A few years ago, there was this great commercial that everyone loved. I remember it well. It featured a dude sitting there in his den, right in front of his computer, when suddenly he clicked a button and the computer spoke to him and said, “You’ve reached the end of the internet. Please go back.”
Now before I get to my main point, allow me to digress here for a minute. Think about how much freaky sh*t that guy had to watch to reach the end of the internet. I mean, even pre-YouTube and whatnot, there were a lot of videos on the web that no normal human being should ever see. This guy, apparently, watched all those videos and more. And on top of that, can you fathom the amount of money he dropped on porno subscriptions? We’re probably talking millions of dollars here, if not billions. How did he afford it? How did he tolerate the weird sites? I don’t know, man. Sounds like there’s something seriously wrong with this dude. Whatever he’s selling, I’m not buying.
But that’s not the point. The point is, it’s July 30th, 2010 (it’s actually July 29th as I’m writing this, but you probably won’t read it until the 30th; old writer’s trick) and just like the guy in the ad with the internet addiction, we’ve reached the end of things to write about in the world of Seattle sports. It’s over. It’s done. Please go back.
The Mariners have sodomized all the joy right out of us, the football season is still a month away, and if it weren’t for Chone Figgins fighting with Don Wakamatsu, we might not care about sports at all right now. At least the weather is nice. And it’s almost Seafair, which means drunk chicks in bikinis hanging out with douchebags on boats. We can all enjoy that.
Two days ago, I wrote about the Storm. The Seattle Effing Storm. Like it matters, right? The readers have responded with one comment on that article. The comment was apparently left by Jesus. It reads, “Amen.” I guess no one wants to comment after Jesus. I can understand that. But come on. I don’t know if I’m more disappointed in Storm fans for their relative apathy on the subject, or more disappointed in myself for first writing about the Storm, then expecting any kind of reaction.
Hell, the local pundits flocked to Pac-10 Media Day in Pasadena today like the ice cream man was handing out free samples or something. I’ve never experienced more of a media blitz for something so trivial. Seriously. Every local news outlet across all mediums — web, radio, TV, print — treated Pac-10 Media Day like the end-all, be-all. How can you get that excited about Media Day? It’s dull people giving politically correct answers to stock questions that get asked of them two-hundred times a year. If you get a boner from listening to a coach talk about his potential quarterback controversy, then God forbid anyone ever touch you down there. You might blast them through the ceiling, if not kill them. And what a horrible way to die. I can’t think of a worse way. But I do know the best way. The best way is death by leeches. I’ve been preaching this for years. They numb you, then suck your blood. You won’t feel a thing. In fact, you might get a little high from the experience before you lose consciousness. Consider leeches, if ever tasked with forecasting your own death. Just a suggestion.
Okay. So we’ve discussed the end-of-the-internet guy, death by leeches. What else is there?
Oh, in case you weren’t aware, the U.S. Senior Open is being played at Sahalee Golf and Country Club in Redmond. Yeah, that’s a blast from everything I’ve heard. You get to watch a bunch of old guys hit the ball maybe 200 yards down the fairway, then spend ten minutes walking to said ball only to hit it fewer yards than they hit it the first time. Fun. I love golfing, but watching golf doesn’t do it for me. It’s like sitting in front of a buddy’s computer watching him play Sim City. I had that happen to me once when I was a kid. Watching your friends play video games is arguably the worst possible thing that can happen to a kid from the suburbs. And the sh*ttiest part is that your friends think you like it. Yeah, I love watching you build f**king cities. There’s nothing I’d rather do after school then watch you put together a fake township, a fictional borough. The odds of us remaining friends after this are slim to none. I would rather punch you in the face than be your friend after today. Dammit. Why can’t I build the city now? You are an absolute bastard child, you whore. (Those were all my thoughts as a ten-year-old sitting there watching my ex-friend play Sim City.)
What is it about the Pacific Northwest that makes us a magnet for Senior PGA Tour events, anyway? Doesn’t anyone younger want to play here? Isn’t it some kind of ridiculous liability to have that many geriatrics in the same place at once? I don’t know. Just seems to me that we deserve better than the Senior Tour. Just like we deserve more than a WNBA team and a crappy big league baseball team playing Double-A caliber ball.
Sh*t. We deserve better on all fronts. Our fans suffer. I realize that there are other cities constantly vying for “Worst Sports City in America.” But come on. Not only do our fans suffer, but we get clowned on by the local media for being soft. We’re not soft. The people who go to Mariners games and sit in the expensive seats just so they can socialize are soft. But they’re not real sports fans.
Real sports fans care about their teams.
Real sports fans vent when things are going wrong, boo when a player sucks, and get reprimanded by overly-sensitive ushers for being unkind.
Real sports fans take losses to heart and celebrate victories like Mardi Gras.
Real sports fans demand excellence from their players, which is why I have no problem telling Ryan Rowland-Smith he sucks, then standing by it when he calls me out on Twitter. You do suck, Ryan. The numbers prove it, the performances prove it. I don’t think I’m presenting an awkward opinion here. Everyone thinks you suck, except some people would rather fellate you on Twitter than call you out for sucking at your job just so they can tell their friends that they interacted with a “celebrity.” Well, great. You Tweeted back and forth with a guy who will be pitching in the Aussie leagues in a couple years. You also sacrificed all dignity in doing so. I hope you feel good about that.
Real sports fans kick it with other sports fans and talk sh*t about non-sports fans. You know you’ve done that before, too. Met somebody who wasn’t a sports fan and immediately talked sh*t about them behind their back. “Yeah, I dunno. I mean, he’s a decent guy, but he wants to talk about airplanes and the stock market. I tried to ask him about the Seahawks and he looked at me funny.” We’ve all been there. If you have a dick and you can’t talk sports, either do the tuck or go watch a ballgame and learn something.
Fact of the matter is, I consider Seattle sports fans to be the best in the world. I’m biased, of course, but I know far too many local sports aficianados who view sports as a life or death situation. And consider this. How many “soft” fan bases would make an award-winning documentary about their NBA team leaving town? How many “soft” fan bases would run a mayor out of office because he let that same NBA team depart? And how many “soft” fan bases would turn a hero of local capitalism into an absolute pariah for selling that team to the devil, himself? Soft, my ass. We’re as hard as they f**king come. Tell us we’re soft. Sh*t. We ate King Dogs for 22 f**king years. You know how hard that makes you? Most true blue M’s fans could take a bullet in the gut and survive after eating that crap for two decades. Don’t tell me we’re soft.
Look, Seattle (and I’m talking to all you local sports fans, now). You’re great. We are great. Yeah, our teams might suck balls sometimes, but we’re great. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Even on a day when I think I have nothing to talk about, I can just talk about my fellow brethren in the world of local fandom.
You’re not the senseless idiot at the Mariners game trying to start the wave in the middle of a rally. That’s not you.
You’re not the dude in the sharp suit sitting in a suite. That’s not you, either.
You’re certainly not the granola-munching sports hater that got picked last on the playground during recess in elementary school and now supports Nick Licata’s bitch ass. That is very definitely not you.
Nah. You’re the dude in the Griffey jersey, the girl in the Husky Football t-shirt, the kid rocking a Seahawks cap. You deserve better. We deserve better. We’re gonna get there eventually. And when we do, make no mistake about it, no one will be calling us soft.
Yep, that article completely spiraled out of control. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.