In my life as a sports writer and enthusiast, I face countless burning questions which pertain directly to the heart of my fundamental existence. Some of these questions are answered simply. Take the following situation, for example:
Random Column Enthusiast: Ethan, how on earth do you come up with such groundbreaking, innovative, veraciously witty, and awe-inspiring material for "The Red Zone" each and every week?
Ethan (good looking columnist):I'm a genius.
Simple questions like these are not what keep me up at night. An intellect such as my own cannot be bothered by such inane banter as the aforementioned dialogue. My mind tends to work on much deeper levels, pondering age old philosophical musings, such as: How many licks does it take to get the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop? Or, how do they get the cream filling inside of the Twinkies?
Quandaries like these riddle my life. Night after night I wrack my brain trying to answer these questions, to better the world with my thoughtful input. However, these questions pertain more to my philosophical being than my life as a sports writer, and since this is a sports column, I feel I should enlighten the sporting world with some of the conundrums that frequent my life.
Consider this situation: You are sitting at home one morning, slouching in your La-Z-Boy with your belt unbuckled, enjoying a healthy breakfast of Cheetos and Pepsi; Stuart Scott, Dan Patrick, and the rest of the Sportscenter staff on the TV in front of you, when you think to yourself, "I sure could go for a pizza right about now."
I'm sure many people have experienced the situation before. I know I have. I'm quite sure my department head and fellow columnist Dan Fowler has. Some of you may be experiencing this exact situation right now, and I salute you. For fear not fellow sports-lovers, you are not alone. Many share your plight.
A wise political science professor once proposed the following as the basic philosophical quandary facing the world, the first of my sports related puzzles: "If you are drinking alone and watching Sportscenter, are you really drinking alone?"
While on the surface this may appear to one of the more poignant inquiries into the world of the non-athlete sports fan, upon vast reflection and meditation one sees that the answer to the question is, simply, a resounding no. Sportscenter is a binding force among sports fans of all shapes, sizes, and colors.
Rest assured that no matter when you are watching Sportscenter, be it at 12 a.m., 1 a.m., 7 a.m., 8 a.m., 9 a.m., 10 , 11 a.m., or even 12 p.m., someone else somewhere is watching too. Everyday, any fan can tune in to see the faces of Kenny Mayne, Kirk Kirkpatrick, or even Linda Cohn. On a good day you may even be able to catch the gentle jabs and funny catch phrases of the loveable Dick Vitale. "PTPer Baby!!" Sportscenter has become so intrinsic in the lives of sports fans everywhere that many would be lost without it, and I do not doubt the existence of support groups for Sportscenter withdrawal.
Yet another dilemma that finds its way into my life pertains to my outspoken support of the Boston Red Sox. As an avid Red Sox fan, I am tempted to join my compatriots and buy into "Yankees Suck" propaganda. And as a lover of all things good, I naturally do not like New York. I don't like the Knicks and I despise the Jets. However, it is the Yankees problem that really puts me in a bind.
I cannot, in good conscience, bring myself to hate the New York Yankees. As a lover of baseball, I can't hate a team that plays, day in and day out, the way that I wish my team would play. It would be in essence a sacrilege. However, when trying to rationalize this idea, I always find it tantamount to saying, "Hey, Satan's not that bad. He is, after all, the lord of darkness."
How can I not hate the root of all evil, the nemesis to my heroes, the white whale to my Captain Ahab? It really sends my mind asunder. But the truth is that I cannot disrespect the Yankees by saying I hate them. I don't. I wish they would stop winning and give somebody else a chance, but I can't hate them. They're just too damn good.
A third issue that is a constant annoyance to my happiness is this: What minion of Satan created the game of golf? Who concocted that twisted perversion that constantly torments my mind? Don't get me wrong; I love the game. I love everything about it, except that I cannot, no matter how much I play, get any better. I have hovered around a 15 handicap since the day I started playing. I have taken every lesson, read every book, taken every herbal remedy and psychedelic drug, had every therapy from acupuncture to psychic readings, and I do not drop a stroke. It is a mystery.
But alas, such is the world of golf for me. I guess for now I will have to remain content writing, discussing, and contemplating the deeper meanings of Sportscenter and Tootsie Pops.
