XFL probably seemed like a good idea at the time

  Jeff Agase Agase is already waxing
nostalgic about a league that hasn’t even folded. E-mail him at
[email protected] and tell him to
live in the now.

I did something really stupid last weekend.

I went to an XFL game.

Now before you stop reading this column on account of the
insanity, buffoonery or downright idiocy of the columnist, let me
tell you that I at least got the tickets for free.

Maybe I shouldn’t use the word “free.” Anyone
taking Econ 1 could tell me that by going to the game (which was,
to my defense, the championship, or so-called “Million Dollar
Game”) for six hours, I lost my best alternative foregone. I
would counter by saying that I most likely would have ended up
watching the game, or at least reruns of “ALF,” on
television anyway. Not too much foregone there.

And after returning from the decrepit Los Angeles Memorial
Coliseum, a fitting venue for a league already past its prime in
its first year, I must make an admission about the XFL: I was
intrigued.

Shame on me.

Maybe it was my insatiable thirst for football of any talent
level. I am, after all, a Detroit Lion fan.

Maybe it was the undeniable attraction of an all-California
matchup between the Los Angeles Xtreme (don’t worry, the
first “E” isn’t supposed to be there) and San
Francisco Demons.

Or maybe I, like a volunteer on the 1984 “Walter Mondale
for President” campaign, was desperately latching on to
something destined to fail.

Whatever it was, it most certainly wasn’t like anything I
had ever seen.

Owner Vince McMahon, in launching the first major domestic
outdoor football league since the ill-fated USFL, promised things
like “smashmouth football” and “unlimited
access.”

What the wrestling maverick didn’t promise, and what I,
even in preparing for the worst, failed to fully fathom, was the
uniqueness of the XFL experience.

As I walked with my friends in search of the Will Call booth, we
noticed a diverse array of mullets: some long, some short, one
braided. At this point I knew we’d be in store for a generous
helping of butt rock during the game from bands like Van Halen and
Def Leppard. I thought, “OK, no big deal, this is a little
different, but as long as I hear “˜Pour Some Sugar on
Me’ I’ll survive.”

Continuing our search, I approached what I thought might be the
Will Call booth. I instead ended up at a booth for purchasing
tickets. I overheard the Xtreme fan in front of me ask the ticket
seller whether or not his $20 seats were in a section with a
security guard. Apparently seats with security were at a premium.
It felt like the Raiders had never left.

Undaunted, we continued on and finally found our tickets at the
fourth Will Call booth. As we passed by a guy with a sandwich board
that read “Jesus saves from hell,” I overheard someone
say, “I hope he’s an L.A. fan.” I think he was
referring to Jesus.

I expected to see an apathetic and unenergetic fan base in
attendance for what may prove to be one of only a few XFL
Championship games. What I was instead surrounded by were throngs
of Xtreme jerseys and even some families with children who probably
don’t remember what it was like to watch live professional
football in Los Angeles.

And here was this league, this collection of has-beens, this
experiment that it has become so hip to bash, on life support
before my very eyes.

I heard a guy behind me tell his girlfriend, “This is the
equivalent of the Super Bowl.” Uh, not quite.

Not that McMahon ever wanted to mimic the NFL.

He said that the initials “XFL” didn’t stand
for anything in particular. Neither did his league initially, and
its rough transition from identity crisis to genuine focus on the
football (despite the circus-like sideshows, they were playing
football all along) turned Saturday night viewers (and potential
fans) off early.

Granted, the XFL did begin with an unexpected level of fan
support and television ratings. Even the Hindenburg had a
successful takeoff.

Innovations like a scramble for the football to open the game,
earning the point after touchdown by running in plays from two
yards away, and nicknames on the back of jerseys were different, if
not anything else. And that’s what McMahon and his cronies
thought football fans wanted: something different than the mundane
and traditional “No Fun League.”

Unfortunately, the XFL suffered from simply trying too hard. If
the NFL was the cute, innocent girl at the school dance, the XFL
was the scantily clad hussy with a half-pound of makeup caked
on.

But if it weren’t for this scandalous rebel of a football
league, we wouldn’t have been exposed to the excitement (and
occasional ridiculousness) of things like onside punts, no-fair
catches, and of course, the governor of a large state providing
analysis of everything from 3-4 defenses to the 34D bra sizes of
the cheerleaders.

If it weren’t for the XFL, former UCLA quarterback Tommy
Maddox wouldn’t have been XFL Player of the Year and might
not have resuscitated his NFL career.

And if it weren’t for what soon may be known as the
“Ex-FL,” a guy nicknamed “He Hate Me”
wouldn’t have warmed the hearts of millions.

OK, two out of three isn’t bad.

Oh, by the way, the final stats read Xtreme 38, Demons 6, number
of playings of “Pour Some Sugar On Me” 0.

And as I leafed through my complimentary program, several of
which the guy sitting next to me had torn up as confetti and thrown
in elation, and gazed at the sparse crowd of 24,153, I
couldn’t help but think about how much this column would read
more like a eulogy.

Although McMahon has already committed himself (and his
seemingly bottomless bank account) to another season, NBC
reportedly has not. Interest in the upstart league has already
waned to a low point in prime-time television history and the
future only looks bleaker without major network support.

So here lies the XFL, a league still breathing but for all
intents and purposes dead. It brought Los Angeles a professional
football championship. It brought fans closer to the action with
in-game interviews and player microphones. It brought beer back to
a prominent fraction of the nation’s gross domestic product.
And it brought players with stories and nicknames like Baby Boy,
Big Daddy, ChronicY2K1, E-Rupt, and, perhaps prophetically, Death
Blow, into the living rooms of football fans across the country, if
only for a couple of weeks.

Rest in peace, XFL.