BRONX, NY – Watching sports on TV is often like a truly awful drug experience or a week-long bender drinking nothing but Milwaukee’s Best. Short Matt and I have a friend (let’s call him Mickey) who was the first to disdainfully ask: “How can you spend all this time watching sports on TV?” At the time, I dismissed him as an Irish crackpot, but am slowly starting to see his point. I’ve just spent the last few weeks glued to my TV, often until the wee small hours, and I am starting to feel like 10 pounds of sh!t in a 5 pound bag.
Worn out from the Warriors. As many of you know, I’ve been investing a healthy bit of time and expending almost zero energy watching the Golden State Warriors chase down another NBA title while laying Eb’s Hot Takes to waste. The first two series weren’t that bad except for the lack of sleep. But this past 7-game Homeric journey versus Oklahoma City has left me insanely tired, achy, and woefully out of shape. Basically I feel like a fell off a truck after eating a Grandslam Breakfast at Denny’s. Now there’s the Finals to contend with. This is more dangerous than anything the Brooklyn-based Warriors faced when they had to bop their way back to Coney Island. Start writing my eulogy.
Metsabolic Slowdown. Then there’s the NY Mets. They’ve also been playing some marathon games, many with highly-unsatisfying endings. I feel like all of this couch time is having an adverse effect on my digestion. My Lucas Duda schedule is off. Every Jeurys Familia appearance has me reaching for the Prilosec. David Wright’s back has nothing on my backside. It’s gotten to where I am counting laughs created by Keith Hernandez as aerobic exercise. I think Matt Harvey will right himself (one game against the sliding White Sox doesn’t count) before I ever do.
Bronx Bummers. The Yankees depress the hell out of me. I preferred it when I at least cared enough to hate them. Now I check in on their games and I’m practically catatonic. They’ve managed to create a team and a brand of baseball that send my brain into what Derek Bell would call “Operation Shutdown.” 
Brian Cashman’s proprietary blend of good-every-once-in-a-blue-moon veterans, happy-to-be-here kids, and whatever the hell you call Chase Headley are enough to induce a Rip Van Winkle snooze that only a “Joy of Painting with Bob Ross” marathon could match. Their bullpen is lights out, but for the fans the lights go out long before Betances, Miller and Chapman take the hill.
My condition is starting to look grave. I need to break free of this sports viewing death grip before it’s too late. Banging out this Wednesday post is the most exercise I’ve had in weeks. Maybe I need to go fishing or hiking or spelunking and start writing some naturalist pieces. All I know is I need to do something before the sports coming out of my TV kill me!
Come back tomorrow for a live wire named Anne Charles.
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