Wednesday, December 08, 2004

Jocks Are Our Meat Because They Were Mean To Us In High School... And That's Beautiful.


I can't believe I almost let this day-old story get by me: Jason Giambi wants back in.

Oh, go ahead. Ask.

Tom, you're an eye-glass wearer. A little on the sensitive side. Artistic, even. If you wandered within half a mile of any high school football game, they'd capture you, put women's underpants on your head, make you stand on a box, and take pictures. For God's sake, Tom, you don't even know how to drive a car. Why would a... a thing like you care so much about sports?"

Fair question. The answer? You're looking at him. I follow baseball because of men like Giambi.

Maybe some of you wear glasses, go to demonstrations, roll cigarettes, dress funny, cry, read, sodomize, or have Jewish-sounding surnames. Some of you might even be women. Do you remember how athletes treated you in high school? I know, that's all in the past. You're an adult now, free to concentrate on things you love--Justice League Of America PVC figures or the latest issue of Harper's--and to ignore things you hate: jocks. I understand. But...

You're not catching what it means to be a fan, and what you can get from it. Many of us--a lot of us--read sports sections and go to games not because of any love for athletes. We do it because we get to lord it over them. We don't necessarily act out in public; as the jocks say, "it's all in the mental approach." They're here to please us. Period. We want our team to win, and any player who lets us down is a bum. And here's the reason baseball is the best sport: over a 162-game season, "any player who lets us down" is all of them.

Whether it's due to his own weakness or to the hypocrisy of the major leagues, Jason Giambi is inarguably suffering. Why not feed off that a little? A few crumbs. A binge. A binge, a puke, and then another binge. Does that make me a parasite? Fine, I'm a parasite.

Major-league pro athletes are rich and famous and living the greatest dream of their lives, but they've slipped since high school. They're no longer allowed to hurt us. Ask Ron Artest and eight other basketball players suspended last month for throwing punches at fans. We outrank them. They're our meat. At last.

Welcome to the Yankees, Tony Womack.


El Duque said...


It's too bad that you never achieved the glory of ten thousand fans shouting your name in a delirious attempt to love you from a distance. It saddens me that you never had the chance to gaze into a glass of reflection and behold muscles rippling like Lake Ontario at dawn. But to those of us who know such experiences, and know them all too well, your protests are just another example of the envy we battle every day of our lives.

Want to know where there real answers lie, Superfrankenstein? I'll tell you where the real answers lie. Not in your computer. Not on Metafilter. They are waiting for you in the gym. They are waiting for you on the machine. Get down there. Put some time into those boney arms of yours. Lose those chunks of cheddar on your hips. Give me ten good ones. And leave Jason Giambi alone.

Superfrankenstein said...

Can't I just rub testosterone on my butt?