Tim Tebow mania is apparently back in the NFL, nearly a decade after he last suited up in a regular-season game.
The tired culture war over the polarizing Tebow was renewed in recent weeks with his curious signing by his hometown Jacksonville Jaguars, now led by his former college coach, Urban Meyer. The duo, who forged their legends together in Gainesville with the Florida Gators in the aughts, have been reunited in the Sunshine State.
Reports of the Jags' interest in Tebow prompted, justifiably, inevitable questions about the fate of Colin Kaepernick, still apparently blackballed from the league -- despite the pleas of Commissioner Roger Goodell for a team to step up and give Kaep a shot.
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But Tebow's tryout -- as a tight end, no less, a position he's never played at any level -- has little to do with football, as most are aware. The point is to revive a moribund franchise, invigorate the local fan base a bit, and, yes, those are both euphemisms for "make money."
The obvious conclusion is, unfortunately, that Tebow, as a celebrity and cultural figure, is still a draw, at least in places like Binghamton and Jacksonville, or at least the people with the power to employ him seem to think he is. Many, including some of Tebow's former teammates in both football and baseball, have suggested as much -- often while complaining that his presence has created circus atmospheres and deprived other, more-deserving candidates of opportunities.
This crude expression of sideshow in elite professional sports is something that was thought to have been relegated to the past, more or less. The less scrupulous showmen of yesteryear, like Bill Veeck -- the St. Louis Browns owner behind the 1950 signing of 3-foot-7 outfielder Eddie Gaedel, the shortest player ever to appear in an MLB game -- were supposed to have been culled from the ranks, in favor of more "respectable" figures from business and industry.
But the irresistible forces of late-stage capitalism, combined with the economic impact of the pandemic, have forged new realities, even -- or especially -- for the privileged few with assets as precious as an NFL franchise. At a time when sports betting is suddenly widely legalized and in fact promoted by the leagues themselves and most media outlets -- in what can only characterized as a stunning reversal of decades-long policy -- it is clear that the relentless pursuit of revenues leaves no stone unturned.
All that is solid melts into air, and all that is holy is profaned, it has been said.
The Jags may be an asset, but they are a distressed one in the modern NFL, all but irrelevant for the better part of a decade after a couple failed reboots. The arrival of Meyer and newly drafted Clemson star Trevor Lawrence is supposed to change that for billionaire owner Shad Khan, whose tenure at the helm heralded the Jags' steep decline from pesky small-market expansion team for their first two decades of existence, to near-minor league status for the last one.
So how does a 33-year-old Tebow fit in after toiling in relative obscurity for several years in the Mets' minor league system?
One explanation was articulated clearly on Friday by ESPN's Adam Schefter, a national reporter known for breaking transactions stories. Schefter sounded more like notorious sports business reporter Darren Rovell when he breathlessly reported that several Tebow-related merchandise items were leading sellers at the NFL Store online.
Sure, everyone knows roster decisions are hugely subjective, and a player's popularity both within the organization and outside it -- i.e. among the fans -- have long played a role in who gets a shot. Of course, that argument assumes the player has some use to the team on the field. But by all appearances that's not the point for Tebow. He's there, presumably, to drum up some buzz and sell some jerseys.
Meyer's pathologies and his very checkered history can't be ignored here, either, since it has been reported that he was behind the invitation to Tebow. Meyer left Ohio State a winner, but with his reputation in tatters after he was forced out for seemingly protecting an assistant amid allegations of domestic violence. The scandal-scarred Meyer seems hellbent on assembling an island of misfit toys in Jacksonville, perhaps as part of some kind of revenge tour. Before bringing in Tebow, Meyer signed and later fired a disgraced veteran strength coach who parted ways with the Iowa Hawkeyes last year amid claims that he directed racist taunts at players.
Tebow's appeal as a cultural figure is undeniable, but without the on-field ability to warrant the countless opportunities he's received, his celebrity provokes a lot of backlash. All of which is to say he's probably best suited for the pulpit of a megachurch at this point. Whether he makes the team is very much in question, but for now, amid the business class' push for the total Uberization of the American workforce, the preacher doubles as an outfielder and a tight end -- that is, if he can effectively shepherd the flock into emptying its pockets.
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