(Note: This review was written in 2004. All football-related references are therefore dated except those that note that the Cowboys stink.)
Let’s face it, there are some serious – not to say dire – issues out there that have to be dealt with, and soon. The NFL Sunday Ticket package is only available to satellite dish customers, not for cable customers, so loyal out-of-market Cowboys fans in, say, Atlanta who live, say, in basement apartments can’t access the games they – well, me – want to see. What Atlanta transplants have been left with this year has been the Vick-less, hapless Falcons, which we have to watch here even if they’re down by four scores and even if there’s a torrid NFL match-up involving, well anyone else. And the TV broadcasts that are run don’t feature anywhere near enough cheer-babes, outside of the occasional brief glimpse before the beer commercials. If that weren’t enough, there are concerns for the game itself, or how it is mismanaged on a weekly basis. NFL offensive coordinators calling for running plays on second-and-infinity. NFL defensive coordinators blitzing with eight rushers while leaving rookie cornerbacks to cover Pro Bowl receivers one-on-one. NFL head coaches punting on fourth-and-three in the last stages of the fourth quarter when down by twelve. And, everywhere, the senseless taunting and flaunting of the football gods, who are not to be trifled with by mere mortals.
But let’s set that aside for a minute. The NFL is wonderful, a thing of beauty and a joy forever. It inspires, it teaches, it liberates. It tells us who we are (in that, this week, it tells us Cowboys fans that we’re out of the playoffs). It has grown and progressed so much even in my lifetime – gaining franchises, increasing in complexity, introducing us to generation after generation of noble warriors – that it is nothing short of a miracle, a national phenomenon wrought by the able hands of Pete Rozelle and Tex Schramm. (And let’s not forget addition by subtraction: Howard Cosell, Jimmy the Greek, Brent Musburger, etc.) The only appropriate response to the glory and the magic of pro football is Pattonesque: “Dear God, I love it so.”
But consider this. You have these people who get to live the dream – who don’t get to just watch pro football, but are privileged to play it or coach it or live it in other ways. And they’re unhappy! All the time they’re unhappy! Just look at the most recent examples, if you will. Steve Spurrier, tired of losing, phoning in his resignation from the clubhouse. Terrell Owens, blasting his entire career with the Frisco eleven over slights and complaints. Joe Horn, auditioning for a Verizon commercial during a game. If pro football can’t make you happy, if it can’t fill the vacant corners in your life, if it can’t lift you to prominence and wealth and everything else we’re supposed to want – well, then, what can?
This is the point of The Progress Paradox, by Brookings Institute polymath and NFL writer Gregg Easterbrook, whose splendid “Tuesday Morning Quarterback” column I have cribbed from liberally in the space above. Easterbrook sets forth the unassailable premise that everything now is better than it ever has been, except for those of us who fly a lot and don’t have the right shoes for it. The water is purer; the sky is bluer (or at least cleaner). There is enough food to go around, although too much of it is stuff like Cheez Doodles. The poor are always with us, but a lot of them in this country have cars and big-screen TVs and, well, Cheez Doodles – stuff that wasn’t available, or even easily imaginable, just a hundred short years ago. Things in general, Easterbrook tells us, have never been better for so many ordinary people at any other time in human history, not even when your grandfather was little and everything cost a nickel.
In fact, the first two chapters of The Progress Paradox are so chock-full of good news that it’s almost impossible to get through them in one sitting. To use a metaphor that might terrify the author, it’s like eating cotton candy with an appetizer, and a deep-fried Snickers bar for an entrée. Outside of the occasional snarky attack on the American addiction to sugar and fast food and the proliferation of sport-utility vehicles, there’s hardly a negative thing to say about the way that most ordinary people live in the Western democracies, especially as compared to how things used to be. Every horrible threat that has menaced human societies – poverty, New Coke, nuclear war, William Shatner’s singing career, famine, racism, polyester leisure suits, teenage pregnancy, crime, Dennis Kucinich for President, environmental collapse – is in full-bore retreat.
