The Dow is up again today. And that is terrible.
You see, what the savvy sports fan realizes is that so much of what we hate about modern sports – the massive salaries, the corporate influence, the meddling agents, the exorbitant cost of tickets – is all contingent on our country being profitable and successful.
So with each step we take towards total economic collapse – towards a world of poverty, hunger and suffering – we also take a step closer to a sports utopia. Dow 8,000? Yuck. I’ll take Dow 80, please.
I don’t even know where to start in describing this magical world of sports perfection. But I know who won’t start in the near future: any player who isn’t All-Star caliber. The NBA’s recent $200 million loan for 12 of its teams won’t stop teams from folding (at least we can hope). Because contraction will raise the quality of play that’s often lacking in our pro leagues plagued by overexpansion. Now we argue if Kobe or LeBron is better. Soon we will argue if Kobe or LeBron should get the last shot against the New York/Boston SpurJazzricks. Do you like the on-ice intensity of an Original Six match-up? You’ll love the desperation of an Only Six match-up.
But don’t worry about losing major league action in your hometown. Sure, your pro teams may fold, but you’ll still get to see the best of the best thanks to the reemergence of barnstorming teams. Squads like “Derek Jeter and the Intangible Nine” and “Pacman’s Posse” will play exhibitions in towns and small cities all across the country in search of the money no longer available in the debt-ravaged pro ranks. Then they’ll sleep with your wives and daughters on the way out of town … and you’ll be happy they had a bit of meat to eat.
And we’ll see these athletes performing at their best, too. Everyone will be in shape. It’s impossible to put on weight when you’re reduced to chasing down a coyote or some tumbleweed for dinner. Athletes will give their all, too – all game, every game. There’s no taking a play off when the difference between a win and a loss is a hot bowl of porridge and a warm bed to sleep in or another hungry night out in the cold. Incentive-laden contracts will rule the day. Agents like Scott Boras and Drew Rosenhaus will be gone forever, unable to find any athletes willing to share 10-percent of their nothing.
Personal seat licenses? Pfft. The best seats will go to those who know how to climb a fence or handle a blade.
Multi-million dollar, taxpayer-built stadiums? Not on our dime. Literally.
“Outside the Lines” will become the even more weighty “Inside the Bread Lines.”
“Pros Vs. Joes” will be more entertaining as “Pros Vs. Hoboes.”
Performance enhancing drugs? Potable water and some high-protein jerky will be as good as it gets for a generation or more.
The BCS will fold as state budget shortfalls force the closure of universities across the country.
TV broadcasts will no longer be dominated by commercial interruptions. No one will be able to afford commercials. Interruptions will only come from rolling blackouts.
Awful halftime acts like Ashlee Simpson will be no more as good old-fashioned carnival performers like the bearded lady or lobster boy, available on the cheap, will entertain the extremely unwashed masses.
Fantasy sports will lose their unhealthy grip on our modern games. The only fantasy people will have is some vittles and shoes with toes. Or death. Sweet, sweet death.
And forget the $8 ballpark beer. It will be gone for good. Or maybe not. I don’t know. But you at least wouldn’t have the need to buy beer again because, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that a Great Depression isn’t truly great unless everyone has their own moonshine still in their bathtub. Sneak some white lightning into a game in a flask – bribing the security guard with a pinch if need be – and you’ll be golden.
Boxing will retake its rightful place among America’s premier sports. A culture of privilege and comfort simply does not produce good prizefighters. Kids will finally have to fight for everything they get again, just as it should be. The most ruthless and sadistic will scrap and brawl their way out of the ghettos and shantytowns, ride the rails to New York and Vegas and meet for epic, blood-bathed title bouts. And hundreds of millions of Americans will watch, huddled around flickering, dying, rear-projection HD televisions. For warmth. And also to be entertained by those with lives more painful and pathetic than their own.
It’s almost too good to imagine. Everything we’ve always wanted in sports in exchange for nothing but complete and total misery in every other aspect of life.
Wooooooooohackcoughcough! (Stupid black lung/tuberculosis.)
We can have all of this, my future hobo friends. We’re so close. I can almost taste it – like an especially good bowl of road kill ‘n’ leather shoe soup.
If you still have a mortgage, stop paying it. If you have a job, quit. Reduce all of your possessions to what can fit in a bindle. And set off down the road towards Sports Utopia.
I’ll see you there.