WEEKLY SPORTS WRAP-UP -March 1st, 2007

Night falls upon Los Angeles, and out come the wolves to meet the coyotes on Los Feliz and Huxley to go do boilermakers at the Roost.  A shiver runs down my back as I sit here in the darkness, thinking about past endeavors and failed attempts at life.  I know now that to free myself, I must come forth and face the horrific truth, to exorcise the demons that continue to ravage my heart and feast on my soul.  I need to free myself of this thing we call sports.

A life dedicated to the achievements and physical feats of men who spend the golden years of their careers in their thirties is a life gone awry.  Like those who tally winners of entertainment awards and root for actors in categories as worthless as the headline that appears above my words, a sports fan’s life hinges on not only the outcomes of meaningless events, but also the pageantry and frivolity that precedes it.  Sports, and entertainment in general, are the opiates of the masses, dulling us to slumber as we ignore the feeding of the beast.

Why can’t we revel in life’s personal moments?  Where is the celebration of that moment when your tongue first connects with a bite of a warm blueberry pie, lightly draped with the sweetness of French Vanilla?  Why must we care about the secretive phone calls of general managers trying to make trades of human athletes, not unlike children who trade their bananas for pudding cups in the schoolyards?  Why didn’t the Lakers’ Mitch Kupchak make the trade with the New Jersey Nets to get Jason Kidd?  I guess he thinks his PB&J sandwich is better than New Jersey’s left-over fried chicken.

I want to get lost in that scent that is unique to that one spot, right in the back, where a woman’s neck ends and her flowing hair begins, where existence sometimes exist, if only momentarily.  I don’t want to get lost in the numbers of the NFL Combine, where old men with clipboards and stopwatches watch young men sprint, and press, and jump, and shuffle into the hearts of these talent scouts.  Rumor has it that the young man who’s tagged as the next big thing at the Combine scored a 23 in both his bench press exercise, as well as his Wonderlic test. 

 Like a suburban drug addict circling the streets of downtown, looking for the legit hookup, I find myself scuttling around the Internet, looking for yet another blog supporting rumors that bigger bloggers boast about knowing, citing others as sources.  The search, regardless of its outcome, has left me weary, unable to truly grasp the situation and its dangers that I find myself in.  Only when I unfocus my eyes do I focus on my reflection in the monitor’s screen. 

Is this my moment of clarity?  Is this where I break the addiction?  Can I finally get away from the arguments about how Greg Oden’s position as center supercedes Kevin Durant’s pure abilities at the more abundant forward position?  I think a trip to the methadone clinic down at the singles bar is in order.