You might doubt Easterbrook’s thesis, of course, especially if you’ve stubbed your toe this morning, or just rented Gigli at your local Blockbuster, or if you’ve just watched hapless Cowboys quarterback Quincy Carter throw interceptions in the red zone. But individual circumstances, as miserable as they can be for individuals at individual moments, do little to blunt the positive impact of the current trendlines. Previous generations, Easterbrook reminds us, have not had it as good as we do, today and every day, despite what nostalgia and selective memory may tell us. (P.J. O’Rourke, writing in a similar vein, once pointed out that if you really think that anytime in the past was a Golden Age, consider what the dentistry was like back then.)
But the inevitable paradox still confounds us. If we’re so much better off nowadays, why aren’t there more happy people out there? Why is Prozac use so common that there are fears that the drug is getting into the water supply? Why is nuisance litigation becoming a more popular diversion than, say, pro hockey? Why is there always a Ford Excursion parked next to me when I want to pull out of a parking space?
Easterbrook posits that we aren’t evolutionarily ready for such happiness, that our reptile brains, conditioned by years of privation in the African highlands, aren’t set up to handle sudden abundance. So, the way we do everything else, we rationalize things, we figure out ways in which we are victims, we complain that others have still more than we do, we sink into denial. Not to mention that there are any number of people out there for whom the apocalypse is good business, and scare warnings are always in stock. And there’s a rational-expectation for disaster; Easterbrook argues that the media, so always ready to sensationalize a bad story, and so quick to bury a good story, leads us to expect only bad news and suffering in the press.
But in another sense, it doesn’t matter why we’re unhappy. It could be because of 24-hour news shows in general (and Bill O’Reilly in particular). It could be because of massive credit card debt. It could be because of Quincy Carter’s penchant for interceptions. What matters is, how do we fix things? How do we become happy?
The Progress Paradox has two sets of suggestions. The first set is personal and spiritual in nature and involves what Easterbrook calls “positive psychology”, for want of a better term. Part of this is almost Biblical, and involves forgiving those who trespass against us, and being grateful for our daily bread. Psychology books, Easterbrook tells us, have reams of data on neuroses and tragedy, but comparatively little on gratitude and forgiveness. Hard-core psychology focuses more on the minority with mental illnesses rather than the general malaise and unhappiness of the general populace; the latter is all-too frequently, nowadays, treated with Prozac and forgotten about. Thinking in a more positive way – Easterbrook references Norman Vincent Peale as an authority here – is one way to be happy amidst the abundance around us. (Easterbrook, er, unhappily, doesn’t cite Charles Murray’s excellent monograph, In Pursuit: In Search of Happiness and Good Government, which covers the topic of happiness much more comprehensively.)
The other set of suggestions is less personally helpful because it almost exclusively concentrates on what the American federal government can do to make the world a better place. This is where The Progress Paradox begins to lose its way. Easterbrook’s prescription for American political renewal is (to simplify things a bit) fourfold: providing universal health insurance for all Americans, raising the minimum wage, curbing the excesses of corporate robber barons, and increasing the foreign aid budget substantially. This may sound more like a liberal-centrist political platform than a prescription for curing our national blues, which is probably a fair criticism.
There isn’t quite enough space in the book review format to present the conservative case against Easterbrook’s agenda – certainly Easterbrook doesn’t present it, outside of a brief statement that some people argue that raising the minimum wage will raise unemployment. (To his credit, Easterbrook does defend some of the Bush Administration’s environmental record; he’s not a one-note liberal critic.) There’s nothing terribly controversial about his policy proposals, but it’s vaguely disappointing that a smart guy like Easterbrook isn’t coming up with anything better, more imaginative than this. It doesn’t help matters that he couches his political arguments in absolutist and moralistic ways; we’re taught, for example, that “[h]igher wages for the struggling, in return for a clear conscience for the successful, represents an attractive bargain: both a moral necessity and in the self-interest of anyone who is not coldhearted.”
Actually, considering that “coldhearted” bit, maybe it’s a good thing that Easterbrook isn’t presenting the conservative side of the argument here.
No matter. The Progress Paradox is excellent stuff, and if nothing else, it will help all of its readers practice a little bit of positive psychology; if this doesn’t help you count your blessings, very little will. And one of those blessings is that you get to read Gregg Easterbrook’s crisp, witty, level-headed prose. Another one is that, as of this writing, it’s only 45 short days until pitchers and catchers report to spring training camps in Florida and Arizona. (Well, life isn’t all about football, is it?)