In a 4000-word, dear-diary entry on his favorite blog, The Sports Guy™ finally reveals that, guys, he really cares about sports. I mean like REALLY, Y’ALL. Like the ohmygodicaresomuchthatiwillmakemysevenyearolddaughtercry cares. But let’s allow him to explain.
My daughter was crying.
Let’s go ahead and get this out of the way. This is not the first time he has made his daughter cry. He did it before. How, you ask?
I wore a Bruins sweatshirt, donned a Boston cap and respectfully cheered for the champs. … Nothing sucks more than a visiting fan crashing your section and cheering obnoxiously for his team. … I didn’t want to be That Guy. I hate That Guy. We all hate That Guy.
Left unspoken, “I am That Guy™ … to my daughter.”
And just like that, she started crying.
But, it’s cool, guys:
I remained sympathetic while being secretly delighted, like she had passed some sort of “Fledgling Sports Fan” hurdle or something. … And that’s when I knew my daughter liked sports.
Oh. Right. Got it. She likes sports because, after Daddy spent six months straight bonding with her at every Kings games and carefully explained all of the ins and outs of hockey, she actually cried when Daddy STABBED HER IN THE BACK during the most important game of her life. Yes, clearly she’s on the path to being the next Grantland Rice™ since, as a seven-year-old, she had her heart broken by her father over an ultimately meaningless hockey game. Sports or bust. Well, or therapy.
They made the finals when she was sound asleep.
She LUVS sports. It’s definitely the sports that made her cry. Not Pops. Couldn’t be Dad.
She kept saying, “Dad, stop it, just stop. They’re going to win.”
But come on, y’all. It wasn’t The Sports Guy’s™ fault.
She had the whole night planned in her head, inadvertently jinxing it with questions like, “Who gets to hold the Cup first again?” and “How long will they pass it around?”
It was HER fault, clearly. SHE JINXED IT.
Remember that scene when Forrest Gump finds out about his son, digests the news, then worries that the boy is just as stupid as he is? For two terrible seconds, he’s thinking to himself, Oh, no, I hope I didn’t ruin this kid. That’s how I felt when I watched my daughter sobbing. Why did I do this to her? Why would I pull her into this fan vortex where you’re probably going to end up unhappy more than happy?
Yup … this is our Sports Guy™. It boggles the mind how much is happening in this one statement, outside of the whole “I just made my daughter cry after totally setting her up for it” aspect. Bill Simmons has just compared himself to a naïve and slow-witted Alabaman from a horribly overrated and overwrought movie from the early- to mid-90s that simply does not stand the test of time. Which is more apropos: the comparison or the fact that once again, Bill Simmons has demonstrated that every meaningful pulp culture reference of his ends somewhere around 1993. But, I’m sorry Bill, I interrupted. Please continue…
Then I remembered something. Sports is a metaphor for life. Everything is black and white on the surface. You win, you lose, you laugh, you cry, you cheer, you boo, and most of all, you care.
It’s black and white, but it’s not.
Michael Jackson? Anyway, enough of your daughter and social commentary, Bill, let’s get to the good stuff, the everyman stuff, the “Sports is a metaphor for life,” kind of stuff.
Only 12 hours later, I flew cross-country to watch the Celtics play Miami in Boston. My wife couldn’t believe it. We were committed to a party in Los Angeles the following night. Who flies cross-country and back in 24 hours?
LeBron was playing one of his greatest games. … I don’t know what happened. I just know the shots wouldn’t stop going in. … You can’t imagine what this was like to witness in person.
“I hope you other 99% enjoy what few, cold comforts you can in your miserable little lives.”
I was devastated.
I’m trying to muster some sympathy for you, Bill. It’s not like your teams have won ANYTHING recently…
LeBron James ran over 18,000 people.
Only those 18,000 can now *IMAGINE* what it was like in person. Memories cannot contain it!
If I were 9 years old, I would have been crying.
… because my Dad was wearing a Heats jersey, yelling “Good job, good effort!”