The Drunken Striker

Posted on July 26, 2007

They told me when I signed up for this that it would be fun, that we’d all enjoy ourselves and that we’d remember it forever, vividly, like how people remember the first time they got laid, or the last time they had a cigarette, or the pain they felt when they fell out of a tree as teenagers and broke both wrists. It was supposed to be kind of a party, a weekly get-together where we were more focused on drinking and cursing and getting away from family than on soccer, and who gives a damn who wins the games? Then Sanders got hurt, and two other guys quit, and one guy went nuts and ran off to live somewhere in Minnesota with his sister, and before you know it we’re down to five players and I’m playing every minute of every game just wishing like hell that I could get hurt too so I won’t ever have to run again.

The other guys, they’re mostly the same as me in that they don’t want to play either, but we feel like we have to because Sanders is sticking around to coach, and Winter is on the hook for four hundred bucks whether we show up or not, and it wouldn’t be right for us to leave him hanging. So we’re there every week, tired and fat and still sore from the week before, getting run off the floor by a bunch of twenty year olds without kids, jobs, body fat, arthritis, or any sense of what it means to be old and useless. We try to bully them, bounce their heads off the walls and hack at their shins until they turn purple (of course they don’t wear guards—they probably ride to the games piled 3 deep on the back of those little rice rockets without helmets, so why would they even think about slipping a little piece of plastic inside their socks?). We let them run past us and we let Harvey deal with the steady stream of breakaways, because if we all sprint back on defense, then there’s no way in hell we’ll be able to mount any kind of attack, and what’s the fun in playing a game if you don’t even have the chance to score? Harvey tries, but he’s slow, so if he gives up a rebound (he’s got good hands, but they’re not perfect), you know it’s a goal. Then he gets pissed, kicks the wall, and fires the ball at my back real hard because he thinks I’m still good enough to hang with these guys. Read more

When the Ball Died at Second

Posted on June 21, 2007

We had all bled on the field and played through the pain at one time or another, but none of us had ever seen the ball bleed before. Parry had hit the damn thing so hard that we didn’t hear the familiar crack of bat on ball—some of us heard nothing, while others, me included, swear they heard it scream, real quiet, just a tiny yelp like when you step on a dog’s toes. And instead of leaping off the bat and soaring over the outfield wall, it tumbled to the ground and skittered in the dirt at my feet at second base.

There was no open wound, but the blood flowed freely, as if from a gunshot. I refused to touch it, even as Artie chugged past me on the way to an inside-the-infield home run. The ball lay there, groaning. A low painful hum. A sad sound of resignation, as if prepared to die. It seemed wrong to lift the ball out of its deathbed and toss it into someone’s uncaring glove as if nothing strange had happened. I heard my wife yelling from the bench to get my head in the game, her voice shrill and angry. Angrier, even, than last night, when she told me that she knew—that she’d always known—about my affair with the neighbor woman. I’d been fucking around with the woman next door for about six years, and I think I was probably trying to get caught. It was the only way I could think to hurt my wife, and, besides, I couldn’t stand to be in the house anymore because I was sure it was haunted. “If you knew,” I’d said, “then why would you wait so long to do something about it?” She turned off the light, pulled the covers over her head, and lay in silence for at least an hour. As I began to drift off the sleep, she told me, again, that I had to stop blaming her for what happened. Then we had that old argument again. I was tired of that argument the first time, and now I can’t stand even thinking about it.
Read more

The Legless Catcher

Posted on June 14, 2007

By the time we finally won a championship, we were twenty years deep into the war and nobody cheered, because everybody was either dead or dying. We were replacement players, called in because we were unfit to be soldiers, but just fit enough to be able to squeeze into uniforms and put on a show for the people. All the real players had been sent overseas. Their unions had resisted at first, but in the end, public pressure forced them to cave; our freedom was on the line and these were our greatest athletes. They had to go.

The league contracted to ten teams and then loaded the rosters with all of the army’s rejects. Most of us were fat and diabetic, or had bad hearts or were too old to fight. Others were considered defective. Our pitcher only had one arm; he played without a glove and we always prayed that no one would hit a liner right back at him. The first baseman was blind in one eye. The shortstop was a burn victim, his skin a grotesque canvas of purples and reds. I was the catcher. They put me there because I had no legs—I was the first pro catcher in history who didn’t have knee problems. The irony, chuckling broadcasters liked to mention, was that I’d actually lost my legs in the war, way back when it started. I never really thought it was that funny.

We were worse than a high school team, but still good enough to win the World Series. Everybody in the league had played when they were younger, but had given up their dreams long ago. Now, we were paid like superstars to play ball worse than our children would. I made six million a year, despite the fact that every base runner we ever allowed had stolen second base; without my legs, I had a hard time throwing anyone out. But I was considered underpaid.

