I haven’t written anything in a while. I can’t stand looking at my shitty novel anymore. So the best thing for me right now is blank word document. Don’t mind if I do…..
The Feel of the Game (To The Armchair Quarterback)
On the first day of my Sports Writing class that I took spring semester senior year at Villanova, the professor got the class out of our beginning-of-the-semester hangover stupor and charged us to gather in the hallway. We stood there in lettered hoodies and sweatpants listening to him explain what Sports Writing entailed. “But you’ll never understand anything,” he said wagging his finger at us, “until you know the feel of the game.” We looked around at each other in the crowded hallway. We didn’t understand and were in dire need of sleep.
“Now shadow box,” he said. We all looked down at our feet; half out of sheepishness and the other half not knowing what the hell he was talking about.
“Well get going!” He raised his voice as he pushed his round glasses off the bridge of his nose. “This is your first assignment!”
With the promise of the order being recorded as a grade, our lethargic group of 12-or-so began awkwardly jabbing the air, then ducking our heads as if we were avoiding a kiss from Snooki. I even tried my hand at a knockdown, delivering a few haymakers to the hallway’s stale air.
After a minute, fatigued students looked over to our professor, begging for him to call time. He only stared at his wristwatch, urging us to keep up the pace.
Mercifully, he ordered us to stop. We stood there, panting, arms akimbo (favorite new phrase, look it up). Someone asked him what the hell all that was for.
He clasped his hands together, smiling at us. “Because you’ll never know how to write sports unless you know the feel of the game.
I think about that first day of class almost daily; whether it be after reading a lazily-constructed facebook status or listening to a self-proclaimed expert ramble on 610 or 97.5. If there is one thing I can’t stand on this round earth, it’s the armchair quarterback. This applies to more than just sports, but I’ll use it here for dramatic effect.
HEADLINE : Phils Topple Bravos For Third Straight Win
Iamahugedoucher: “hells yes, phils! Best team in the worldddddd!”
(two weeks later)
HEADLINE : Hanley, Marlins Sweep Phils Out of Miami.
Iamahugedoucher: “HEY RUBEN TRADE HOWARD. HE CAN’T HIT A FRIGGIN CURVEBALL!”
Everyone is entitled to his or her opinion, but when that opinion is not based on fact or the feel of the game then that opinion, simply, should be flushed down a fully functioning toilet.
The fan that has never felt his knees lock under the tight spin of a curveball. The fan that has never felt the skull-squeezing pain of a concussion. The fan that has never ripped their hair out trying to balance a payroll while trading for a tenured MLB veteran.
I can be a hypocrite sometimes. Hell, we are all hypocrites. But it’s those hallucinogenic people that actually believe they could stand in the batter’s box and stare Justin Verlander in the face without experiencing some degree of wetness in their undergarments that completely disgust me.
I didn’t yell at Brian Boucher in the playoffs because I had no idea what wearing giant pillow cushions on my shins even felt like. I didn’t call for Andy Reid’s head after the Birds lost in the playoffs because I never turned a floundering team into a billion dollar franchise.
I’m not asking for people not to watch. Please, enjoy those Cooler Ranch Doritos in front of your home television set, but think before you speak. If we all would take this advice, this round earth would be a much less aggravating place.
-J.D.
