Concussion Protocol
Copyright© 2021 by Kim Cancer
Sports Talk Radio 1
“Jeremy Green and the Crack-Smoking Pedos”
The hum of the kitchen rises like a button was pressed. Jim pans his gaze and bulges his eyes as a wall in the kitchen forms into a flat-screen television, a floor to wall screen.
An image of Jim broadcasts, an image of Jim in his younger days, of Jim reading a newspaper, the sports page, by his indoor pool. Watching the wall, Jim’s jaw drops, and he stares at the picture, hypnotized...
Jim used to read the sports pages, religiously, back when he was playing, even against the advice of coaches about “not reading your press clippings.” But he wouldn’t read everything; he wouldn’t read anything in praise. He’d only read the bad stuff, the criticism. It motivated him, hearing what some sports talk jackoff would say.
Oh, how he hates the sports talk radio jackoffs...
Jim remembers Jeremy Green, who’d hosted a popular radio show, and had bashed one of Jim’s teammates, relentlessly. Jim remembers the morning he read the news that Jeremy Green had been arrested, caught smoking crack while looking at child porn in a hotel room, and was even tracked in an online sting, trying to arrange sex with a toddler.
That’s what these guys are, Jim thinks. Jim believes that, deep down, all the sports talk radio jerkoffs are fucking crack-smoking pedos ... Jim wonders how many of these other animals were up to even worse...
Jim Rome most of all. That is the guy he hates most. He fucking just loathes that weasel. He wishes he could tear off Jim Rome’s limbs and leave him a limbless stump of a man, then kick the bloody limbless torso off into the horizon, like he was punting a football.
He would cut out or print out the crap Jim Rome or Stephen A. Smith and other sports talk dumbasses would write or say, post the clippings in his locker, read them before practices, workouts, gamedays.
These days, though, he doesn’t read much of that garbage. Why would he? It only reminds him of that Super Bowl he lost. It only digs up memories and skeletons and flings bones at his face. Reminds him of...
But this morning, there was no suppressing the memories being broadcast and flickering in front of his face. Fragments of time, in black and white, animated memories, like zombies from old horror films, were rising from their psychic tombs.
Jim sits in a trance, his eyes glued to the wall. The screen on the wall shows black and white images from the past, from sports talk radio shows, and Jim shakes with anger. His teeth clench.
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