By this time, the country’s biggest expenses were, in order, defense and pro sports. I don’t remember what was third. Whatever it was, it didn’t get much attention. Everyone was so preoccupied with the war and the World Series that we barely even noticed that the rest of the country was crumbling beneath our feet.

Three years ago, the champion had gotten a standing ovation from a stadium packed with over 100,000 people. The next year, the number had been cut in half. Only 100 people watched us win the championship. They looked so tiny and helpless up in the stands that I thought they might blow away like confetti. They watched in grim silence as the game unfolded. I heard them coughing sometimes, during breaks between the generic rock music that blared through the stadium, but they never cheered, booed, or even clapped.

The final out came on a collision at the plate—the guy bowled me over, because I couldn’t very well stand my ground. Everyone on the field thought we’d both died at home plate. The guy who barreled into me was at least seventy and he could barely run. He hit the ground with an awful whump, like a corpse dropped out of a helicopter, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. Our teammates, crying, rushed out to us, and, even though they saw that I still had the ball, they didn’t feel right cheering. Even when the other guy choked out a weak breath, and I lifted the ball triumphantly, we were silent. It still didn’t feel right to cheer; in fact, it hadn’t felt right for years, but it wasn’t until then that we realized how wrong we’d been all along.

Watching Basketball with his Son

Posted on June 12, 2007

Robert leaned forward in the recliner and pointed at the TV. “See how he bends his knees like that,” he said, “that’s what you’re doing wrong. You have to get low when you’re playing defense.” Michael, his son, looked up from a handheld video game and whimpered. Robert continued: “You play lazy, and that’s why they always beat you.”

Michael got up to leave the room, but Robert stopped him. He snatched the video game and shut it down. “Stay a minute, see how they play,” he said, using his arm to guide Michael to the couch. Michael slumped forward and leaned on his palms, watching through splayed fingers. They’d watched this game before, maybe a dozen times. Each time, Robert tried to get his son to appreciate the nuances of great basketball—the head fakes, the way players moved off the ball, the subtle should shimmy to slice through the lane. Mostly, though, he wanted Michael to see the hustle. A tiny guard rushed back to block a fast break lay-up from behind, pinning the ball against the backboard as the shooter sulked away. Robert pumped a fist and shouted as if seeing it for the first time. He could feel the redness in his face—whenever he yelled, the blood rushed to his head, and, lately, he felt a tightness in his chest. It was too late for him to get in great shape, but not yet for his son. Almost, though.

Michael hunched forward to pet the dog and his shirt lifted up, allowing the fatty rolls to spill out over his waist. He was thirteen, and he was fat. They told him he would grow into it, but that was a lie. He wouldn’t ever stop, because he didn’t care. He was lazy, and he would rather clatter away on the computer than go outside and play with real people. His friends were fat too, and Robert hated when they came to the house, their mouths outlined with chocolate and fruit punch, their eyes dulled by years of staring blankly at the monitor. When they came over, they’d take turns in the computer chair, shooting at aliens, or pretending to be goblins and trolls. The ones who didn’t play barely talked—they just shoveled food into their mouths mindlessly. At the end of the night, their seats were always outlined in dropped popcorn.

“Dad,” Michael said, “can I have my game back?”

“Watch this play.” Another fast break, this time ending in an alley-oop. “See how quick those guys are? You can’t do that stuff unless you work out.” He turned the volume up so Michael wouldn’t hear the faint jingle of the ice cream truck as it approached. “Don’t you want to play like these guys?” he asked, poking Michael in the ribs.

“They don’t even put me in the games.”

“They don’t put you in because you’re out of shape.” He’d given up on soccer after three years, baseball after one, and tennis after two weeks. He would probably quit on basketball for after this year too, and then they’d move on to football. After that, what was left? Robert was never a star, but he’d been a good athlete and had his varsity letters.

“Would it kill you just to try to like it a little?”

“But I hate it,” he said. “Why can’t I do what I want to do?”

His wife yelled from the kitchen: “Are you giving him that old lecture again, Robert?”

“Just trying to show him what it’s like to be a great athlete,” he said. The ice cream truck had turned down their street. No matter how loud he made the TV, the jingle danced over it. Michael rushed out of the living room to fetch a dollar from his mom, and then charged toward the truck.

Robert stood in the doorway, eyeing his son as he nibbled on the edges of a nutty buddy. His cheeks were smeared with ice cream, and he waved at his father. Robert turned away and walked back inside. He knew he was supposed to his love Michael because he was his son, but he just couldn’t. He flopped back in his recliner and stared at the TV, knowing everything that was coming, and wishing he could be a part of it all.

