The effeminate nature of men watching sports.
By James Stevens Black
A man crouches in his chair and watches a simple football game. Before him on his oversized television are displayed 300+-pound sweaty men in tight spandex bent over and wrestling one another. They dive and flop around in a strange ballet, all focused on a large hard ball-trying to achieve victory. He sits wide-eyed, stuffing Pork Rinds and chilidogs into his maw like an animal, squeals when his favorite guys do well, and screams in mortal agony when they fail. His wife all the while sits in the kitchen or reads a steamy romance novel about men who don’t watch sports.
Men, if you can call them that, take hours out of their daily routine to watch while other men run around on a big green field; other men (called Referees) dominate their will to achieve with sicko rules and evaluations that will then be contested by other sweaty men (called Coaches) in swanky jackets.
The fact is-these roles need reversing on a grand scale.
His wife should trade places with him. More women should be staring at the back end of a guy(s)-per team/depending on sport-and lusting after their ability. The men should be microwaving burritos in the kitchen with a television or at the computer alone having a grand old time rerunning the Women’s Volleyball Championship or some spicier fair meant for men, real men, made as men love it.
The Laker Girls are the only reason to watch a basketball game, much as the Dallas Cowboys cheerleading squad is the only reason to watch a football game! The networks need to be more representative of their audience and focus on this very artful and elegant part of sports.
Really, it is sick and smells of lollipops.
As it is, millions of guys swarm around television sets like gnats every week, staring wide-eyed as other men do things they only wish they could do-it becomes a strange paradox of the natural order. If the same male energy was expended watching Women’s Tennis and/or Women’s Volleyball, then we could honestly understand the need for men to be zealously devoted to sports.
Playing a sport is a whole hell of a lot different than watching it, by the way. Ask some Major League Baseball player how easy the game is and he’ll laugh at you-because he does it and he doesn’t have to watch it. Like a Chippendale dancer he prances onto the field and does his job for money plus tip, and that is it. He isn’t thinking about the honor…no… no… no…he is thinking about the chicks. All three of them in the entire universe that were allowed to watch the game by our own twisted moral fabric! Hear me, my fellow Americans!
Studying the statistics of a player of Major League Baseball, Men’s Tournament Golf, the NFL, or National Hockey League becomes a sick game akin to comparing strippers at the local Strip Club. (Of which, sadly, there are no programs showing that, you FCC bastards.)
“Barry Bonds is the greatest player in baseball,” one rather esteemed man said.
How sick is this? How steamy; how horribly lustful.
Sitting at a Sports Bar filled with guys and maybe a small contingent of women can be quite revealing. The men sit around exchanging stats, poring over scores, and arguing over trades and players at a deeply personal level.
One newcomer from New York commented on how his father took him to Yankee Stadium as a kid, stood him up at the top level, and pointed out across the wide expanse of New York to where the Mets play ball, Shea Stadium.
“Son,” he said, “never go there.”
Every man should point at every stadium across the world and say those same mentoring lines to their sons. Pointing instead to such dignified places as Hooters, and Wild Bill’s Mud Wrestling Palace. The fine establishments represent everything that is wholesome and right in America, and beyond.
That is all the time worth devoting to this sad state of affairs. Besides, I have to see what the Seattle Sonics are up to-but for what you think, you rats. On their NBA website you can vote for what girl you want to see twirling for next season’s Dance Team. Besides…they’re going to crush the Clippers on November 3rd. Oh hell, did I really say that?
Understand it or walk away and cry, you bastards. There is a reason my initials fall in line with the finest liquid nepenthe this side of Iceland.
