I have a dream. I have a dream that one day all sports halls of fame, museums and restaurants will be conveniently consolidated in a single theme park so that future Super Bowl MVPs, when asked where they're going next, won't have to answer " Disney World" but can say instead, "To a place where I have a cut of the profits." This infotainment complex will be a paradise of unearthly delights, where children of all ages will visit the Hall of Presidents to marvel at an audioanimatronic Gary Bettman, who appears so uncannily unlifelike they'll swear that it really is the NHL prexy.
But the first stop will be the interactive pavilion: There you'll find Wilt Chamberlain's bed, with an endless loop of clean sheets, like those perpetual hand-towel machines you tug on in restaurant rest rooms. Visitors will be urged to "take a number" from the deli-style ticket dispenser on Wilt's nightstand and to periodically consult the NOW SERVING sign, with space for five digits.
Guests will then be shuttled across the park in a baseball-capped golf cart of the sort that once conveyed overweight relievers from bullpen to pitcher's mound in electrified comfort. Or choose more adventurous transport. Gone will be Disney's famous monorail. In its place will be Casey Stengel's Train of Thought, which will derail daily, every hour on the half hour. Ride it to Tomorrow-land, where you'll see a haunting vision of the future: the 19 elbow operations that await Bronx Little League pitching sensation Danny Almonte. Fans of Disney will thrill to our version of his spinning teacups—the spinning D-cups of Ms. Morganna's Wild Ride, in which families whirl away the afternoon in the oversized brassiere of baseball's notorious Kissing Bandit.
Then you'll be off to the carnival midway. Try to ring the bell at the top of the tall Breathalyzer Tower. (Simply take a deep breath and blow!) Ride the rocket-fueled bumper cars, careful to avoid the warring vehicles of Jose Canseco and his ex-wife, Esther. Finally, play the timeless Whack-a-Mole game, in which contestants, armed only with a judge's gavel, will try to smack down Baltimore Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis. (Hint: It's not possible!)
By then you'll have worked up quite an appetite. So why not visit the sports-themed Food Court? Sample the fried Calipari, the Kobe beef or, a personal favorite, the Mobster Bisque, containing actual chunks of the guy who blew the whistle on the Gold Club.
Still hungry? Be sure to take home our Paul Newman-esque line of signature sports salad dressings, specially formulated for the tastes of pro athletes: Vinaigretzky, Mustang Ranch, Riker's Island. Bon app�tit!
Wait 30 minutes after eating, and then dip into Water Park, where you'll swim with the dolphins. Or rather, the Miami Dolphins (ex-Dolphins, actually). Play Marco Polo with Mercury Morris! Conduct a cannonball contest with Dwight Stephenson!! Get de-Speedoed by a mischief-making Larry Csonka!!!
While still in your swimsuit, join the Minnesota Twins on their Giant Slide: You'll plunge—from a great height, at breakneck speed—straight into the crapper (but what a ride!). Then dry off, if you dare, on Roid Rage, the state-of-the-art roller coaster. It will take you to exhilarating heights and unspeakable depths, and exhilarating heights and unspeakable depths, over and over in the span of a single minute.
If all of this weren't magic enough, the park closes each night with a ticker-tape parade down Main Street. (The ticker tape—four metric tons of it every day—isn't ticker tape at all but rather the torn-up pari-mutuel tickets of that day's unluckiest bettor at Yonkers Raceway.)
And oh, what a parade! It's a nightly roll call of sport's most memorable mascots: Youppi, the francophone shag-carpet sample who serves the Montreal Expos; Bernie Brewer, beer-swilling wearer of Lycra lederhosen in Milwaukee; and Chief Noc-a-Homa, the sine qua non of demeaning cultural stereotypes, long since euthanized by the Atlanta Braves.