Your Sunday Night Football Open Thread

I looked down at my battered cardboard suitcase and smiled. My larger-than-average pocketknife (his name is ‘Buck’) was nestled inside his sheath which was wrapped inside some underclothes. I could do better than this but it’s more important to blend in. Mother had passed in ’26 and left me a surprising amount of money ($15,000) that I put into that roaring stock market. I doubled my money and then tripled that afterwards. I listened to the nay-sayers and pulled most of my money out in the summer of ’29 and now it’s 1932 and I’m sitting real pretty. No need for a job but what to do?

Well, first things first. I headed to the dining car at the front of the train and bought a half loaf of bread, a slab of ham and a pat of butter and went back to my seat. I’d heard about these ‘Hoovervilles’ popping up all over the US and I couldn’t turn down the opportunity. The train from Toronto to DC should take almost two days but I’ve got plenty of time to do what needs to be done.

-Joshua! Don’t bother that man!

The voice sounded distant and it broke my reverie. A boy with sallow cheeks and sunken eyeballs was staring at my meal on the seat beside me.

iripped off a big piece of bread and ham and passed it to him. He smiled but didn’t say a word.

-You didn’t have to do that, mister. Joshua can be such a nuisance sometimes.

-It’s nothing at all ma’am. It’s more than I can eat anyhow.

The woman in the plain dress and bonnet thanked me. She must be from the country. Why she was headed to the States, who knows.

The train finally pulled into Union Station. I gathered my things and took a taxi to The Mayflower Hotel. My thought was that if it was good enough for Coolidge’s inaugural ball, it’s good enough for me. The room was comfortable and the smell of freshly-cut flowers filled the air.

The next day I headed out to the Anacostia Flats where approximately 43,000 folks had assembled a community, the pathetic hovels consisting of bits of brick, wood, sheet metal and whatever else kept the rain out and the despair in. The plan was to pretend to be a reporter, to say that I was going to report their story in a sympathetic manner. They should be paid their war bonus now, in ’32 and not have wait another thirteen years.

I scouted the periphery, seeing veterans of WW1 and their wives, children and various hangers-on milling about. After all, what was there to do? Late in the afternoon my eyes fell upon a one-armed man that looked promising from a distance. I identified myself as a reporter from The Milwaukee Caller.

-That’s one of them Communist papers ain’t it?

-No it’s not really like that. I just want to hear your side of the story. All I read is that this place is filled with radical agitators that want to overthrow the government.

-Hah! That’s rich. What’s it’s filled with is men and women and little ones that have fallen on hard times and just want to get back up again.

He led me to his shambling hovel and I’m glad he missed my sharp intake of breath when I realized he was living alone. Things were falling into place.

-I was with the First Division-we were called The Big Red One.

-You saw some action?

-Not nearly as much as the Frenchies we fought beside but more than enough.

He poured some coffee from a battered and bruised urn. It was watery and acrid-tasting at the same time. He saw my face as I sipped.

-The water has been through these coffee grinds a few times-best that I can do.

-Tell me about-I gestured to his arm-how you lost it.

-They say you don’t hear the shell that puts you under but I heard mine. Got hit with a ton of shrapnel-last thing I saw was the bone sticking out my arm. Woke up in hospital with just the left one. I came back and all I could get was a janitor job. The principal figured out I couldn’t keep up even though I came in on Saturdays and even Sundays after church.

-You still go? To church?

-Not anymore now. Our military chaplain kept telling us that God had a plan but from what I saw there was nothing, no plan, just men dying in horrible ways every damn day. After I lost my job I made my way here, hoping that something can come of our demands.

-My heart jumped as he brought his old rifle out from under his bed. He still had the bayonet attached.

-Don’t worry, it’s not loaded. But I’m bringing it to the march tomorrow.

-I tried to keep calm.

-Can I see it?

-Sure. He handed it over.

-Do you think maybe with the bayonet on, it might rile some folks? There’s talk of some army guys might be watching you march.

-Yeah, I guess you’re right.

-I can take it off for you if you like.

-Sure. He bent away from me at the waist to grab a pamphlet-

-Have you read-

-The knife went into his side and he flailed a bit. I turned him and sunk it deep above his pelvis and ripped up to his rib cage. Parts of him were coming out and he tried to hold it in for a bit and then his eyes rolled back into his head. Bubbling saliva came out of the corners of his mouth as he began his passing.

-I slipped out of Hooverville under cover of the night and made my way back to the hotel using as many side streets as I could. There was no need but old habits are good habits.

-I slept almost the entire way back home to Canada.

TO THE GAME!

Chiefs/Packers:

Oh, this could have been a glorious shootout and might still be if Moore can be 65% as effective as The Mahomes. Tyreek has been phenomenal on very few opportunities the past two weeks. On 8 catches he’s got 3 TD’s and 154 yards receiving.

Do your thing.