team meeting one morning Jon was trying to make a point about something. I don’t know if he was on one of his rants. But he mentioned the song “She’s a Lady” by Tom Jones. I know the song. The hook is catchy. Anyway, Jon blurts out-
“TOM JONES! HIT IT FOR ME DIRTY 30!”
And I sang it. Didn’t miss a beat. It’s a good song. The music video is weird, even for the ’70s. But that’s just my opinion. Anyway, I let it fly. I give it the full karaoke Roger. That’s a big deal for me. I’m performing.
You’re annoyed. Because at this point, you want to understand. But you’re struggling and you don’t think I’m helping or, maybe even I don’t care that you want to understand. You’ve been waiting for the “Ah Ha!” moment for a while now, this isn’t doing it. I see it on your face. I don’t care because you continue to read.
I take a breath. Because this is hard for me to get out. I’ve been holding out on this since Jon’s email scandal. I’ve tried to write him so many times. It’s not that I couldn’t finish the email, or a handwritten one and send it to him. Every time I started to write Jon, and I felt good about a draft, someone died. Or we found out about some other racist shit the NFL did. I couldn’t finish a final draft of a letter. There was more shit to include. I didn’t want to forget an important point. What happens if this goes viral and I didn’t just mention a guy that just died and his brain was loaded with CTE? Does that just mean I’m not paying attention? Am I actually Herschel Walker?
I’m a tech teacher. My quest for knowledge and understanding has landed me in the spectrum of Ontological Theoretical Information Physics. The place it has taken me to search for Jon in my mind. With minimal effort and true diligence, I could find out where Jon lived and approach him in person. I and “It” chose this way.
“Roger, I covet my brand of Blackness. It’s mine. I own it. I defend it. I live it’s experiences. The path to my Black Identity is trailblazed, not walked. It’s not a brisk jog. It’s reaped through the external jungle bushes of peer review and cultural ignorance. What I’m trying to say is I can handle not blocking Derrick Brooks. Simeon Rice. Warren Sapp. I can take that. I can’t take ` if they saw me sing Tom Jones at the command of someone they deemed racist. Then I’m not Darian. I’m not Dirty 30. To them, I’m the love child of Sammy Davis Jr. and the Hulk. Do you understand that Roger? Derrick Brooks, on cosmic Black Principle, cannot allow me to hit him. No Black Person ever would allow me to hit them if they saw me sing on command to Tom Jones. Do you have any idea what I must have looked like to ALL the Black People in that team meeting room? What about the White People who’ve never heard a Tom Jones song? Do you understand how awkward that moment must have been for them? To feel the unknown glow of sultry Media Whiteness, only to have it appropriated by some giant high-voiced Black Dude who has a chip on his shoulder? Seriously?
Roger, I have to unpack that. I’ve seen three shrinks before meeting Jon. And I was 22. It’s 20 years later and when I read about his scandal all I keep seeing is every face in that room looking at me. I keep thinking about the movie “The Toy” with Richard Pryor. I don’t need therapy. But I need therapy. So I’ve decided that I have to defend this asshole at the end of the table.
I don’t look at Jon, but Roman gives me the thumbs up.
“Defend him?” you say.
“Yes.” I sigh. I hate this is coming out of my mouth. The uncertainty of the whole thing. If I say it aloud, the Media Chuds will come. Media Chuds are always hungry Roger. All the time. But I brought plenty of GRUB Roger. Lots of It. But I have to. I look at Jon. We lock eyes.
“Jon Gruden is not racist.”
“Whoa,” Roman says with a chuckle. “I mean, okay. Okay. “
“You’re only saying that because you’ve seen all the emails, not just the ones circulating in the Media.”
“You’re fucking right about that,” Roman says. “Dude I get you what you’re doing here. I don’t know how, most of me thinks this is screwy, but I do. Is that what you want to say? Really? Kind of seems like an unnecessary hill to die on.”
I sit back for a moment. I look at you, Roger. You know I want to keep this on you. This is about you and the owners. That’s my focus. You get that now. You realize my affinity for Jon and you plan to keep the focus on him until I give up talking about all of it. If I can’t admit that Jon Gruden is racist then how can I even attack the NFL for being racist? You’re banking on Jon being my threshold. You identify him as the one White Man I don’t want to condemn. You think my reasons may be shellfish and short-sighted. If I saw all the emails I would think differently. Maybe you should find a way to pull me aside and show me like you did the Washington Post and New York Times, Reporters. Michelin Tires? Just the tip of the Iceberg.
Then it hits you.
“How is Jon not a “Bad White Person” but I am? What makes me different from Jon? Wouldn’t Mr. Garrett considers Jon a Bad White Person too?”
“Well, there are other entities I consult with before making a definitive determination. Old people mostly. My grandmothers, Rachel and Gladys, are both deceased. My friend Ace Cassidy, who is also deceased, and my friend Ed Levy, who is still here with us. Those people all would concur that you are a Bad White Human being.”
