It’s times likes these I pray for writer’s block. I haven’t gotten around to looking up from this glowing computer screen to actually confirm it, but the television behind me just said summer is around the corner. Based on the date showing on my cell phone screen, that would appear to be confirmed. Barring a nuclear winter in the next five minutes, this missive will be seen through to its conclusion.
Recall a time when summer represented a time of freedom from three months of physical education, the gruel served by that seedy-looking fellow who always wore a state-mandated hairnet, and the random detention … Actually, come to think of it, school did seem a little like prison didn’t it? Flash forward to an indeterminate period of time later. Nope no physical activity, unless getting up to use the commode at regular intervals counts as a calorie-burning activity. The guy in the hairnet? Once the butt of jokes among 3rd graders, now comes the realization that he undoubtedly made more money doling out stale Sloppy Joe’s than I do opining about sports. And detention now lasts as long as a seven-game series.
Why miss out on the opportunity to eat one’s weight in barbecue to watch the NBA Finals, featuring the perennially hapless Dallas Mavericks and the overly-maligned Miami Heat, cornering the NBA’s cherished jaded NASCAR fan demographic? A rematch of the 2006 Finals, where the Mavericks famously frittered away a 2-0 series lead to lose in 6 games. The NBA would like you to think that its championship pairings age like a fine bottle of scotch. In this case, it would probably be best to check the expiration date on that boxed wine left over from the Bush administration. Give it time, though, and the story lines will be hashed out (perhaps some hashing would aid enjoyment).
A ring for the King? A smirk for Dirk? Maybe they’ll even throw in clips of the movie Maverick and Heat since we are already going back into the archives. Val Kilmer might be a full Pacino over his playing weight, but to quote the immortal Mark Jackson, you gotta give him credit. Regardless, if I were a betting man, I’d take the Mavericks in seven … years.
Just because summer sometimes arrives like an unwanted relative who chooses not to call before coming and conveniently forgets to make accommodations for their indefinite stay, doesn’t mean that the season can’t include a little ice sports. The Stanley Cup Finals have arrived, with the bi-coastal Boston-Vancouver rivalry. It almost seems as if the NHL season runs so long that training camps open about a week after the final ounce of Jäger has been drunk from Lord Stanley’s prized possession. Sure, the series has plenty of intrigue. The Boston Bruins are one of the legendary Original Six teams. Bobby Orr, Ray Bourque, Phil Esposito. And, Vancouver … Well, the city does have a history of looking the other way on recreational drug usage, so there’s that. Hey, they don’t call it Vansterdam for nothing. The enmity has already begun to build between the two cities. The Boston Pizza chain north of the border has been renamed Vancouver Pizza- maple syrup instead of tomato sauce? The Bruins, the Canucks. The winner gets bragging rights and the bidding rights on a Long John Silver franchise.
Amidst all the hubbub of champions and games that matter, a billowing cloud of smoke was spotted over Los Angeles last week. Nope, it apparently wasn’t the steam coming out of Kobe’s ears after the hiring of Mike Brown. It was actually coming from Dodger Stadium. Surprising since the alleged baseball team that plays there has been going down in flames for the last year or so. Some speculated that it was the hottest the team had been all season long. Alas, it was not the team but reportedly a paper fire that was sparked inside the stadium. You would have thought that Frank McCourt would have tried shredding his confidential documents instead of using matches, but, hey, to each his own. One media member was later treated and released after the subsequent blowing of smoke from a team spokesperson.
You can’t win these days anyway. The article I’m writing at this moment is slowly contributing to an inevitable bout of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. Months of watching the NBA, NHL, MLB, NFL litigation updates, and ESPN2 cheerleading competitions has strained my eyesight to the level of the San Diego Padres batting average (30/500 sounds about right).
Outdoors? The beach is not an option. My pasty skin complexion, emblematic of an agoraphobic, has made me a hazard to anyone not wearing proper eye protection and any low-flying aircraft. Enjoying the outdoors, getting fresh air? Such a thing does not exist in Los Angeles. I’d try to take advantage of the lingering years of my youth, but why bother, there’s an app for that. Perhaps there’s a collegiate beer pong tournament that requires a written summation and the syntax that only a journalist can provide. Or, maybe I’ll go where no sportswriter has gone before, the gym. All this pencil pushing has strengthened my forearms at the expense of seemingly every other part of the body (of course, I do have strong fingertips, though).
There you have it, an article about nothing, mentioning summer and sports and doing nothing to enlighten either subject. It’s almost Seinfeld-ian when you think about it. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Pic via Busted Coverage
