Experimenting with writing styles…

This is an article I wrote for the school newspaper’s April Fools edition. It was published in the Sports section. I’m writing it from the point of view of someone who hates sports.

I was planning on spending a couple of hours writing a response to Satre’s Humanism of Existentialism, but I put it aside when an unnamed sports fan insisted that this may be the last chance to attend what he referred to as a “championship”. I was not eager; I confess I don’t know balls. I am no a sports fan.

I went with him to this game for two reasons only: 1) to shove the most convenient form of high glucose corn syrup I can find into any/all open orifices and 2) to seek out the clandestine contrast between brown and pale skin on the upper thigh. After seeing the teenage boy’s short shorts in Basketball Diaries, I was determined to seek out the illustrious Tan Line. I find the line between tan and ghostly white on the thigh area very fascinating. To me, it is the highest form of avant garde art.

Balls. What are balls any ways? Think about it. Balls sum up the Great Human Condition. They go one way across the field, only to be pushed back to the other side. There are no exits for the balls. They must remain in the game forever. It’s Tragic. I wept bitter tears over my ketchup-smeared hot dog. “The balls! The balls! The horror!” I muttered.

As I was sitting there in the stands weeping like a senior that has just received their first rejection letter, an enthused fan ignited the crowd with something called “The Wave”. For those of you unfamiliar with “The Wave”, it is a cult-minded movement of the body, where people raise there arms and gyrate their hips in synchronicity. It all happened so fast that I was left sitting alone in a forest of swaying, fleshy limbs and sensible shoes. “NO!” I cried. It quickly became clear to me that I was in the midst of fascist anarchy at its purest mob-mentality form. Hallucinations that I doubt the most pitiful LSD victim ever saw flooded my senses; swastikas swirled and “Hiel Hitler!” echoed in my ears.

Then it hit me: what I should really be afraid of are the losers. These people may all be on some Spectators High now, but later they will have come to the Championship as Princes only to leave as Toads. That, I have now learned, is when the Fear hits. The Fear can be seen in the deep black pits of the losing side’s eyes. Soon the black pits become satanically red. This is when the Fear grips the observer like a cold, spiny hand around the neck. The Fear’s slow thighs follow you, even the next day, even to the concession stand.

But let’s not worry about the Fear now. I have come to the grand Sports Ring to see SPORTS, not bawl hysterically over balls and break out in nervous sweat because of the Fear. No one can be expected to handle a situation like That.

Let’s get back to some semblance of sanity. Tan Lines. The Tan Line is a sacred thing. To outline the brief history, the first recorded Tan Line was in 369 B.C., during an interglacial period (also known as global warming). The Neanderthals drew elaborate pictures on the cave walls of hunched men with toga-like tan lines on their shoulders and calves. The Tan Line took a quick break during the first Olympics, where the players went nude. It was a happy one for the nudists and voyeurs but a very, very sad day for the Tan Line.

But what these boys—or should I say men?—wore went below my lowest expectations, literally. My ideal, The Great American Shorts, are supposed to come up to the athlete’s upper thigh, showing off the contrast of white to brown. These shorts shocked my system beyond recognition, coming down to the fool’s MID CALF! How am I supposed to observe the Tan Line? How dare you suck out all the joy and happiness from this reporter’s life. Yes, you. I know where you live. This covering of thigh brought out the raging feminist in me. This isn’t the 1800’s, for God’s sake. I really am not offended by seeing some ankle.

Sitting there in the stands, I contemplated my situation. This “game” had been going on for what seemed like days. Was I merely waiting on these ridiculous elevated benches for something that would never come to an end?

And then it came. The purely sublime end buzzer.

Oh yeah, the score was 75-43.