Look at the shape of a football: it's dumb. Shaq and Lebron only need one more guy and they could open a law office: Put your faith in the Law Offices of Plevinson, O'Neal and James. Those hockey guys look like aliens; and why do people stretch during the seventh inning of a baseball game? What if I want to stretch in the sixth?
Sport is one letter away from spork, which, incidentally, has the same dumb shape as a football.
Despite this weird attitude, I am a Clevelander and I have to care about Cleveland sports. It's a law.
I am obligated to display a good natured aversion towards Denver on account of one John Elway. The same goes for Pittsburgh because of Terry Bradshaw, who is practically a senior citizen by now.
Cleveland fans are downtrodden for many reasons. I won't get into the most obvious, but will mention the announcers. Even if our team does something right, they belittle it. Cleveland Brown Jamal Lewis could run the pigskin through 67 yards of snarling armor-clad Jets, score a spectacular touchdown and the announcers would react with subtle disgust:
Looks like the refs are gonna hand them this one on a platter, Mike.
Heh, heh. Yep, Jim, the Browns pulled another one out of their hat.
When it comes to the New York Yankees, however, I harbor a particular distaste. I call them the Ninnies.
My loathing for "America's Team" began in 2007, when the Cleveland Indians did something unusual: they were winning. The Indians beat the Yankees in the American League series that year, which was hard to notice on account of the national sportscasters. They predictably talked about how the New York Yankees (gasp!) were losing instead of how the Cleveland Indians (shhh!) were winning. The zenith of this outrage ensued when Yankee manager Joe Torre was getting canned on account of his team losing to the Indians.
You could almost a collective sigh of relief coming from the press box. No need to mention those stinky Clevelanders now! Instead, anchors far and wide suspended coverage of the series and thankfully dropped to their knees in order to fellate The Magnificent Torre.
The insufferable lackeys (lickies?) reverently mused over his sparkling career while heroic photos of Torre graced the screen and dramatic music played in the background. Cleveland? What Cleveland?
The entire experience set me squarely and forever against the Ninnies. So, um, go Phillies. This concludes my coverage of the 2009 World Series.
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