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An Early Summer’s Sports Soliloquy

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A few nights ago I sat down in front of my computer and was met with a panicked e-mail from our beloved and mysterious sports editor Matthew T. Sussman, who is affectionately known as Suss — and in some circles as Gimpy.   The shrieking Suss-Man was begging for some stories. Any story. Even synchronized swimming and sailing would do. I felt the teardrops splashing on my keyboard.

But Suss, I must confess I’ve got no stories. All I read about and see on TV are a bunch of human interest happenings posing as sports stories.  Steroids, selfish players, guns, dog fighting, and murder. It’s as if I’m watching reruns of Simon & Simon –- or Twin Peaks.

What can I add of any relevance about Barry Bonds, Kobe Bryant, Michael Vick, Tank Johnson, and that entertainer/wrestler who wiped out his family?

I have enough on my cheap plastic plate to have to wonder about whether people named Q-Bert and Uzi cheated by using Sudafed or are upstanding individuals worthy of going on a drug-induced spiritual journey listening to Frank Zappa with Ricky Williams and a team of sherpa’s to visit the Kwik-E-Mart guru.

I’m not saying I’m indifferent. Well, I’m not sure what I’m saying in this article.

Quick word on drugs. Dick Pound is trying to pound – er, pun intended – the cheats into the ground. Good for him. I say bring back Nancy Reagan and the Just Say No campaign to help Dickie out.

Anyway, I’d rather watch my newly adopted Los Angeles Dodgers with an empty head than write about sports stories that are nothing more than senseless gossip. The problems of the modern athlete belongs to a psychology department somewhere. It’s a societal issue, and I have no answers… though I suspect that the ghost of Fatty Arbuckle is exacting revenge on those who ruined his career. But I digress.

Talk to me about the essence of sports. Give me back my sports!  Maybe it’s about time we begin to look at amateur sports a little harder.

Scrap that. We’ve all seen what happened to East German women. One is living in the forests of British Columbus (or is it Columbia?) and is constantly mistaken for Big Foot. Man, I’m going off on rantish tangents here. But it’s true. I’ve seen her. She even has a Medicard.

Still, amateur sports remains somewhat pristine compared to the intoxicating celebrity lives of modern athletes. Just don’t ask me to cover the local Ultimate Frisbee scene.

Paris Hilton or Tank Johnson? What’s the damn difference anymore?  They all need human rehab. Back to the living room children to watch some Blue’s Clues!

I guess you got your story, Suss.

You’re welcome?

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About Alessandro Nicolo