Well, look who the cat dragged in.
Is that you, NFL? Still in your tux from the ESPYs, smelling like cheap perfume and even cheaper champagne, I see. Been wandering the streets, hitting every dive from downtown to Chinatown to K-Town to Larchmont (okay fine, a light salad and a crisp pinot grigio in Larchmont) to Hollywood before climbing all the back to the top of our hills? Fine. Come in, I’ll make pot of coffee so we can talk.
So couldn’t stop in your old favorite haunt, The Powerhouse? Cities change, NFL. People change, dive bars close to be reborn as “speakeasies” for twice the price. You of all people should know that, NFL. The league likes younger and flashier, not the tried and true. Just look what your friends at Fox did to our gal Pam Oliver. No, no, I am not blaming you for what happened to her, but I’m not saying you help the cause by flittering off to newer and prettier cities all the time like that tramp Tampa and Jezebel Jacksonville.
While I’m enjoying your visit and glad you decided to pop by while you’re in town for the shlockfest the World Wide Leader puts on in the dead of summer — no, I didn’t see you on TV was doing what all Angelenos do during the summer, I was at a premiere — why are you really here? I’ve already told you we can’t be a part of your sick games vying for your love anymore. We’ve been busy, you know, without you. Won another Stanley Cup if you didn’t notice or maybe you did, and why yes, I do find the profile slimming. We also got rid of that awful Donald Sterling, finally showed the rest of the sports world we could stand up and have a little self-respect, what little we had left after the way you’ve treated us over the past decade. Why, we’re practically the belle of the ball with Mr. Microsoft — no, the other one — offering up $2 billion dollars for our second basketball team. Billion with a b. What are the Rams worth? Like $900 million some? Isn’t that just precious. Hard to believe we don’t even notice they’re gone, but when someone has billions and not just millions, well. I don’t need to talk to you about money, NFL. You know what that’s all about.
A draft? Oh, I can close a window if you like. Do you need a sweater? I’m sure I still have one of your old ones in the back closet it you need one.
Oh. The draft. You’re down to the last two cities in which to hold the draft and it’s between us and Chicago? And the draft is going to be a day longer next year, you say? Sweetie, I don’t want to put any pressure on you but an extra day in Chicago in the spring or an extra day in LA in the spring and I don’t know how you even think of picking the city that still has a 98% chance of ten feet of snow falling in thirty minutes versus the month we open the beach house for the season — oh just kidding, you know we never close the beach house — it seems pretty clear to me who you pick. If you think about it, it’s a great way to show the kids we still care about them. You can still visit LA and say no hard feelings, we get to entertain you for a week and show that we’re totally over you and then go back to making out with soccer players on the Galaxy squad once you are gone.
Oh, it was meant to be a joke, don’t look so hurt. You left us, remember? Were the World Cup ratings really that scary, NFL? I’m sorry. Sometimes we have to cruel to guard our own feelings for you.
Because maybe, just maybe, if you’re coming back for a draft, you’ll come back for a game. Give up one of the London games for us. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll see we’ve quietly made some space to let you back into our lives.