The Sportswriter

No, I'm not trying rip off Richard Ford, and, in fact---and this may be an offense punishable by castration in certain MFA programs---the novel bored me to point where I found myself measuring my pubic hairs mid-paragraph. Not poorly written, just not my cup of NyQuil.

Unlike Frank Bascombe, who dreamed of being a successful novelist but found himself moored as a sportswriter, it's always been my dream to be sportswriter, more specifically, a beat writer for The Red Sox. Luckily for me, I'm not a successful novelist, nor poet, nor short fiction writer, nor sportswriter, so in words of Dr. Dylan, I ain't got nothin' to lose. Close your eyes.

Let's do an exercise in guided imagery. Bad cigars. Do you smell them? Beer breath with a whiskey bump. You still with me? A Taco Bell burrito in one hand as I try to slip my other hand up NESN's reporter Heidi Watney's (above) skirt, and she clubs me over the skull with her microphone and security cuffs me. Yeah. The sirens howling. Now we're cooking with gas.

Indulge me, friends. Allow me to believe, for the next six months, that I'm a real beat writer, feed my delusion. Be my co-dependent, bitch.

Starting tomorrow, I will begin my uncensored column titled "The Yankees Are the Reason So Many Red Sox fans have I.B.S." Join me tomorrow, friends, as I explain over the next 162 games, why Mark Texeira was always The Chosen One to complete the Ultimate Yankee Circle Jerk; and why Jason Giambi was WAY too straight for the likes of Jeter, Johnny "Bone Boy in Whirlpool" Damon, and Alex "I Cheat, Pop Roids and Throw My Family Under the Bus, Fuck Hookers AND Their Madams, and Still Find Time To Give My Boys in Pinstripes a Handjob" Rodriguez; and why any writer worth their lick should give a little bit of love to the game of baseball.

Help me, friends. Make me feel like a sportswriter.