Observations From the Sidelines
On Sunday, I went with my dad to one of the sanctuaries of modern society – an NFL stadium. At The Coliseum, watching the Tennessee Titans play, I was struck with observations, both from the game and the walk in, that gave me insight once again about the realities of the America we call home.
Have no fear, those who think capitalism is in its waning moments. No matter what regulations the government may impose upon corporate America, no matter what tariffs and trade agreements may hamper economic development, and no matter if bubbles pop, capitalism is freer than ever in the United States. Nowhere else can a disabled man in a wheel chair ask $5 for pencil drawings on cardboard of Titans players. And get it. While smoking a cigarette and wearing a Jack Daniels shirt. Talk about casual Friday. Or where else do aspiring entrepreneurs go to Costco on Saturday, buy half-liter bottles of water for $0.40 and sell them for $2.00 on Sunday? Only in America, where if you have water, and we’re thirsty, you could be Saddam Hussein and we’d still pay asking price for off-brand spring water.
And where else can child labor laws be ignored in the name of fundraising? As we crossed the street in front of the stadium, several 10 and 11-year old boys and girls, dressed in cheerleader and football uniforms, begged passersby for donations to help them get to the junior nationals in Florida. Parents stood nearby with buckets to collect spare change and folded dollars. Never mind that children half a world away made the uniforms these young salespeople were wearing. Never mind that had these children been behind counters at McDonald’s or changing oil, everyone from the ACLU to the Southern Baptist Convention would be up in arms regarding underage employment. (Perhaps had they all gotten jobs and donated their earnings instead of asking strangers to make a donation that is not tax-deductible, they could have had a healthier bottom line.) But, in America, if you are old enough to get a report card, you can sell cookie dough and wrapping paper, or ask for money to go to camp. Elsewhere, if you are old enough to count to ten on your fingers, you can use them to sew the stitching on footballs that will be used in Florida at the junior nationals.
Once inside the stadium, I felt like I do every time I go to Wal-Mart – like I got a VIP pass to the grand opening of the American Redneck Museum. Apparently, while I write intellectual diatribes about religion and society, the rest of the world is out shopping for replica jerseys and jean shorts.
However, I was quickly whisked away from the ranks of the common man and placed in the heavenly realms of the luxury box. For those who have never been to the promised land, the luxury box is the most tangible proof of Calvin’s theology we’ll ever have this side of heaven: the special, chosen few are given a ride on their own elevator to a secret air conditioned hallway where your private suite awaits. Complete with a pizza buffet, unlimited chicken fingers, an open bar, recliners, and plasma TVs, you forget there’s even a football game going on in the same state, much less fifty feet away. I once thought that luxury boxes took the purity out of the game, as they forced teams to abandon storied stadiums in favor of swanky digs that catered more to big business than the loyal fan. Now I don’t know if I can ever go to another game and not have my butt placed upon the softest of cushions in an air-conditioned apartment overlooking the peons who weren’t lucky enough to know the right people.
The game soon ended, the cheerleaders-turned-beggars continued their solicitation as the redneck exodus began, and capitalism revived itself again as vendors peddled their cotton candy, discount sunglasses, and soft drinks. Just another day in another city in America. The view from the sideline never changes.
Have no fear, those who think capitalism is in its waning moments. No matter what regulations the government may impose upon corporate America, no matter what tariffs and trade agreements may hamper economic development, and no matter if bubbles pop, capitalism is freer than ever in the United States. Nowhere else can a disabled man in a wheel chair ask $5 for pencil drawings on cardboard of Titans players. And get it. While smoking a cigarette and wearing a Jack Daniels shirt. Talk about casual Friday. Or where else do aspiring entrepreneurs go to Costco on Saturday, buy half-liter bottles of water for $0.40 and sell them for $2.00 on Sunday? Only in America, where if you have water, and we’re thirsty, you could be Saddam Hussein and we’d still pay asking price for off-brand spring water.
And where else can child labor laws be ignored in the name of fundraising? As we crossed the street in front of the stadium, several 10 and 11-year old boys and girls, dressed in cheerleader and football uniforms, begged passersby for donations to help them get to the junior nationals in Florida. Parents stood nearby with buckets to collect spare change and folded dollars. Never mind that children half a world away made the uniforms these young salespeople were wearing. Never mind that had these children been behind counters at McDonald’s or changing oil, everyone from the ACLU to the Southern Baptist Convention would be up in arms regarding underage employment. (Perhaps had they all gotten jobs and donated their earnings instead of asking strangers to make a donation that is not tax-deductible, they could have had a healthier bottom line.) But, in America, if you are old enough to get a report card, you can sell cookie dough and wrapping paper, or ask for money to go to camp. Elsewhere, if you are old enough to count to ten on your fingers, you can use them to sew the stitching on footballs that will be used in Florida at the junior nationals.
Once inside the stadium, I felt like I do every time I go to Wal-Mart – like I got a VIP pass to the grand opening of the American Redneck Museum. Apparently, while I write intellectual diatribes about religion and society, the rest of the world is out shopping for replica jerseys and jean shorts.
However, I was quickly whisked away from the ranks of the common man and placed in the heavenly realms of the luxury box. For those who have never been to the promised land, the luxury box is the most tangible proof of Calvin’s theology we’ll ever have this side of heaven: the special, chosen few are given a ride on their own elevator to a secret air conditioned hallway where your private suite awaits. Complete with a pizza buffet, unlimited chicken fingers, an open bar, recliners, and plasma TVs, you forget there’s even a football game going on in the same state, much less fifty feet away. I once thought that luxury boxes took the purity out of the game, as they forced teams to abandon storied stadiums in favor of swanky digs that catered more to big business than the loyal fan. Now I don’t know if I can ever go to another game and not have my butt placed upon the softest of cushions in an air-conditioned apartment overlooking the peons who weren’t lucky enough to know the right people.
The game soon ended, the cheerleaders-turned-beggars continued their solicitation as the redneck exodus began, and capitalism revived itself again as vendors peddled their cotton candy, discount sunglasses, and soft drinks. Just another day in another city in America. The view from the sideline never changes.
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