“You see dead people now?” Roman shakes his head in disappointment. He feels bad for you but he also knows you completely deserve this.
You didn’t expect this. You are not sure after reading if you have any more room for additional Black People, especially if they are deceased.
“They told you to stay away from Bad White Human Beings too?” You say.
“No. They just inform my worldview. They told me about myself. Made me think deeper about the nature of my reality. You’re being judged by them too.
You scoff. “Judged?”
“Yes. Why do you think I’ve done all this?”
You look at Roman. Have you been betrayed-
Come on Roger. You get it don’t you? You see what’s happening? The Race Norming stunts your cognitive abilities, Roger, I’m sorry. Here, let me lay it out for you.
I’m going to tell you about the people, Black, White and whoever else in between that have shaped my life. I’m going to talk about what this game is supposed to be doing as a Sentient Cultural Entity deified in our shared American Reality Constructs. I’m going to talk about what I’ve been through, and how I coped, not because I want to or need to, because I if I can help a player, Black, White, Gay, I don’t care Roger if I guy doesn’t know how to articulate the pain that is stalling is Engine of Mind I will help him if I can. Sometimes you can’t just talk about it. Can’t just write about it, or sing. You’ve got to find somewhere to put the shit and give it the attention that it deserves. Keyshawn Johnson knows how to do that. I’m going to tell the story of how I know that for a fact.
I’m going to talk about a lot of other things to Roger. I was dealing with something quietly for the past three years, but you shit bags and Herschel Walker forced my hand. But if I don’t think you’re getting it, or if I don’t feel your empathy, or I don’t think you really care about what your organization is doing to Black Men, and the game of football, I’m going to Black Sutter Cane mindfuck you into an alternate reality where I’m going skin you alive. It’s going to be completely horrifying Roger the reality is totally fucked. The beings that dwell there. It’s total chaos. The bottom level of consciousness, where the information processed by the human mind is unformatted. Because I’m sick of Racism. It’s fucking stupid. And Roger, if this is what it takes to get rid of Racism, I will drag you to the depths of my mind while snorting the dust of Lewis Carroll’s bones. We will descend into a Gloryhole of sheer silly madness, and I will eat your Mind’s Eye the entire way down. I had to teach myself Music Theory. I’m super amateurish but I got so angry that I had to take my mind off of not putting my foot in your ass Roger. So I’m going to make songs. You’ll hear them.
And don’t worry, you can keep all your security personnel stationed around all massage parlors in Cleveland. I know that place is on high alert at least for the next month or so. I’m not coming to the NFL Offices. Race Norming is the most unnecessary bullshit I’ve ever heard of. All that money you Business Suit Beta Cucks sit on, and you denied claims so Jerry Jones could save money to give it to another human being, so he didn’t have to interact with a human being he created. I knew the guy was a piece of shit when I played there in 2004. Do you know what the training table food was back then Roger? “Grandy’s.” Have you ever heard of Grandy’s Roger? I didn’t until I got to Dallas. I’ll make it simple for you. Imagine a Hardees bathroom stall. Write “Soul Food” on the door. That’s Grandy’s. It tasted like baked frustration with the side of blue balls. Of course, Jerry Jones is an apathetic flesh mound of human waste. When Marion Barber died in June, all I kept seeing in my head was the picture of Jerry Jones kneeling on the field. “Solidarity” my ass. I knew it was bullshit then but if I knew he was Race Norming… Oh, he and you were Race Norming then Roger. And I can’t get it out of my head that he’s going to put Marion’s highlight reel all over that Jumbotron of his, the same Jumbotron he refused to raise when his stadium first opened. Remember, the punters kept hitting it? That man never cared about football. Not then. Not now. It’s why he’s a shitty general manager. The nerve.
Jerry Jones. I hope you win the Super Bowl this year. I mean that. I hope you win all of them. I know exactly what kind of man you are. I know exactly what it will do for you. Good luck.
I’m really pissed, Roger. And the season goes on, yet Marion Barber, Vincent Jackson, Phillip Davis, they do not. I’ve only met you twice. So even though I think you’re a Bad White Human Being, I’m not going to sacrifice you to the MA-BLA-GO-BLA-BO-NO-GO yet. I’m going to tell you about the day Mr. Garrett told me to stay away from Bad White People.
Dammit, the Media Chuds are here. Roger, I’m going to sacrifice Jerry first. I hope you can find some empathy before you’re next.
As for you Jon. I will write to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers on your behalf. Twenty Years ago today I met you for the first time. I remember it fondly. I remember the night you cursed me out for showing up to the meeting wearing Spongebob pajamas and socks with no shoes. I remember the first time you told me that you loved me, and I knew you meant it.
“I love you buddy. I can’t get rid of you.”
We’ll see Jon. We’ll see.
