At this season of the year, when everything has bloomed, only to be doomed to choke, turn colors and eventually drop dead like a leaf in autumn, the sweaty rosary beads of hope spring from our homes and taverns and even our death row prisons.
We are actually praying that our hockey team, or basketball team or baseball team will pardon our desperate hearts with the ecstasy of a climactic moment. You know: OH, LORD! GIMME ALL YOU GOT, AND MAKE IT HURT!
The only part that confuses me – sort of – is that when, say, tavern patrons are downright, drunkenly jubilant about – say, a Philadelphia Flyers win in their potentially 28-game pugilistic playoff campaign to seize the Stanley Cup.
They are cheering for some Flyers players who may have banged the boards for the opposing team, or some other mercenary team of endeavor just last season. Or, some former Flyers, who they cheered and endeared last season, are, maybe this season, sticking their pucks in nets they once condomed off.
And the crowd: ROARED!!!!….Kill duh bums!
Okay, fill me in here: What is it all for?
Just to say: Our boys from Saskatchewan (that’s the western Canadian hockey kingdom for you folks who’ve never got past the Niagara Falls honeymoon suite) can beat your boys from Saskatchewan?
Or, as that Toronto Blue Jays baseball announcer smugly boasted to the homefolks the year after the Canadian team won the World Series off Philadelphia: “For the first time we can say that our Americans are better than their Americans.”
So what’s duh point of it all?
Whats-a-madda-wit-youse? Your balls get stuck in some dark bowling alley?
Let me enlighten you. And remember, the first step of enlightenment begins with disillusionment – that the Williams girls can hit his tennis balls harder than Arnold Schwarzenegger can hit theirs.
First, get over your pathetic, paltry, pusillanimous pouting. These are not merely sports teams playing just another game. That’s like diss-ing duh Grand Canyon as being just another hole in Arizona.
This ranks right up there with the Father, Son and Holy Ghost stuff. More sacred than the cash cow generated by Weapons of Mass Destruction, the Easter Bunny and the engineering of Alaska’s ‘Bridge to Nowhere.’
Look, if your team loses the Super Bowl that’s worse than death. I mean, with death you don’t have to get up and listen to all the ‘bragging rights’ the next morning – except perhaps in Afghanistan where they scratch their scruffy beards, and blow halitosis wondering how bad can it be when Christian satans are knocking the hell out of each other…and just for sport of it.
But there’s always hope for them.
Perhaps they should try baseball.
I love baseball. Not because it’s almost the only orderly thing in a very disorderly world — I mean, if you get three strikes, even the best lawyer in the world can’t get you off unless the juvenile judges are from Pennsylvania’s Luzerne County — but because in baseball you can always advance yourself: If you don’t succeed at first, you can always try second base… until your girlfriend lights up your face.
The great baseball player Satchel Paige used to mistakenly think the two most powerful forces in the world were money and women, which, naturally, incorporates the most powerful force in the universe: horniness. Because you’d do things for them you wouldn’t do for anything else.
Man just can’t help himself.
Well, I am here to tell you that sports are more powerful than governments in breaking down barriers. As the great Nelson Mandela stipulated: “Sport has the power to change the world. It has the power to inspire, the power to unite people that little else has.”
I wonder what sport some of my exes and I could have united under in order for me to keep my alimony payments?
It couldn’t have been hockey. Because, when I watch a hockey game I get to thinking about smacking that hard headed puck at the goalie the way my ex-wife and her lesbian lover are no doubt smacking battery operated toys at each other.
Hmm…I forget those things when I am drunk and comatose after duh game’s over and out.
With my diminutive last ex – Ms. Stephanie — maybe I could have taken up that Australian sport of midget tossing.
Nah…the bar’s plate glass window would just get in duh way.
But while we’re in the Aussie nutcracking milieu, how’s about rugby? I more than enjoy its violence, especially when they start biting each other’s ears off.
Hmm…maybe I got that confused with boxing. Which I sometimes get confused with ballet, except there’s no music, no choreography and the dancers hit each other until one of them takes a ‘swan’ dive — but not exactly into the lake.
Sports teach you what you need to know about lots of stuff. Like basketball is often considered the ultimate male-bonding ritual.
Oy! And you’re wishing that the guys could just go off into the woods, kill something and be done with it.
Sports, like soccer, can serve to illustrate, as does biology, that the games of life can make you harder than Spice makes David Beckham. Especially if you’re the goal keeper in a game that’s often compared to a fertility festival: That is, 11 sperm kicking and screaming to score into the egg.
Hmm…. Maybe that’s what they mean when they say there are fools, bloody fools and men who ‘remount’ the horse — in a steeple chase.
But let’s not get a little head for ourselves. I don’t mean that you don’t have to give one now and then for the team. But I do wonder at times that if a synchronized swimmer drowns, do the rest have to drown, too?
Will keep you negative on the pregnancy test, however.
Oh, well. Thinking about all these sports is more exercising and exhausting than what men usually think about. And probably more satisfying. Because, I’ve got to think that winning the World Cup has to be more rewarding than sex. I mean, the World Cup only comes every four years…
Hmm…come to think of it: So do I.
And dats yDrewIS on DIS penal colony…