Once upon a time, there was a nice man who came to a village and said: “I have a dream. A professional football team can inhabit this area, bringing you the joy of championships and the civic pride that accompanies them. You shall have visitors from near and far, bringing much money to the coffers of this city’s merchants and filling the beds of this city’s hotels.”
And the city fathers and mothers were pleased, and welcomed the newcomer.
“What must we do to have all that you promise?” they asked the nice man. “Nothing much,” he said. “Build me a stadium, and my football team will play there until you have invested much into it and are hopelessly besotted.”
“We will!” cried the villagers. “We will. We will.”
“Father,” said the nice man’s son, “how will this be any different than when we were in the northern reaches of this territory? Do you not remember that horrible man by the lake who drove you away?”
“We will be in charge this time,” the nice man said. “We will win championships galore. We will make the money. And I will give you my knowledge, and you shall continue my legacy.”
The nice man told his son all he knew about the game of football, wanting only success for his team.
Then the man retired, leaving his son in charge.
Unfortunately, the son had stopped listening to his father at the word money.
The team was successful occasionally. But mostly, it failed miserably. Still the villagers remained besotted.
And the son and his family lived happily ever after.
The villagers did not.
There is no end to this story. It just keeps going.
Contact this reporter at (937) 225-2162 or jcunningham@DaytonDailyNews.com.