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The Story Of No
Story
What do you do on a day when
nothing happens?
Thursday was a day that made
ESPN executives cringe. No coach-choking. No firings, no
hirings. No Gary Miller whizzing out windows.
Nothing but non-stories,
lame Kenny Mayne intros, posturing, pretending and
jockspeak. The boys of sports took an evening off to abuse
their wives, molest their girlfriends and watch Tony Bennett
sing on Conan. Even Lawrence Phillips kept it to
only seven vodka-tonics and a meager 10-mile drive to
Madonna's house.
What do you do when your
organization is wired to presage, report and analyze sports
disaster, and none befalls humanity? A few boring, regular
season hockey and hoop games. Some lousy NFL press
conferences about a Week 17 which, face it, will be more
notable for Jerry-Rice-is-a-tool stories than any field
action. Another Florida Marlin cut off at the knees.
Of course, anyone who
watches SportsCenter knows the answer to all these
questions. You make news. You spread rumors. You analyze
mythical trades. You infer. You shake up. You promise to
show Linda Cohn naked in her werewolf guise.
You make a big deal about
Jerry Stackhouse,
a mediocre player on
an awful team, traded for contract reasons to be Grant
Hill's li'l buddy. You show clips from Stackhouse's awful
cellular phone commercial, the one where he's late for a
game, riding in a limo, telling the coach what plays to
call. America draws its own conclusions about this being a
metaphor for the NBA as a whole.
You show Scottie Pippen talking to some whippersnapper about
his future, inferring that his foot might miraculously heal
now that the press thinks he's an asshole. You illustrate
the fact that Pippen's nose is the exact shape of the former
Soviet Republic, Izhbekistan. Ah-hah. Pippen is, in fact, a
Commie.
You announce Dodgers'
outfielder Raul
Mondesi's demand for
a $60 million contract. You try to draw some distinction
between Mondesi and Bobby Bonilla. You fail.
You announce the day's best
scandal: Someone is selling autographed photos of
Charles
Woodson at a campus
store. You try and infer that Woodson's done something
wrong, because he's not Peyton Manning. Meanwhile you
continue to employ one-eyed uber-whore, Dick Vitale.
You sulk.
Hopefully, tomorrow Barry
Switzer will shoot somebody.
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Were sports just a little
more enjoyable before you knew that Steve
Young's favorite flavor was Heavenly
Hash?
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Yes.
I really don't need to be familiar with a
guy's internal organs to root for
him.
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No.
I need dirt,
pain, insight, personal agendas, hubris
and rubber sex toys to relate to Sunday's
Niners/Seahawks tilt.
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47%
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53%
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