Sports Talk Radio 2

“Hard-Core Sports Fans Are Losers”

Those sports talk guys are doofuses, sure, but they are performers. They are jesters, clowns. They are just playing their role in the circus. Jim’s anger settles slightly. But then returns with a vengeance when the screen on the wall swirl fades into black and white images of fans at pro football games.

The fans ... The jabbering throngs...

Jim recalls how much he looks down on middle-aged and old guy sports fans. He considers them the worst of the worst, the biggest losers of them all.

At least the sports talk hacks, idiots on ESPN, the idiot Colin Cowherd and his ilk, some of those buffoons get paid millions to talk their drivel. They get paid millions to run their stupid mouths, flap their gums, incessantly, about NFL quarterbacks and coaches and such...

But what about those losers who call into the sports talk radio shows? Those middle-aged men who’d wear a player’s jersey? A 50-year-old man wearing a 24-year-old running back’s jersey, what is that? A 40-year-old man who paints his face in the team colors or logo? How about those mouth-breathing morons calling into sports talk radio shows, stuttering and saying, “Well, w ... w ... what I think the Eagles should do...”

On the wall is a grayscale picture of a fat middle-aged loser, pacing a shitty, tiny apartment, wearing an all-pro linebacker’s jersey, and hollering into his phone’s wiry headset. His head bobs and hangs and he’s ripping rancid farts and reading off a script of chicken-scratch scrawled in a wrinkly notebook that he’s clutching in his greasy, stubby, trembling hands, and he’s berating a fan of another team, who’s just another loser.

What a bunch of losers! Didn’t they have anything better to do with their lives and time? Jim always pitied them, but it’s worse to witness the guy in his habitat, his crappy little apartment. Jim can imagine how awful the fan’s apartment smells, like something between foot fungus, farts, and feces, and how the apartment probably has cockroaches crawling all over the sports memorabilia and posters, cockroaches racing up the moldy, stinky walls...

Then Jim can see an image of his team’s locker room. He smells the sweat, the spray-on deodorant, cologne, hair gel. The smell of men, the smell of alpha males. He sees his teammates laughing and pointing at panoramic shots of NFL fans on TV screens that are chained to the locker room’s ceiling.

They would never say it to the media, never say it outside the locker room, but he and his teammates would look down on the loser fans, laugh at them. Their coaches would scold them about it, sometimes, saying how the media would slaughter them for that “kind of talk.” But Jim and his teammates would still do it.

The women, though, the attractive young ones, at the games, the NFL groupies, them, the players liked, for obvious reasons ... He studies their colorful pictures on the wall, IG selfies, smiling ladies at the bars. The ladies in miniskirts waiting outside hotels. The succulent ladies in whore-paint, creeping through hallways, crawling up fire escapes, slipping into players’ hotel rooms, in the dark cloak of night, like big-tit ninjas...

And the kids, too, he sees their glowing images in slide shows. The cute kids. The players liked the kids. They liked playing for the kids. All the guys loved the kids. They’d grumble among themselves about making those depressing hospital visits to sick kids, but mostly, they adored the cute little rascals in the stands. They loved throwing balls to them and signing autographs for the kids, seeing them look up to you, being their hero...