GAMES (“On Sports”)
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CHAPTER 1 1
very so often I like to call into sports radio shows.
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I tell the screener I am “Mike from Massapequa” or “Sam from Santa Clara,” and he talks to me a minute to make sure I am worthy enough, not only to discuss the foibles of the area’s athletic teams, but to freight that conversation with enough entertainment value to warrant its being broadcast to 35,000 other people in the greater, say, St. Louis area.
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Then I am put on hold; then I hear, “You’re on the air!”; and then I launch into a passionate monologue—in the pitch‑perfect accent of the local eth‑ nic lower‑middle‑class—about the value of switch‑hitting outfielders, and dogfighting; the eternal beauty of the pick‑and‑roll, and steroids; the day the Red Sox won the World Series, and the day O. J. Simpson mur‑ dered two people;
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All things sports.
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For a few pleasant minutes the hosts and I talk and complain and com‑ miserate and argue with each other; then I am thanked for calling, and the hosts move on; never realizing that the unseen voice they just talked pucks with was not in fact Mike from Massapequa, but God from the Great Beyond.
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But I do not mind; for I do not call in to be recognized; I call because I love talking sports.
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Sport is mythic; sport is epic; sport is a condensation of all human activ‑ ity; it is often said sport is a metaphor for life; it would be more accurate to say life is a metaphor for sport.
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US Chief Justice Earl Warren once wrote, “I always turn to the sports section first. The sports section records people’s accomplishments; the front page nothing but man’s failures.”
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A few moments’ thought reveals how utterly wrong these words are; yet they are in keeping with the kind of mindless distraction that sports provide.
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They are also the greatest substitute for armed conflict ever devised; like unto Diet War, a zero‑casualty alternative to Regular War; with all the great fighting and suffering and action thou demandest in a conflict, but very little of the adverse health effects.
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Especially do I love the Olympics; the pageantry of all the nations of the world joining together in peaceful competition as a million armed secu‑ rity personnel hover just off‑camera; mythmaking at its finest.
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The opening ceremony in Beijing in 2008 was one of the most extraordi‑ nary events I have ever seen, transcendent and thrilling; it made me again recall the greatness thy species is capable of, at least when one‑fifth of it bites on the same repressive yoke.
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(The gauntlet has been thrown, London; thou wilt need to do something spectacular in 2012 to top the Chinese.
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May I suggest Duchess Kate giving birth in the middle of Olympic Sta‑ dium just as the torch is lit?
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If thou likest the idea. I can help with the timing.)
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But it is not just the Olympics; I love all sports; athletic competition of every type and size and description enthralls and delights me; except ten‑ nis, which is dullsville.
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In sports I see the finest specimens of my finest creation operating at the highest level of their physical abilities.
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And as a sports fan, I understand how much the games mean to both other fans and the athletes: The passions they stir, the tempests they roil, the loyalties they build, and above all the rivalry, violence, and rioting they so justifiably evoke.
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And so that is why I have never, ever, ever influenced the outcome of a sporting event to determine the winner.
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I have only, on extremely rare occasions, influenced the outcome of a sporting event to affect the spread.
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the last testament
CHAPTER 2 any times have I heard athletes pray for victory before the contest; and many times have I heard them thank me for victory afterward.
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Many times have I heard partisans beseech me to aid their side; and many times have I heard them beseech me to afflict the other side.
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And many times have I heard reasonable‑minded commentators de‑ nounce those athletes and fans for believing I would care about some‑ thing as frivolous as the Raiders‑Broncos game.
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Lo, as a matter of fact, I do care about something as frivolous as the Raiders‑Broncos game, Bob Friggin’ Costas.
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For dozens of human beings are putting their hearts and souls and pas‑ sion and sweat into that game.
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And while it is true that, simultaneous to that game unfolding, hundreds of millions of other human beings are putting just as much heart and soul and passion and sweat into far more vital human activities like manufac‑ turing, or child‑rearing, or staying alive;
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Unlike the Raiders‑Broncos game, I find all those activities very boring to watch.
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Understand me: it is not that I do not care about those people; it is that I do not care about what they are doing.
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I will more thoroughly address the general phenomenon of prayer later in my memoir, but I must mention here how much Junior and I appreci‑ ate hearing our names invoked on the field, gridiron, court, rink, course, peloton, or (very rarely) sumo mat.
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When a fan begs me to keep the puck away from the goalie’s five‑hole, I am touched by his commitment.
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When a power forward genuflects before shooting a free throw, Jesus gets goose bumps.
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When a slugger points his finger to heaven while rounding the bases, I point right back at him.
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And when a wide receiver opens his postgame interview by crediting God for his winning touchdown catch, it moves me so much I am tempted to “touch down” myself, just to tell him, “Thou da man!”
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(It is curious—when musicians thank me at the Grammys I find them arrogant; presuming themselves blessed with “God‑given talent,” when nine times out of ten they are blessed with nothing but studio‑given autotuners;
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Yet when an athlete thanks Jesus or me it somehow feels sincere; espe‑ cially if he is one of sport’s many born‑again athletes, as deep into Jesus as, but a few months earlier, he was deep into three groupies in the weight room of the Sheraton.)
