I have seen the light, and it is not an LED.
I have glimpsed freedom, and it looks like a blank screen.
I no longer care who the backup tight end in Jacksonville is, or whether Philip Rivers' sore right pinkie might keep him from gripping the ball on deep throws.
The last few years, I played fantasy football. This year, I quit. That decision changed my life far more than I could have imagined, and confirmed my suspicion about the National Football League as an entertainment provider.
Having covered the NFL since 1989, I have witnessed its rise from Mom & Pop-operated striving sports league to North American colossus. In 1989, I could walk up to Jerry Jones' office, ask his secretary if he was in, and she'd yell back, "Jerry, got a minute?'' If he was free, he'd invite me in and a half-hour later I'd have to make an excuse to leave.
That was the setup at Winter Park, as well. If you wanted to talk to Mike Lynn or Jerry Burns, you walked down the hall.
Now the NFL acts like the big business it is, but there is one truth about the league that has remained constant: Most of the games stink.
The NFL made its greatest leap in popularity by persuading fans that they should watch not only their local team but teams from other markets, and on Thursdays and Sunday nights and sometimes Saturdays, as well as the traditional time slots of Sunday afternoon and Monday night.