PALM BEACH, FL – “Down doobie doo down down. Comma comma down doobie doo down down. Comma comma down doobie doo down down. Breaking up is hard to do.” This week’s post was supposed to be about my trip up to Jupiter, Florida for a minor league baseball game/beer tasting (it was more beer than baseball, really) but there’s been so much talk among my extended family about break ups, busted relationships, and other matters of the heart that it got me thinking about why there aren’t more splits among the sports set. Particularly, why is the idea of abandoning your team so frowned upon? Is the fan/franchise relationship so different than all others? Here’s a quick look at some entities that should seriously be considered for Dumpsville.
New York Mets. The Metropolitans are nothing more than a once-pretty girl from the boroughs way past her expiration date. What’s worse, they keep applying the worst kind of bargain-store cosmetics to this Flushing floozie in an attempt to fool fans into thinking she’s still got it or, at the very least, that she has a much hotter, much younger sister hidden somewhere. It ain’t happening. Even beer goggles have ceased to work. Stop spending your money and time on her. She’s no good. Let her down gently and move on.
New York Yankees. The Yankees are Donald Trump: a bloated, bloviating, blowhard, half-moneybag, half gasbag, all combover. If you haven’t figured this out yet, it’s not too late. I ended my relationship with the Bronx Bombers when I was a kid and still had a full complement of heart, soul, and conscious. Trust me, you want out as bad as I did, but you just can’t find your way. You don’t want to be with the Yankees any more than you would want to be with a Vegas pit boss or one of the Bush family. There’s a better team out there for you, one that doesn’t still reek of Clemens and A-Rod and filthy Steinbrenner money. It’s not too late. Cut and run in a public space and never look back.
Fantasy Football. There’s a reason you start feeling depressed when the days get shorter and the temps start dropping, and that reason is Fantasy Football. This dreadful “game” is like a middle-aged alcoholic uncle who shows up unannounced and ruins your kid’s birthday party or an otherwise pleasant Sunday family dinner. It’s tough enough stomaching the play of your own favorite football team without fretting over the performance of a bunch of pigskin mercenaries you assembled. Sweet Jesus, why do we do this? Why do I do this? I seriously can’t think of any good reason to continue doing this. It seems like one of those things that simply runs its course and you outgrow. But when? Speaking of football…
NFL. The NFL is a calculating, callous, vindictive bitch. The kind of partner you seriously consider hiring a hit man to rid yourself of. The NFL could give two craps about the health of its players or the financial well-being of its fans. It wants what it wants (money mostly) and will stop at nothing to get it. The NFL is Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity. The NFL is Kathleen Turner in Body Heat. And I use those two sultry examples only because I am (still) a professional football fan. For those of it looking at it more objectively, the NFL is Javier Bardem in No Country for Old Men or Mitchum/De Niro in Cape Fear. It’s a remorseless killing machine, knocking off humans, bank accounts, and precious hours of your life. In a lot of ways it’s that stupid FOX football robot. You don’t break up with something that inhuman, you nuke it or fake your own death. Good luck with either.
For every fan, there are countless other sports divorces to consider: the Los Angeles Clippers, the Chicago Cubs, and anything owned by James Dolan, for starters. The NCAA should also be paying alimony for the rest of its days, which we can only hope are very few. There’s one sports love affair that will probably stand the test of time though, and that’s baseball and beer. Sorry, but had to get at least one shot in of Beer Night at the Jupiter Hammerheads game.
Tune in tomorrow for Big Al Sternberg or we’re finished!
