American Legends…

As I am wont to do, every third season or so I get the urge to summarize all the teams (and their season) using personas. I’m sure many of you remember fondly the Star Wars theme used a few years back – you may even recall the Burgo / Queen Amidala persona that resonated on so many levels.

This year, I’ve gone with a (loosely interpreted) American Legends theme.  Agree or disagree with your persona, it doesn’t matter – this blog is paid up for the next 80 years… 

So, in order of regular-season performance:

  Festivus Miracles: Babe Ruth. He’s bold, he’s brash, and his skill places him on a level above us all. If you trade him, you’re cursed for 86 years. But, as much as you admire his abilities, you still can’t help wishing that he was in some other league. His eyes are on the prize and that shudder you’re feeling cannot be denied.
  Box Jellyfishers: Wild Bill Hickock. This is the team straight from the heart of the Wild West, where dime novels made even the most average of gunslingers larger than life. The only open question – is another novel on the way, or have they just been dealt Aces and Eights?
  King Louie’s Troops: Abe Lincoln. Born in the backwaters of Hicksville, where education and QB’s are hard to find, this team lifted themselves out of the gutter by their jockstraps. As a result their eyes are somewhat misted in pain, which may explain why they’re letting Wild Bill show them to their seat at the theater.
  Ants Marching: General MacArthur. After getting his ass well and truly kicked in the Philippines (aka rounds 1 through 6), he vowed that he shall return. And return he did, his war pipe dangling from his angry thin lips and his hat askew, just so. Jungle warfare is certain to ensue.
  Salamanders: Wayne Newton. Ah, remember the good old days when we sang Danke Schoen and millions of devoted fans (unable to get Sinatra tickets) would flock in? This team surely does, but the twilight of their career kicked in while they weren’t looking and now their teeth outshine than their star power.
  Swine Flu: Paris Hilton.  A flash in the pan, a celebrity of dubious talent, and yet strangely eye-catching when sporting their 3-foot blonde hair extensions… Their early rise quickly changed to a fall from grace, a process which was only enhanced by their frantic twittering, posing, and excessive RB trading.
  Nittany Gnomes: Martha Stewart. This team defines what it means to be on a roller-coaster in both the baking and corporate worlds – one minute they’ve got delicious pie, and the next they’re cursing their fallen soufflé and sporting an orange jump suit with their new BFF Jiwanna. Next year they’re bringing a shank.
  Cover Jinxes: WW2 Pinup Girl. Always thinking about the betterment of fantasy (football) as a whole, this team made it their sole purpose in life to inspire the efforts of others. However, their near non-existent ability to inspire their OWN performance seems to suggest, sadly, a secret self-loathing that casts a shadow over my heart.
  Giallorossi: The Edsel.  Cursed way beyond the ability of an otherwise fine automobile company to recover from, the fantasy effectiveness of this team never got out of the garage. Sure, a late spurt got them into 9th, but they only covered slightly more ground than a sleeping dude under a tree.
  Le Trompe d’oel: Rip Van Winkle.  This is the team who drank beer with some strangers in Round 4 and woke up 8 rounds later with a splitting headache and a tree growing out of their beard. To add insult to injury, the tree was a lemon tree and the sour taste of their many defeats will take months to wash out.
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