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In the wake of the Super Bowl – and its increasingly decadent display and incitement of boundless overspending and consummate consumption – one is reminded of the somewhat contrarily humble state of the collective ensembles of professional football coaches. Wherein the players’ on-and-off-field lifestyles are exemplified as the height of capitalist excess and celebrity flippancy, the coaches, in comparison, resemble a wayside chain gang of shackled, vinyl poncho-laden inmates. It seems almost strikingly peculiar that, of all the facets of professional sports (i.e. the rules, the uniforms, the venues, etc.), the dress of football coaches has seemingly altered more than anything else.   Dressed to the nines... Or rather, like Orlando retirees waiting to die. I had hitherto reluctantly blamed the organizations and the coaches themselves, supposing that the manor of dress was simply a byproduct of a more informal modernity, or merely suggested by the team. So one can understand my utter confoundment upon learning that the dress code is not only enforced by the NFL, but to counter it would result in disciplinary litigation and even fines. Why has the erroneous, compulsory presence of team and league emblems become the principle concern of televised broadcasting? Of course I know WHY. However, even as I am ever astounded by the new and shameless places that self-promotion seems to appear like a canker, it doesn’t seem particularly critical that a coach be laden – head-to-hoof – in an embarrassingly orthopoedic jogging suit. Are we really given so little credit by NFL executives, wherein they believe the power of suggestion can influence us into buying something a paltry as a Tampa Bay Buccaneers’ visor? In cases of over-advertising (a redundancy?) one often finds himself repulsed by the product so shamelessly marketed, creating, in turn – one would hope – a cultural backlash. Naturally, I am hopelessly sentimental toward a more disillusioned era in which coaches were self-respecting men and (were granted freedom to be) dressed like adults. They emanated inimitable, Patton-esque bravado and self-discipline, not to mention an unmistakable allusion to the chivalrous paradox of an elegant warlord amidst his sodden and battered legionnaires. The wardrobes of men such as Knute Rockne and Tom Landry are as much a part of their storied tenures as their very coaching skills. They appeared like men whom one would aspire to be like and learn from; not just about the sport, but manhood, as well. But as this journal regularly depicts, nothing in this material world is any longer worth the diaper it is expelled into. And somewhere along the timeline of professional football arose the hushed and subtle descent of the head coach’s dress, and with it, the collective departure of shame as a virtue.   Somehow managed to collectively muster up 375 wins without the aid of a Motorola headset. Lesson: Although it wouldn’t have been ideal to live in 1930’s Nazi Germany, one was at least at liberty to wear what he wanted to wear while he smoked where he wanted to smoke. Post a comment in response: |
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