The Prophet

Today is January 6, 2010.  Whose 127th birthday is it?   (No, not that of Brett or Bullwinkle.)    

Presented for your consideration another fractured fairy tale, wherein one more Minnesota messiah learns to be still in Frostbite Falls.

Alfavre, the chosen and beloved, who was a dawn unto his own day, had waited so long for the Viking ship to come to take him to the Promised Land.

And in the year of Twenty Ten, when the city was kept from freezing by a playoff fever for which there was no vaccine, he climbed the great Riverview Tower in the city of Minneapolis, because the people of this icy place all wanted to know if it were true that their ship had indeed come in. 

The gates of his heart were flung open, for he could see the Mississippi and the mighty Metrodome, but a sadness came upon him, and he thought in his heart:

What shall I say at the presser this day, for the people will want to know if their ancient wounds shall be lifted from their souls?

And it came to pass that Alfavre journeyed down I-35 to the Crosstown and then onward through Edina, driving within the speed limit there, for he was much older and wiser than many others.

And when he had arrived at Winter Park, a man came forward from the gathered crowd, and his name was Aljudd, for he was a scribe for the Strib, and so he placed his device upon the podium, before The Prophet.

And Alfavre knew without asking, but as yet he said nothing.

Then Aljudd said, Speak to us of Touch Downs.

And so Alfavre answered, Alert!  Alert! One if by land, and two if by air, as long as we score them, the crowd will not care.

Then Aljudd spoke again, and said, What of Playoffs then, master?

So he then answered them, saying:

Playoffs?  If the red birds fly north in the winter, is that not foolish?   I tell you I have journeyed from one end of the Mississippi to the other, and in the midst of January, anyone amongst you can walk across Lake Itasca.  Surely, you shall expect no less of me.

Another old man who stood out from the multitude asked:

Speak to us of Eagles.  Would we rather play them or against the Saints?

And Alfavre answered:

Sid, a bird in the hand is worth at least two handoffs to Reggie Bush.  If you have seen one bird, you have seen them all.  Who can say?  What I do know, from much practice of my own, is that it is hard to let her to fly when Jared puts that choker hold upon you.  But let us not get way ahead of ourselves here.  If God has decreed to us we must slay the red before the green, then well it sure still seems like Christmas for us all, does it not?

And as if from the heavens, a mysterious voice said, Two more for Brett.

And another voice spoke, Speak to us of Stadiums.

And Alfavre grimaced, drank water from his bottle, and said:

I suppose you shall build of your imaginings a bower in the prairie ere you build a house within these city walls, these city walls.  But I still haven’t found what I’m…

Look, the Vikings are not yours.  They come through you, but not from you.  They belong to Sports longing for itself.  For, as I recall, their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which…um…

Hey, damned if I know.  My job description is quarterback, not architect or financial consultant.  Get a stadium or else get a life.

And finally, Aljudd asked, Where are you going now, Master?

Alfavre looked down at him with a childlike grin and said:

Fare you well, you people of Minneapolis.  I shall return to you, if only in my dreams. Whether Sven and Olie shall dance soon or not, as some say, who call tell?   Remember always though these words with which I leave you:

It is said that Eagles also once spoke that their future would continue when hell freezes over.  If you let us start living it up at some park in California, then we are all just prisoners here, of our own device.

As Aljudd looked puzzled, as usual, by all of this, he remembered something which The Prophet had once said to him:

"A little while, a moment of retirement upon the wind, and another city shall bear me."