If you think that soccer is a boring sport played by pantywaist Argentines with ridiculous haircuts, I no longer want to hear it. If you think that soccer is the beautiful game and deserves a wide American audience if only we'd give it a chance, I no longer want to hear that, though I've written exactly that, many times.
Too many times. Similarly, years of typing " Florida State" and "arrest" in close proximity to each other have left me with a repetitive-stress injury. The appearance of those words in a single headline now serves as a sort of journalistic bouncer, mentally barring me from entering that article. Been there, read that.
But so many other stories also leave me raccoon-eyed, staring into the abyss of the sports section. Anna Kournikova is an attractive young woman with modest tennis skills and a leering fan base of web-surfing shut-ins. Beyond that, what remains to be said? We've beaten every piece of candy out of that particular pi�ata. Enough already. Too much already.
Will Augusta National ever admit a female member? Here's a more compelling question: How long does it take my toenails to grow, and can I watch them while they do so?
The human spirit is remarkably resilient, except when confronted by a televised interview with Mike Tyson. In every such instance something inside me dies—a little piece of my soul—as Tyson natters on, less grotesque than he is tedious. Perhaps boxing should be abolished. Has that ever been written?
As a matter of fact it has, several thousand times. And that's fine. As it turns out, we are well-served each time a story is published on such cold-button questions as "Whither baseball contraction?" or "Should college athletes be paid?" or "Does anyone understand the BCS?"
It's a good thing. In this eco-friendly age, we've invented the ultimate planet-saver: newspapers that recycle themselves.