When Sports Cliches Attack!

February 13, 2005

So, do you ever wake up in the morning, and — as you’re lying there, trying to figure out who you are and where you’re at and whose pants you’re wearing this time — have spectacular ideas?

Because I do. And the spectacularity of these ideas is matched only by the spectaculatiousness of my annoyance when I can’t remember any of the damned things ten minutes later. Somewhere between the bed and the shower, gold turns to dust.

(And not gold dust, either, because that would still be useful, from what I understand. No, just dust. Plain old common not-ambitious-enough-to-be-dirt dust. Bah.)

And so, I stand there under the shower, frowning and nonplussed.

(Which is not a sentence I’d like taken out of context, thank you very much. That’s how rumors get started.)

Anyway, I always have trouble remembering these groggy little gems, so I’ve made an effort recently to latch onto some piece of them in bed, when they first come to me. I figure that if I can associate some word or phrase with the idea as a mnemonic right away, then maybe I can remind myself what the hell I was thinking of later.

The title of this post is the first such reminder that I’ve successfully hung onto. It’s from yesterday morning. I have no fricking clue what the hell it means. Dammit!

Actually, that’s not quite true. I do know what it means, sort of — I remember having some idea about how cliches in sports are getting gradually more ridiculous, with metaphors about war and divine intervention and survival of the fittest spewing forth from all corners. And I remember thinking of a really fantastic, funny example of how absurd it might one day get. It was that one example, really, that led me to think that there might be more.

So, of course, I forgot the example. All I remembered was the ‘might be more’ part. So now I have, like, dust and a picture of gold. But no gold. Bitches!

But I’m a trooper, folks. And if my brain is trying to tell me there’s something in this half-assed idea, then what can I do but listen? The brain knows more than I do, that’s for sure. And I owe brain a couple of favors, for not listening whenever penis starts talking. So what the hell — I don’t know what it’s going to look like, or how it’s going to tasta, people, but here comes: ‘When Sports Cliches Attack!: Metaphors for Meatheads. Heaven help us all.

‘You know, Al, I’m just taking it one second at a time out there. I’m constantly thinking on the field, ‘What should I be doing this second?’ I don’t have time to throw many passes that way… and I did get sacked thirty-one times today… but I’m a real thinking man’s kind of player, you dig?‘

‘It was really nice to come in here and steal a win, Pam. This is really great. We came into their house — their house — and took a big one. It’s like we came in with our ski masks on, and tied them up with duct tape, and just rifled through all their shit, really tossed the place around. And then we took the good silverware, and shaved their dog, and took off. Gotta love winning on the road, Pam.‘

‘Well, the guys really played like their backs were against the wall today, Bob. I really saw something from these guys — scratching, clawing, biting for the win. And Johnson hasn’t had his rabies shots, so that point guard on the other side might want the docs to take a look at him.‘

‘Joe, we went all out today — we really left it all out on the floor. I know my shoes and socks are out there somewhere. And Terry pooped his pants in the third quarter, so he’s got blood and sweat and… well, you know. He left it all out there. Just came to the locker room afterward completely naked. What a great win for this team.‘

‘Yeah, I had a pretty good game, Paul, but I couldn’t have done it without these guys. It was a real team effort, you know? I mean, Greg there laced up my shoes, and Petey adjusted my cup for me, and Hal and Jonesy over there — well, they held my hands while the trainers shot me full of… I dunno, something. Saline, I expect, probably. Anyway, it was just everyone tonight. There’s no ‘I’ in this team, baby.‘

Yeah. I see what you mean. Maybe I should just let those ideas die in bed, eh? Damn. And I thought I was onto gold, too. Poop.