God rest my soul if he ever reads this and buries my remains where my family can't find them. Tell my father to play "Solsbury Hill" by Peter Gabriel at my funeral and please, please donate my organs to those in need of them. Better yet, just keep this out of his hands.
Fear the "sports nut." This guy is like an airplane without a pilot and no parachutes or a fraternity kid drinking jet fuel for acceptance. The "sports nut" is freakier than a Spike Lee Starter commercial and creepier than Jared Fogle losing all that weight eating Subway.
Today I accompanied a friend to Hooters (worst place ever) to watch some football. After episodes of profuse vomiting upon viewing the scantily clad, self-deprecating girls in lascivious apparel, my compatriot and I sat with a few friends and embarked on a mission to watch three games at once.
In he strode, beer on his breath and useless sports trivia on his mind. He is the sports nut. Worse than the "fantasy dude" - the gentleman who sprints from television to television, praying that the baseball game stays close enough for Antonio Alfonseca to get a save opportunity - the "sports nut" is volatile.
"You guys are Bills fans I bet," he began, "You know the only good Bills fan I ever saw was in a coffin, with his hands across his chest."
Woooooooooooah!
This guy can't be serious, but he is. This is the type of fellow so obsessed with his team - this fellow's was the Miami Dolphins I might add - that his eyes light up when challenged. My, oh my, is he incredibly inaccurate with his references. Here are a few of the spiciest on his menu:
"Bruce Smith is the most overrated defensive end of all time. The only thing he was ever good for was snorting cocaine."
"Let me let you in on a secret: Drew Bledsoe and Trey Teague are lovers. You can tell by how much Drew likes the snap."
"I was in 'Nam, and lemme tell you, I would not be in a foxhole with Marv Levy. Ga-ga-ga-ga-ga! I'd be firing away, turn around for ammo, and that (insert homophobic slur) would be running."
Is he serious? You bet his No. 13 jersey with his name on the back, he is.
The crown jewel of my afternoon with the "sports nut" occurred at approximately 3:45 eastern time when I uttered possibly the most meaningless, ire-inducing statement ever spewed:
"Dan Marino has to be the most overrated quarterback in the history of football."
Sure, I was attempting to "get his goat," as the "sports nut" phrases it. But nothing, I mean nothing, could've prepared me for his response.
"What did you say?!? You want to take this outside," he asked, his eyes brimming with stupidity.
"Actually, sir, I'd like to watch the football games," I replied.
Woooooooooooah!
Now I'll be the first to admit, I have strong opinions and I know some of the most meaningless trivia in the sports world. I'll camp out for Sabres playoff tickets. I'll sit riveted as the Cubs play a meaningless June game. I'll buy a kelly-green headband to be the whitest Paul Pierce look-a-like ever.
I know that Mike Foligno was born in Sudbury. I can replay everything Landon Donovan did right and wrong for the United States in the World Cup. I've waited in line for Jason Woolley's autograph. I cried, holding my Winnie the Pooh- with a Dairy Queen Bills helmet jammed on his little bear head - as Scott Norwood set the tone for Ray Finkle.
I'm pathetic. Am I pathetic enough to fight over the Sabres? Lord, no.
I think I'd like to see what happens with fanatics in other sports, especially beach volleyball. It would conceivably be the greatest thing in the history of the world if a Sinjin Smith fan took a Bombat aluminum bat to the spiking hand of Randy Stoklos.
Even better has to be the fanatics for archery. The madness that must ensue when some crazy arching fan goes off the handle. Or the championship bass fishing they show on ESPN Sunday mornings. Even the poorest man would pay to see the hilarity that comes off as a result of a stolen lure box.
"Well, Jonny Ray, I guess we'll have to use some human hair."
That's the difference between the "sports nut" and ourselves. We laugh at these things while he lauds them. "Gotta love the game!" he cries. While we know "our" team's record, he knows the inseam of Paul Tagliabue.
The Celtics are 7-11 and three games out of first place, I know that. I read Larry Bird's book. I do not, however, know Robert Parish's favorite calzone filling.
Frankly, I'm content with that.
Photo: Courtesy of Laron Fomby
