Sign-up to receive our free newsletter.
Written by: Bill Colley
While attending Syracuse University little Bobby Costas used to be startled awake at night by gunfire down the hill from Archbold Stadium. The angry poor herded into public housing by liberal policy makers didn’t hear the shots outside their windows due to traffic noise on Interstate 81 overhead. The highway snaked through town and wiped out dozens of blocks of old family homes and businesses. There was only darkness and grief and poverty in the piles of bricks called homes beneath the road.
Bobby and the swells could see the road below University Hill and while they didn’t know anyone living in the underworld there was great concern. If the underworld was destroyed sports recruitment could be the next casualty and Bobby and the other cheerleaders would be left heartbroken.
Bobby hadn’t seen the poor outside but he had seen some guns. When leaving the very expensive university one fall semester for Thanksgiving Bobby’s mommy and daddy had driven him south along the highway. Stopping a dozen miles away for gasoline in rural Tully, New York, and Bobby had seen the men dressed in orange. It wasn’t the pleasant orange of Syracuse football and basketball but instead a blaze orange and the men wore it head-to-foot. They were menacing. They were all much taller than Bobby. Some hadn’t shaved in a very long time. And they all carried very long guns. Bobby needed to use the restroom and nearly wet himself in the backseat. Finally he gained the courage and strode inside and up to the counter and loudly announced in a poor Marv Albert impersonation that a key was needed.
Relieved, Bobby then returned the key and walking back to the car he saw a deer strapped to the tailgate of a truck. Stunned, he froze. The large men burst into laughter and suddenly Bobby regained his motion and raced to the car. All the way home that long weekend he grew to detest the large bearded men with guns. Here they passed up grocery stores and shot poor defenseless animals and then the big men in non-standard university orange laughed! Bobby seethed as he tore into his holiday turkey, safely purchased by mommy in a suburban grocer’s freezer, and he vowed someday he would bring the gun culture to its deserved end.
Here we are today and Bob Costas is NBC’s premier sports announcer. He denounces gun culture and then talks from another side of his mouth and denies support for confiscation. How often do college and professional athletes shoot and kill other people? Rarely. About as often as Hollywood starlets and software engineers. Is anyone demanding we do something about software engineers after John McAfee’s arrest in Central America?
How often do deer hunters turn their firearms on family, friends and neighbors? Rarely and I’ll guess any figures compiled would burnish the image of hunters nationwide in comparison to the athletes, celebrities and engineers.
The problem isn’t gun culture. It’s urban culture. Little Bobby and his fellow media travelers won’t say it because urban culture remains primarily a minority culture and they refuse to accept the people they claim are victims could also express rage violently.
A couple of weeks ago I arrived at work and opened my radio station’s website and spotted a story about gun violence in Virginia. A professor at Virginia Commonwealth University discovered an increase in legal firearms ownership coincided with a decline in crime across the state. I saw this story published nowhere else in establishment media. The fellow travelers want you in the dark on this one like the poor folks living under highways in Syracuse and never seeing the sun. Last week I read a story about spiking crime rates in California cities. Legal gun ownership there has become a hassle. Crime rates are skyrocketing in left coast cities.
Costas has been all over television this week citing anecdotal evidence and not once mentioned any facts. It’s pure emotion, like the day he nearly wet himself outside a gas station. Academia sheltered him and left Bobby well-trained.