Head Case

Posted on May 17, 2007

Note: Upon hearing the NFL’s continued insistence that there is no correlation between repeated head trauma and long-term cognitive difficulties (including dementia, early onset Alzheimer’s disease, decreased motor function, memory loss, and depression), we at Sport is Stranger than Fiction sent our very own investigative reporter to the home of Dr. Ian Casson– a spokesman-physician for the NFL. His goal was twofold. First, he had to avoid speaking to Dr. Casson at all costs, because, come on, what’s the point? Second, he had to rifle through the good doctor’s records to give us as much background information on his mental state and his other beliefs. We’ve transcribed his report below.

Other Note:In order to protect our reporter’s identity, we’ll just call him J. Greco. No, that’s too obvious– let’s call him Joey G.

When I arrived at Dr. Casson’s house, I was disturbed to learn that your promised diversionary tactics– standing under his bedroom window at night and making spooky ghost sounds in order to scare him away– had failed miserably. The house was occupied by Dr. Casson, his wife, two Pomeranians, and some guy with a mohawk. Working on the assumption that the mohawked man was there to work security, I took it upon myself to sneak up on him and choke him with piano wire (you’ll note that I’ve attached a bill for the wire, and for the Purell hand sanitizer I used to clean the spittle off of my hands) and hid his body in a garden shed. I noted that inside the shed Dr. Casson stored several items, including multiple sacks of mulch, a pair of paint-splattered boots, and a ziploc bag full of assorted screws that didn’t seem to fit into anything in particular. Conspicuous by its absence was a lawnmower. As I later learned, however, Dr. Casson does not see any correlation between owning a lawnmower and having shorter grass. This, it seems would be an appropriate time to note that Dr. Casson’s yard is so overgrown that a few weeds tickled my beautiful nose, which, as Kevin Gonzalez knows, is a nose that does not like to be tickled. I stomped through the yard and back toward the house.

I then proceeded to sneak into the family room (a job made easier by the fact that, as I later learned, Dr. Casson does not see any correlation between owning– not to mention locking– doors and deterring intruders), inciting a whirlwind of Pomeranian yippiness that was only quelled when I stopped to pet the dogs. My original plan had been to distract the dogs with a chain of sausage links, but I was hungry and saved the sausage for myself. Once satisfied with my petting, the dogs wandered off and promptly disappeared in the thicket of the backyard. I’m not sure if they ever returned.
Read more

The Day Harvey Masters Ran out of Things to Say About Sports

Posted on May 8, 2007

The studio lights burned into Harvey’s skin like a summer sun. His tie tightened around his corpulent neck and he felt the sweat dripping down his side and channeling into the folds around his hip. The back of his suit was soaked through and he was sure everyone on the set could smell his fear. And still they were only seconds away from switching onto camera 4 and demanding that he offer 150 seconds of profound insight on every sport in the world.

The words crept up the teleprompter. Now let’s whip it over to Harvey Masters, the SportsMaster, for his outrageous take on the day’s events! For the last three years, his daily segment had always started like this, except sometimes, instead of being outrageous, he was passionate, or intense, or in-your-face. Once, he was sassy, and for a few months last year, he was XTREME.

Maybe he could have thrust the chair backward and dived under his desk, huddling up there until everyone just left him alone; let the camera hold on his empty, spinning chair for the full two-and-a-half. Let the empty desk tell them everything they needed to know. But this was the wrong industry for that kind of stunt. Just two weeks ago, Harvey himself had called Gilbert Arenas a gutless punk for using torn knee ligaments as an excuse to skip the first round of the playoffs. “Everyone faces obstacles,” Harvey had shouted, “but most of us overcome them instead of using them as excuses! Only difference is, he gets paid millions while schlubs like us get peanuts.” He’d ended that segment with his trademark flourish— running his hands back through his thick curls and then pointing them at the camera like a pair of six-shooters. Because he was a straight-shooter and that’s what straight-shooters do.

No, he couldn’t hide. The bloggers would crucify him if he backed out now. But he had nothing to say. A man can only narrate a 6-4-3 double play so many times before he runs out of words. He can only discuss the moral implications of steroid use in baseball for so many days in a row before the dead horse has been beaten to an unrecognizable pulp. He can only analyze the facial expressions of a football coach so many times before he wants to throw himself in front of a train.
Read more

Post-Draft Blues

Posted on May 3, 2007

Toby came downstairs and stepped right over me as I laid there, my face buried in the carpet like I was grazing. I heard ice cubes clatter into a glass, and then he opened the fridge to pour himself a drink. The fridge didn’t close, but his bare feet scraped slowly across the rug. I pictured him walking like a zombie, arms outstretched and eyes vacant, and then I felt a kick in my ribs.

He toppled over me, a knee driving into my kidney and his glass dropping onto the back of my head. It didn’t break, but it hurt like hell. I thought I might be bleeding, but the run-off on my cheeks tasted like orange juice, and I knew I was okay. I turned my head so that my right cheek was pressed against the floor, and I could see Toby, now lying across me so that we looked like a lowercase T.

“I’m laying here,” I said.

