I Don’t Envy Pro Athletes; I Just Want All Their Fame and Money

Why would I want to be a 7'3", 350lbs. mass of affluence and hilarity?
Playing sports is fun. It’s always good to get outside every once in awhile and use muscles that usually stay dormant for 90 percent of a given day, week, month, and so on. That is, until TiVo develops a popular remote control that may be operated with one’s hamstrings (the WiiFit doesn’t count; you can’t play Super Smash Bros. on it).

But frankly, if adulthood has taught me anything (debatable), it’s that physical exertion should always, always be countered with a healthy dose of cold, frothy beer. It can be lite beer. Whatever.

Golf has always had a firm stake in this position, from its inception to its contemporary facilities. The game was invented in Scotland, home of Scotch and a societal norm for men to wear skirts sans undergarb, after a group of men grabbed a bottle of the eponymous beverage and played until the bottle was empty: eighteen shots per man subsequently led to the traditional number of holes we have today.

In the present day, the golf course has provided American businessmen and women who look like businessmen the best venue to drink on the job, and is often encouraged.

  • (On the office phone): “I’d love to talk to you more about your mutual plan, Mr. Belvedere. I think there’s a lot we can do to help you out…”
  • [Removes lid from BigGulp]
  • [Removes empty pint of brown liquor from BigGulp]
  • [Inserts new pint of brown liquor into BigGulp]
  • [Puts lid back on]
  • “Pleasant Acres Golf Course? I’m a member too! Maybe we can have our next meeting there?
  • [sips]
  • Wednesday smells great to me as well, sir, looking forward to it!

I like to incorporate my imbibing into other sports that I like to play, not just golf (at which I happen to be terrible), but that’s because I’m remarkably ambitious. These sports include sand volleyball, softball, flag football, and, my favorite, swimming.

Tasteful and moderate ambition aside, I really don’t envy professional athletes. No really. I don’t. This is not to be confused with their fame, money, and other intangibles that come with being a professional athlete. These I envy, and do so greatly and unashamedly.

I’ve been to my fair share of weight rooms. They look so much better from the outside, as I’m driving past the Blockbuster on the way to the bowling alley (remember: drinking + sports = good time). This is allegedly where most pro-athletes spend their time, if not on their respective fields or courts or back alleys and courts of law, coining terms like “Gym Rat,”, which is the only use of the moniker “Rat” which is somewhat affirming.

But I’ve seen enough photos of these Professional Gym Rats and I’ve seen the extent of their physical trials to maintain the shape and order of their natural and unnatural bodies. Barfburgers. No fun here. No pain no gain? More like no pain and I’m really pumped about such a dearth of pain. The real kicker is that an athlete will likely only use his toned, muscular body for his (or her, although in a much less-popular fashion) vocation for a small percentage of what he/she (like that one girl/guy track star whose name escapes me!) spent getting those muscles.

Do you know how many times I’ve had to unleash my pythons and may have wished that I had slaved away at a local gym or YMCA in order to produce better desired results? Twice. My brother moved into a condo and I helped him move some of the heavier furniture. The other instance was when this homeless woman tried to rob me. Alright, she robbed me, but I knocked her to the ground. A little. Alright, I made her move slightly leftward, causing her to run in an unnatural gait, surely causing some sort of strain on her crucial ligaments. And clearly, I am all that is to be desired as a physical specimen. Who cares if I can’t slam dunk/can’t clear a milk crate.

Slam dunks? That’s what ladders are for, dummy. Speaking of dumb, I don’t mean to stereotype or generalize beyond good reasoning (Yes, I do.), but most of these clowns making millions upon millions of dollars before they blow it on a 2015 Mercedes-Benz Merry-Go-Round for their respective posse’s back yard can’t find their own name in the phonebook. Not to say that they’re dumber than a brown paper bag filled with old milk, but they’re dumber than a brown paper bag filled with old milk.

What good are these fellows (yeah, yeah, or ladies, I guess Title IX applies to sarcastic and acerbic generalizations as well. Wouldn’t want to offend somebody by not trying to offend them) at the most vaunted of all adult competitions? I’m speaking of Local Pub Trivia Night, of course.

What is the atomic symbol for Gold? Au. Who were the two stars of Midnight Cowboy? Dustin Hoffman and Jon Voight. Lexus is owned by which car company? Toyota. French word for ‘cheese?’ Frommage. I, as you may be able to tell by these meandering essays, am nothing much for the realm of useful knowledge, while I happen to be a vast wellspring of useless knowledge. But I’d say that I’m still brighter than the average professional athlete. What good do their well-sculpted abs provide in my dojo? Very little.

Except when they walk into said dojo. And by the entire bar around with their too-thick-to-fold-wallets. And boast modestly about their expectations to “win it all” next season. And their polite acquiescence to sign the breasts of many a drunken lass at said pub. And their polite acquiescence to invite every available woman with all of their extremeites intact into their amplely-spacious limousine, in which he will plow every single one of them, much to the chagrin of every male who knew that the pseudonym of the X-Man with the name Scott Summers (it’s Cyclops, by the way) and is left to tell the tale of how they met so-and-so at a bar that one time and how “he was kind of a douche but kind of cool” at the same time.

Not that that has actually happened before. Not that it happened June 24, 2008. Really, professional athletes? I don’t envy them. They’re laughable. Now, they’re subsequent intangibles associated with their brutish careers? Yeah that’s pretty nice.

Published by Zack Stovall

Writer living in New York, NY.

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