Farcus Mayes is the evil twin brother of Marcus Hayes. He’s our newest contributor. He’s every old-school Daily News columnist. His head is a pile of poop.
Casper once delighted audiences with his friendly supernatural antics.
A harmless creature, loved by small-minded children, Casper would never so much as even spook a real Hollywood ghost, like Stanley Kubrick’s mysterious Lloyd, the bartender at The Overlook Hotel.
Flyers fans, the equivalent of small-minded children, who are too lazy to spell a challenging surname, have taken to using the keyboard stickers on their phones (from which they’re too busy to look up and actually watch the game) to refer to their team’s Casper-like figure, the so-called “ghost-bear,” Shayne Gostisbehere.
That’s Gost-is-be-here, for the intellectually challenged.
Try it with me.
Nowhere do the letters g-h-o-s-t appear in order. Forget about spotting any bears.
Who needs f-a-c-ts, though?
But let’s assume “Ghost” is a supernatural prospect sent here to rescue the Orange, White and, yes, Black from the grasp of insular thinking and nepotism.
Whom does he scare?
Even for a historically racist organization, which even today has only one African American player on its roster, embracing the name “Ghost” conjures up images of those other white sheet-wearing men, whom our leading presidential candidate considers his core constituency.
Imagine if Wayne Simmonds was represented by a black-fist keyboard sticker… er, Emoji. It wouldn’t be just the Florida Panthers that would get derided with jeers by a bigoted fan base.
Flyers fans openly celebrating a player whom they call “Ghost,” a term with obvious connotations, is as boorish as Phillies fans favoring the surly Chase Utley over the superior Jimmy Rollins and Ryan Howard.
But I’ll play along.
Let’s talk about Casper, the inoffensive defenseman embraced by white people.
Yeah, right. Sopping wet.
I have soiled boxers that weigh more than the Flyers’ star defenseman who doesn’t actually defend. Casper is a skating oxymoron.
Fans will tell you he’s light on his skates, which allows him to glide gracefully up the ice.
I’ll tell you that you can’t even spot him when he turns sideways.
Try defending Joel Ward or blocking a shot with that body.
Suddenly Casper is invisible.
A little bit too friendly, our ghost is.
But he’s offensive, they say.
Sure, to the African American community.
On most teams, 14 goals would be nothing to write home about. But on the ivory ice of the Wells Fargo Center, where mediocrity is championed, Casper is considered the holy spirit.
Never mind that Simmonds, a black forward, is the team’s actual leading goal-scorer. You won’t read that on the blogs.
Simmonds is big, strong, athletic, and has a knack for scoring timely goals.
Gostisbehere is the beneficiary of a painfully flawed roster with a depth problem. How else does a 22-year-old Florida kid with the body of a computer programmer get a spot on the power play?
Simmonds plays with grit. He puts the walk into his talk.
Gostisbehere, fittingly, shies away from contact like Casper floats through walls.
Perhaps that’s why they call him “Ghost.”
Not even Sam Wheaton or Beetlejuice, notoriously soft supernatural beings, would be frightened by our friendly defenseman.
But if Michael Keaton’s character taught us anything, it’s that you can say a name three times to unveil the spirit.
Let’s try it.
Still no ghost.
Just a one-dimensional defenseman named Shayne.