Mike Celizic

Normally at this time of year, we roll out the tried-but-true sports-turkey column, drolly — we hope — commenting on the major gobblers of the day. But this year, even though we know you look forward to this annual exercise as much as a second helping of sun-ripened yak liver, we are eschewing the customary column in favor of something that’s actually timely . . .

(pause for applause)

. . . but still seasonal . . .

(pause for groans)

. . . the NFL Network.

Let’s face it, who needs a flock of predictable sports turkeys — T.O., Floyd Landis, Barry Bonds, Bobby Knight, Joe Theisman, that writer in the hat, yadda, yadda, yadda — when we have served up on a football-shaped Tiffany platter the grandmother of all turkeys itself: the National Football League? It's a crime: depriving many of us of its best Thanksgiving game, Kansas City vs. Denver, because the NFL Network isn't carried on Time Warner Cable, the nation’s No. 2 cable operator; Cablevision, a New York-area provider; and Charter Communications because of disputes over how much money the NFL wants.

Local outlets showed the game, as did satellite TV and cable systems that do carry the NFL Network. But that's only 40 million of the nation’s 111.4 million households with TVs.

I don’t want someone in the Department of Homeland Security to get the wrong idea from what could be read as a critical comment about the NFL, which, as every school child knows, was greatly admired by George Washington, who once threw a perfect spiral across the Potomac River while rolling to his left. I want to assure the department that I am a full-blooded American who bleeds red, white and blue; feels that the Bill of Rights is for sissies; and believes that God has talent on loan from Rush Limbaugh who has it on loan from Bill O’Reilly. And I love football, which I watch every Sunday — after church, of course — and especially NFL football. No, sir, they don’t come more American than I.

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And that’s my problem. I love football, especially on Thanksgiving Day, when, in a timeless re-enactment of the first Thanksgiving of our Pilgrim forefathers (no foremothers or forepersons in those days; it was forefathers or nothing), the men gather around the blazing television to drink fermented beverages and watch football while the womenfolk busy themselves in the kitchen preparing the feast.

We crave the game so intensely, that we even watched Miami-Detroit, which bears as much resemblance to professional football as a Wal-Mart paycheck does to a living wage. It may not have been great, but at least it saved us from having to look at the pictures of our spinster Aunt Ida’s toy poodle. (Looking at pictures of our bachelor Uncle Lester’s new bass boat was, on the other hand, a highlight of the day.)

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For untold years  nay, eons — we have been thankful for such scraps as the NFL in its mercy has deigned to toss our way. And we have been moved to bliss when we also get to watch Dallas, even against hapless Tampa Bay. Scraps they may be, but they were the best the league had to give us on that day.

But this year, the NFL, which we have worshiped and helped to wax wealthy beyond the dreams of Croesus, tossed us a half-chewed stem of asparagus while dangling just beyond our reach an entire deep-fried-in-the-parking-lot turducken.