“Dad, Take Him Out!”: A Reflection On My Hatred for Sports PART 1

Die-hard chuckblog fans might have deduced my complete disinterest in sports throughout childhood and into the present. For those readers new to the site, allow me to explain my athletic repulsion bluntly- I have absolutely no interest in playing sports in person or in a video game, and would opt for watching mass on television over viewing a sports game. My despise for athletics encompasses all major sports, including but not limited to: baseball; football; basketball; and hockey.

Upon learning that I was a long-distance runner in high school and college, most people concede that I’m a sports-hating poseur. My counterargument is based on two main assertions: 1) competitive long distance running requires no athletic talent whatsoever and 2) no one gives a rat’s ass about scantily clad, emaciated men running 1000 times around a 400 meter loop. I might as well participate in the sport of getting blackout drunk on weekends wearing bikini-brief underwear.

Oh wait, I’m currently a professional in that one.

Many of my sports-loving critics assume that I was raised in some kind of nerd bubble – which is true to a certain extent – but I played catch with dad, collected sports cards, frequented scottbrundage.com, wore baseball caps, and owned an over-priced Starter jacket (Orlando Magic, clearly because of cool colors). My upbringing was quite similar to that of other kids. I simply preferred to sit inside on beautiful summer weekends watching Are You Afraid Of The Dark re-runs, rather than toss around the pigskin with my peers in the neighborhood.

At around the age of 11, I experienced a flashing moment of sports-induced glory that gave me hope for the future. It was my one opportunity to escape the world of comic books, cartoons and cowardice to become a real boy. However, like most hopes and dreams set before me, it was crushed to death underneath the Technodrome that is reality.

 My parents inflicted social genocide on me during the summer leading into 7th grade. At the late age of 11, I was forced to join little league. Since I attended Catholic middle school, appropriately named “Holy Angels Regional”, there were no opportunities for school-sponsored team sports. Consequentially, I was thrown to the jock-wolves from public school.

The first couple of practices were chuck full’o menacing looks from the other boys on the team. I would have been a goner if not for a merciful coach. The man sensed my lack of athletic ability and refrained from highlighting it to the bloodthirsty youth. I kept my cool, laid back in the cut in outfield, and eventually became a ghost. Picture Ed Norton’s character in American History X, post-shower-rape-scene, with a baseball field substituting a maximum security prison. During the first few games, my position in the deserted wasteland of left field required no contribution to the team; a situation that brought me great satisfaction.

One day after practice, my coach approached me with an odd look in his eyes, which seemed to indicate that he was either excited about something or had just smoked crystal meth in his pickup truck.

“Hey Charlie, I noticed you have a great arm. How about coming to pitching practice tomorrow?”

The man was clearly smoking crystal meth in his truck, but I still agreed to attend.

The next day’s pitching practice went surprisingly well. All those years of playing video games must have significantly improved my eye-hand coordination. Well, maybe more like my eye-thumb coordination, but something sure clicked that day. Coach was so impressed with my talent that he informed me I would be pitching for a portion of that weekend’s game.

Laying back in the cut and keeping my cool was no longer an option.

A sense of impending doom overwhelmed me the entire week leading up to the game, and I was on the verge of vomiting upon waking up that Saturday morning. I remained silent on the car ride to the field, mentally preparing for the task at hand.

Coach’s son was the team’s main pitcher, manning the position for most of the game. I nervously shifted from one foot to the other as I stood in my grassy safe haven of left field. If anyone was watching, they might have expected me to urinate myself at any moment. As the final innings came upon us, I was instructed to step up to the pitcher’s mound. I was mentally prepared for mutilation and the resulting agony.

Was it doom?

Murder?!

GENOCIDE?!?!?!

Sorry, but you’ve gotta visit chuckblog later today for the epic conclusion.