October 1st, 2010
Friday Four Cents: You’re LeBroning Me to Death
As is my God given right, I watch ESPN as much as possible throughout the day. Sometimes I go home during lunch just to catch SportsCenter one more time because the Brewers lowlights from yesterday deserve at least 16 viewings. Repetition is good. Maybe the anchors have honed that humdinger of a joke by the time the third airing comes around. But for as much as I delight in seeing the same diving catch, slam dunk, one-handed grab or googly, there are a couple things I just can’t bare to let continually rape my eyes with.
I know you sports out there are with me. Barring you live in the barren North of Minnesota or the mecca of art deco in Miami, you’re sick and tired about hearing stories of Brett Favre’s breakfast and LeBron James’ last bowel movement. Also high on your list could be Tiger Woods’ return from banging porn stars to the golf course for moral redemption or maybe even how great of a guy Michael Vick has turned out to be – sure, he forced dogs to fight to the death, but he paid his debt to society… [sigh]
There is nothing more boring than training camp. Unless, of course, we’re talking about football training camp. Cone drills and shuttle runs are the best. Basketball training camp is particularly boring. Can you remember a time that you actually gave a rat’s buttocks about how many sprints the Rockets had to do at practice because of a few missed free throws? I can’t. In fact, my brain thanks me for not knowing such trivial information.
This year… This very year in which we exist, numbered two-thousand and ten, is quite different my friends. For just a couple months ago, the lord and savior of round, orange balls made a decision to play with a couple of other talented people in South Beach. LeBron James shocked the world when he ripped off his Cavaliers jersey and chose not the Knicks; not the Bulls; not the Nets; but the Miami Heat as his team of choice. A bigger decision has never been made. In fact, that decision got it’s on television special on ESPN named, get this, The Decision. If Barrack Obama wanted to stand before congress to tell the world he was a lesbian, there wouldn’t have been more ridiculous media coverage.
I can’t take it anymore. Lebron is the subject of my beef this time around because the NFL season has already started and I no longer have to give passing glances to arial footage of Brett Favre’s Mississippi home. Recency has always played a more relevant role than primacy in my life (those be advertising biznass terms, ya’ll). Then again, ESPN didn’t have the audacity to send four (FOUR!) reporters to Vikings training camp the last two years. Currently in Florida there are three talking heads and the underrated Rachel Nichols reporting every second possible of LeBron and the two stooges.
Why, exactly, does such indepth coverage need to go into practice? In the immortal words of Allen Iverson, “practice? We’re talking ’bout practice?! Not a game. Not a game. Not a game. Practice?!” “But, Paul, they’re doing 4-on-4 drills and working on their defense.” Fantastic. I’m happy for them. We also happen to be in the middle of six separate pennant races, five changing-of-the guard scenarios at quarterback, college football, hockey preseason (at least they play games) and University of Texas being knocked off its lofty horse by the Bruins only to have their day of reckoning tomorrow against the Sooners.
These are all important things. The mole that King James discovered on his left elbow is not. The fact that Chris Bosh will be playing third fiddle for a team that isn’t the Raptors matters not. D-Wade’s relationship with Star Jones kind of does matter to me though. She looks like she came up with Tutankhamun’s sarcophagus, for heaven’s sake. Ok, whatever, that was two years ago. It’s still funny.
So, ESPN, you can take your Heat, Favre, Woods, Vick and Sidney Crosby coverage and shove it. While you’re at it, just shove Stuart Scott too. That man is an exercise in hyperbole who can’t figure out which camera he’s talking into. I don’t need an anchor pretending to be a hip-hop personality mixed up in my Ryder Cup coverage.