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I note all these things, athletes and fans, and I file them away for future reference; but while I have favorites, I do not play favorites.
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To repeat: I do not intervene in sporting events; not because they are beneath me (for what isn’t?), but rather because—and if I sound old‑fashioned here, then shoot me, Bill Simmons—I care so deeply about the integrity of the game.
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Athletes come and go, but the sports themselves remain; and I will never let my feelings toward the former corrupt my oversight of the latter.
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I am the Lord thy Ref; I cannot be worked.
CHAPTER 3 et—with the clear understanding that it makes no earthly difference—I do not mind revealing the identities of the athletic teams that have found favor in my eyes.
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For I am Jehovah; I am Allah; and I am the Heavenly Fa‑ ther; and my two favorite pro football teams are the New York Giants and the Oakland Raiders.
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the last testament 3
I became a Giants fan during the glory days of Phil Simms, who field‑mar‑ shaled the offense with a steady efficiency that obscured his tremendous talents as a pure passer.
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Verily, 22 for 25 in the Super Bowl? Enshrineth him, Canton!
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As for the Raiders, I have always liked their attitude, for they play foot‑ ball the way the ancient Israelites attacked Canaanites: seeking not only to beat the opposition, but to destroy them; to raze their city to rubble; to slaughter their wives and children, or at the very least spike the ball on their mascot.
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(Alas, it has been some time since the Raiders battled like the ancient Is‑ raelites; these days they battle like the modern French.)
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My favorite college football team is Auburn; when they win the Iron Bowl my joyous whoops fill the halls of heaven; for I hate Nick Saban; his name is one letter away from Satan for a reason.
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My two favorite baseball teams are the Minnesota Twins and whoever is playing the Cubs.
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I have no favorite pro basketball team, but my least favorite is the Wash‑ ington Wizards; because in changing their name from the Bullets, they went from promoting violence to promoting paganism, which is much, much worse.
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In college “hoops” (for so I designate the college game), my favorite squad is Duke; I know this preference will be pooh‑poohed by many, but I happen to like the way Coach K runs that team.
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They do things the right way at Duke: with tobacco money.
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When it comes to hockey . . . Gooooooooooo Blue Jackets!
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I love the Columbus Blue Jackets, because they are so clearly a human phenomenon: inasmuch as I would never in a billion years have thought to put a hockey team in Columbus, Ohio, and call it the Blue Jackets.
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It is entirely thy doing, and I love that; alas, they were terrible last year (again!), and I cannot think of a good reason why next year will not be the same;
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For even if they do put up the money to acquire a halfway‑decent second‑line left‑wing like Cormier or Dustin Brown, they are so weak defensively that a coach as over his head as Arniel cannot be expected to—
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Sorry; I shall save that rant for Mike and/or the Mad Dog.
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My favorite golfer is Rocco Mediate, because his name soundeth like a euphemism a mob boss would use to tell his enforcer to kill someone he was arguing with: “Hey, Rocco: ‘Mediate’.”
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My favorite boxer is Evander Holyfield, because he is still valiantly pur‑ suing his comeback even though he is 107 years old.
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My favorite MMA fighter is Quinton Jackson, who is a born‑again Christian . . . and played B. A. Baracus in the remake of The A‑Team.
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Either of those would make him my favorite, but both? Let’s just say Quinton hath captured my mixed‑martial “heart.”
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As for the beautiful game, I have no favorite soccer team, but rather an admirer of the sport itself; I love the beauty and fluidity of a well‑played match, and share in the cathartic release of a well‑struck ball.
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That being said, the sport would not suffer if the average final score rose to, say, 4 to 3, instead of the current average, .04 to .03.
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FIFA, I beg thee: make the goal wider; make the goalie shorter; do some‑ thing; thou art killing me up here.
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In international cricket I pull for whichever country was more exploited by Britain.
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My favorite track and field athlete is Usain Bolt; one of these days I’m going to come down midsprint and pull him over for speeding.
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My favorite ski jumper is Gregor Schlierenzauer, and anyone who tells me Janne Happonen has better technique can go fuck himself.
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My favorite rugby team is the All Blacks of New Zealand; the Maori war dance they do before each match is the best pregame ritual in sports, better even than David Beckham masturbating into a buttered scone.
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And my favorite cyclist is whoever is not taking steroids, so right now I have no favorite. 158
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the last testament
CHAPTER 4 ne last note:
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As is usually the case with sports loyalties, mine have been passed down generationally, meaning my children root for the same teams I do.
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The one exception is that Jesus roots for the Cubs.
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In fact, when I say Jesus bleeds for the Cubs, I mean Jesus bleeds for the Cubs.
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Poor child.
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His faith is so deep, and his hope is so pure, that on occasion I have heard him say, “The day the Cubs win the World Series is the day I return to earth!”
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But in the end I dissuade him from this; for humanity cannot wait a bil‑ lion years for the Second Coming.
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