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

I am the most NOW person of all time

Posted on July 21, 2007

This whole “Who’s Now” thing on ESPN is a complete joke. Yeah, some people think it’s a ridiculous, poorly conceived waste of time that reminds them of the kinds of celebrity gossip shows you would normally find on E!, but those guys are just jealous that they’re not as NOW as Shaun White or Kelly Slater. The idea of the tournament itself is awesome and might be the coolest thing TV has ever done, besides introducing me to Carlos Mencia and The Singing Bee. It’s at least the 3rd most NOW tournament in the world, behind the NCAA tournament and my fraternity’s daily beer pong tournament (two-time champs!). The problem is, the field is slanted, because they didn’t include me.

Look at some of the clowns they included– Ortiz, Manning, Sharapova. I’m more NOW than all of them combined. I’m more clutch than Ortiz (last week, I almost hit a game winning homer in the first round of my fraternity’s round-robin wiffle ball tournament, and last night, I won $20 playing online poker), have a better family than Manning (my dad is cooler and my brother isn’t autistic), and I’m like the male version of Sharapova when it comes to looking good (that’s why I go tanning as often as I do, and spend so much money on belt buckles). I should totally be in that tournament, and anyone who doesn’t think so is probably some kind of gaybo or a terrorist.

I still vote at least a dozen times every day, but it pisses me off because you can’t do write-in votes. Usually, I wake up around 7, do some push-ups, and then stand in front of the mirror for an hour checking out my awesome tattoos. I have one that spells my name out in Old English letters, and right below that I have barbed wire running around my bicep, kinda like Goldberg, except more NOW than his was. On my other arm, I wanted a Superman logo, but couldn’t afford the full thing yet, so it’s kinda just like an empty pentagon, and I tell people it’s there for America, because nothing is more NOW than loving America and being American. I’ll get the ‘S’ in there someday.

After that, I go and vote. By then I’ve already had 6 red bulls– it takes a ton of energy to be this NOW, you don’t even know how tiring it gets, so that’s why I wear clothes that are pre-ripped and wrinkled and stuff so you see just how tired I am from being so awesomely NOW– so I’m real hyped up, ya know? So every time my name’s not on there I rip my shirt off (I wear a lot of those old Hulkamania tank tops around the house) and go downstairs to kick my dog. My dog is not NOW, and I only have it because my mom made me take it to school with me. My dog is fat and stupid, and it craps everywhere. Things that are NOW don’t crap everywhere. That’s why Najeh Davenport isn’t in the tournament.

Last week, my girlfriend ditched me and called me a loser because I kept talking to her about how NOW I am. She said she didn’t even know what that meant, and I told her, hey, if you knew what it meant, then you’d be NOW too, but you’re not. Then I took some E and rubbed my face against the carpet for a few hours. It was awesome, and I only cried once.

It’s cool that she’s gone, because she’ll would never find anyone as NOW as I am, and when she comes crawling back, I’ll say “sorry, baby, but I’m NOW and you’re THEN.” Then I’ll go on youtube and post that video I secretly took of her when she was on the toilet. That’ll show her, and I’ll be ROTFLMAO’ing all the way to the bank, baby.

So I’m gonna start an online petition to include me in the next Who’s Now bracket (I’d like a bye too, but I guess I shouldn’t push my luck), so then we can settle once and for all that I’m definitely more NOW than Tiger Woods or that ugly swimmer that everyone pretends is hot just because she was in Maxim and FHM. Don’t get me wrong– Maxim and FHM are so NOW that if I were a magazine myself, they’d almost be as NOW as me (and that’s pretty damn NOW), but I just think they screwed that one up. Anyway, the point is, I’m starting a petition, and you should sign it, because it’ll make your TV viewing experience at least 75 percent more NOW effective immediately. And when I’m crowned the King of All Nowness, I’ll remember all the little people who helped me get there by giving you a 5% discount on autographed photos of me doing the most NOW-est things I can think of, like popping wheelies on my Ninja or attaching a nitrous tank to my Honda Civic.