“Didn’t see you,” he said, his voice muffled by the carpet. “Did you catch my OJ?”

“Why don’t you look where you’re going?” I said, and tried to smack him on the back. I barely grazed him.

“What a terrible day.”

“You wanna get off me?”

“I will,” he said, but I knew he wouldn’t. He turned his head to look back at me over his shoulder. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

“Nothing to do.”

“Guess we could move.”

“Like that’ll help us get over this draft,” I said. I unleashed a showy sigh so that he could feel my disapproval in my breath on his cheek. “It’s too late, man. Everything’s already ruined.”

“How the hell could they draft a quarterback?” He slapped his palm on the floor. “They already have McNabb! Why not take a linebacker?”

“Could we not talk about it?” The Eagles had blown another draft just 6 hours before, and my season was ruined before it had even started. I wished I was dead, if only because it would keep me from having this same conversation for the fifth time today. “Just get offa me and leave me alone.”
Read more

The Two Loneliest Men in the World

Posted on May 1, 2007

[Tom Brady dials Randy Moss’ phone number after getting word that the Patriots have traded for him, and Moss answers after 19 rings.]

Moss: If you’re calling to invite me to that surprise party for Al Davis, I already told you– I ain’t going!

Brady: Hey, Randy, I heard we traded for you.

Moss: [inhales deeply, as if smoking] Who’s this?

Brady: Tom Brady.

Moss: Like the Brady Bill, with the guns and all?

Brady: No, like three Super Bowls Tom Brady. Best quarterback in the league Tom Brady.

Moss: [coughs painfully, as if forcing a golf ball from his throat] Doesn’t ring a bell.

Brady [sighs]: The dude who knocked up Gisele.

Moss: Oh, Tom Brady! I know how that is. I’m on the hook with four kids—she get you for all the babymamma money yet?

Brady: Not yet. [scratches chest with receiver so Randy can hear the manly bristling of his chest hairs, which are going prematurely gray, but no one knows that except for Andruzzi, and he’s sworn to secrecy.]

Moss: She got me man… draining me, dude.

Brady: How much you paying?

Moss: I don’t know—I don’t pay no attention to that shit. I just go by the house with a sack full of nickels. You know how it is— when you’re rich you don’t write checks, right?

Brady: Yeah, I guess. Coach B holds my money for me. [yanks his empty pockets outward into Hoover flags like a cartoon cat who can’t afford to buy the ukelele he’s set his eyes on, and then remembers Randy can’t see him, and then smacks himself in the head for being so stupid, and then wonders if Randy heard the smack on his forehead.] He promised he’ll give it to me when I retire.

Moss: How you know he ain’t spending it?

Brady: Have you seen how he dresses? He looks like my retarded cousin after a shopping spree at the thrift store.
Read more

A press release from Kyle Korver and Kevin Curtis regarding racial inequalities in professional sports

Posted on April 17, 2007

With the full support of their families and friends, NBA forward—and Ashton Kutcher body double—Kyle Korver and NFL wide receiver Kevin Curtis are proud to announce the founding of the Alliance for the Preservation of White Athletes (APWA), a civil liberties watchdog group that intends to fight unfair hiring practices in professional sports.

It is common knowledge that the number of white athletes in the NFL and NBA is diminishing rapidly, and the APWA is very concerned about this trend. “I just don’t feel comfortable being stuck in a locker room with all those black guys,” Korver says. “I mean, it wasn’t long ago that there would have been two, maybe even three American whites on the floor at once, and now we’re lucky to see that a couple times a year.”

“It’s sad,” Curtis says. “White kids in the suburbs used to have role models they could believe in. Steve Largent, Fred Biletnikoff, Ed McCaffery, that McConkey guy who played for the Giants, I think. Now, there’s just me and a handful of others, and I include guys like James Thrash who probably aren’t even white, but they could pass for it if you looked from really far away. The point is, there aren’t enough white guys in the league, and, frankly, I think it’s wrong.”
Read more

Poo-tee-weet?

Posted on April 12, 2007

Kurt Vonnegut would probably never stop laughing if he saw how many tributes were written to him today, but I can’t help myself– the two people most responsible for my being a writer are, in order, my dad and Kurt Vonnegut. I know I’ll manage quite well without either of them around, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it or pretend that it doesn’t bother me.

It’s probably worth noting that when Anna Nicole Smith– a drug addicted whore with no discernible talents or usefulness– died, she became the top story on every news station for over a month, but when Vonnegut– one of the great American writers to ever live, and one of the most influential Americans of the 20th century– died, he became a footnote on the day’s news.

Take from that what you will.

A Vonnegut quote from 2004:

My last words? “Life is no way to treat an animal, not even a mouse.”

Next Page »

© Copyright Sport Fiction • Powered by Wordpress • Using Detour theme created by Brian Gardner.