“I enjoy sports and I enjoy words”…
Would be how I’d open this piece; guys like Rick Reilly would spend two books about golf and fifteen paragraphs about his dad (with a three-course Mitch Albom primer) before getting to the point:
“But there are so many words available to write about things other than sports”…
Is what the aforementioned ilk would never write because that would compel them to admit that they’d prefer to have been better at sports (in their youth) than they were at words.
THERE ARE ONLY SO MANY GODDAMN THINGS TO SAY ABOUT A SITUATION WHEREIN ONE TEAM/INDIVIDUAL INTENDS TO SCORE MORE POINTS THAN DOES ANOTHER TEAM/INDIVIDUAL. That’s it! That’s all!
I love sports (particularly professional sports); as a spectator, I revel in the milkshake of perceived birth-ties and pointlessness and I will make every effort to compel my 20-month-old child to my corner of team(s)-specific stupidity…
But y’know what I won’t do? Act like that’s all there is (nor will I end a sentence on a passive verb)…just because sports is what I want to be close to (previous parenthetical applies to prepositions).
I have been a Sports Illustrated subscriber since I was younger than ten. I am cancelling my subscription because of the two latest issues:
and this one—
(…which, mind you, were published back-to-back in that order).
Hey—you guys check out Deadspin’s Drew Margarine’s latest piece in that magazine for good-smelling full-body-waxers?
(Guy went after Paul Reiser and didn’t think twice…fuckin’ balls on him.)