Father Pushes wheelchair-bound son through marathons; Lee writes story

Posted on June 26, 2007

Saw a report today on Team Hoyt, a father-son racing duo so unique that my own words can’t do it justice. So, let’s have their website tell the story:

Dick and Rick Hoyt are a father-and-son team from Massachusetts who together compete just about continuously in marathon races. And if they’re not in a marathon they are in a triathlon — that daunting, almost superhuman, combination of 26.2 miles of running, 112 miles of bicycling, and 2.4 miles of swimming. Together they have climbed mountains, and once trekked 3,735 miles across America.

It’s a remarkable record of exertion — all the more so when you consider that Rick can’t walk or talk.

For the past twenty five years or more Dick, who is 65, has pushed and pulled his son across the country and over hundreds of finish lines. When Dick runs, Rick is in a wheelchair that Dick is pushing. When Dick cycles, Rick is in the seat-pod from his wheelchair, attached to the front of the bike. When Dick swims, Rick is in a small but heavy, firmly stabilized boat being pulled by Dick.

Without going all Rick Reilly on you (actually, I think he may have written an article about them a couple years ago…), I have to say, that’s pretty cool. But what does this have to do with fiction, you ask? Good question.

It reminds me of sportfiction friend and contributor Lee Klein’s story, “Carry Me Father No More,” which is featured on AGNI’s front page, and which is also pretty awesome. I got to see a draft of this story three years ago in workshop, and it was really good then. Three years of work later, and it’s even better. So, go check it out.

Real fiction-y updates on the way sooner than later– maybe even from someone who’s not me, which is exciting.

Update: Turns out SI did, in fact, write an article about them. The blog I found it on doesn’t name the author, but I’m almost positive it’s Rick Reilly. Anyway, here’s the link in case you’re interested in seeing it.

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.
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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.

Sportfiction Interview Series: Who Watches the Eastern Conference Playoffs?

Posted on May 21, 2007

Note: This is the first in a continuing series of interviews we’ve conducted with unique sports fans around the world. The series will continue approximately whenever we feel like continuing it. This interview was conducted last night, in a grungy sports bar in Northeast Philly, with Mario Cortes, the only man in the country who will admit to having watched every game in the NBA’s Eastern Conference playoffs.

Cortes was already at the bar when we called to meet with him. Although it was only 11 AM, he wanted to be able to catch “Cold Pizza,” or whatever it’s called now, to hear Skip Bayless’ take on LeBron James. We skipped that and showed up later—we stopped listening to him when he said Ichiro was a better athlete than Lance Armstrong.

Anyway, we arrived around noon, and Cortes was already on his 5th Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t seem to do anything but watch basketball, purchase multi-colored headbands, and wear said headbands to games for his multiple Rec league basketball teams, for which he plays small forward. Cortes is fairly fit—maybe 10 pounds overweight, which is pretty good for a 45 year old man. He has a nicely maintained goatee, and, by most accounts, appears to be a perfectly well-adjusted, sane person who made a fortune when he sued a carpet company at age 38 in response to what he believed were excessive static shocks that caused him undue pain and suffering, not to mention mental anguish.

He welcomed us politely and told us to sit next to him at the bar. We sat, and the interview began.

Sport is Stranger Than Fiction: So, um, what the hell dude?
Mario Cortes: Whaddya mean?
SISTF: Well, have you really watched every game? Even the Magic-Pistons series?
MC: What’s not to love about Grant Hill?
SISTF: He seems like a nice guy, but we heard his own family didn’t even watch games three and four.
MC: All the more reason to watch, right? If his own family doesn’t support him, someone’s gotta do it. I like that guy, ya know? Plus, he was going back to Auburn Hills to play his old team, and you had Darko there…
SISTF: You watched the games for Darko too?
MC: No one ever talks about him, but he’s playing okay now. Sure, he’s no star, but he’s okay. And Carlos Arroyo has some nice games. The US slept on Arroyo and he made them pay.
SISTF: So, is this some kind of national pride scouting thing, taking one for the team, doing your patriotic duty to watch games no one else watches?
MC: Well, kinda, I guess. I mean, the US is cool. I want them to win and all, but it ain’t really about that. It’s more like—here’s me, and there’s a TV, and the games on, so why not see how Carlos Arroyo’s playing? Read more

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.
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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.
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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.”
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