Honea Express

Archive for the ‘Sports’ Category

The man leaned against the counter, almost sitting on it. His view was of the kitchen. To his left sat a boy in a diaper and a Steelers jersey. It was midnight and the boy had been sleeping in his bed for hours before crying in the night for his mother. It had been the man that answered.

The man leaned against the counter and to his left sat a boy in a big red chair that reminded the man of kitchens from his youth and reminded the boy of nothing but the only kitchen he had known. The boy ate cold, calculated bites of macaroni and cheese and an entire garlic roll. He sat silently and sipped water from a Mickey Mouse cup. His view was in the toaster.

There had been visitors earlier in the evening. There had been football and cheering and too much to eat, but the boy had been hard at play and had ignored everything but the potato chips and onion dip. Hence his cries in the night and his midnight snack. Hence the man beside him leaning on the counter and staring into the kitchen.

The house was quiet. Somewhere slept a woman and another boy and random pets of various size. None of them made a sound.

The only noise was that of the boy lifting his cup and setting it down. His chewing was muted whisper.

The man looked at the kitchen, surprised by surreal clarity and unexpected sobriety. He looked at the kitchen and his thoughts went to his grandmother in another state in a strange bed in a lonely hospital who had been told just hours before that she was dying.

The man thought of her and how the news was broken to him in that same kitchen just hours before and how he had talked on the phone and sounded strong and sure, something slightly less than stoic, and how once he hung up he was unable to speak one word to his wife without breaking down and crying as she wrapped her arms around him, groceries at their feet and the refrigerator door slightly open.

The boy sat in the big red chair and silently chewed his cold macaroni while staring under heavy eyelids at little square tiles and a dull metal toaster. The man watched him for a moment while they both listened to the nothing, and then he proceeded to run his hands slowly through the boy’s hair, because frankly, he just had to.

“Is my birthday at Christmas?” he asked. His puppy dog eyes and the head that held them were centered perfectly between me and the game that I was watching.

“No,” I said.

He didn’t move.

“I want my birthday to be at Christmas,” he continued, or at least I think he was continuing. I had been ignoring him and had just noticed the noise from his mouth when a commercial came on. He could have been talking for ten minutes or silently mouthing, “I hate you.” I didn’t give it much thought.

“Why do you want your birthday to be at Christmas?” I asked.

“Because I want to go to the Santa Store,” he said, as if such a thing was the most natural reason in the world. The tarnish on my all-knowing dad status continued to spread.

“You already went to the Santa Store,” I told him in a classic case of one-upsmanship.

The Santa Store is a room at his school that the PTA managed to fill with truckloads of crap so that children can shop for their parents, siblings, teachers or anyone else they feel deserving of combs and plastic bottles of perfume for a dollar. I had taken him shopping one day after school earlier in the week and between us we managed to cover everyone on his list for $9.25.

Everyone except me, of course, but I was okay with it. We also didn’t buy anything for him, which was more of a sore spot.

We gave him some change so he could visit the Santa Store during the allotted time the next school day. He bought crap for his brother and three classmates. He bought nothing for himself.

“I want birthday presents from the Santa Store,” he said.

“You know it’s all junk, right?”

“Then why did we buy presents there for Mommy and Nana?” he asked. Luckily we were alone at the time.

“Because we’re cheap and you don’t have a job.” I told him. I call it like I see it.

“Why can’t my birthday be at Christmas?” The kid wasn’t getting it.

“You were born in the summer,” I said. “You’ll get much better gifts then. Kids with birthdays at Christmas get a raw deal. People get them one gift and say it’s for both Christmas and their birthday. That’s the rub.”

“Is the one gift from the Santa Store?”

“You’re freakin’ killing me, Smalls. Fine, I’ll buy you presents at the Santa Store for your birthday. How’s that?” The game had been back on for a few minutes now and it was time to wrap this up.

“Okay, that’s good,” he said. “But don’t buy my Christmas presents there. It’s too junky.”

With that he walked back to his playthings, content his point had been made. I watched him full of joy and what he was selling as reason and then I looked at the TV, the game and the score that had changed and I wondered what the hell had happened.

I feel naked. My life is now an open book. Thanks, Matthew (xoxoxo).

Last night I was on Karl’s radio show, and despite the fact that I broke it I think it went pretty well. Of course we couldn’t compete with the new TV shows and only a group of hardcore TiVo owners made the original airing. Luckily(?) for you the show is available as a podcast at SecondHand Tryptophan and on iTunes. Basically, it’s a chat over beer between myself and Karl with the occasional aside through the 4th wall (that’s showbiz talk). It was a good time.

Today is Bill’s day. Bill’s blog is The Frowning of a Lifetime and it is good stuff. Hey kids, he draws the cartoons. Bill plays bass in a punk band and writes sports tickers for a living. He spends Sundays on my couch eating pizza and drinking beer.

Please welcome Bill!

As I mentioned previously, some kind folks were nice enough to give me some topic suggestions. I’m going to do them all now because the wife and kids are out of town and I have no life. It’s very, very sad to be honest. I do have a cold Moose Drool at my side though, and The Kooks on the iTunes, so I’ll make the most of it.

CityMama @whithonea can you blog about that ocho cinco nonsense?

Yes, Stefania, I can.
Once upon a time there was a wide receiver named Chad Johnson. He was a fucking idiot. The end.

As I mentioned previously, some kind folks were nice enough to give me some topic suggestions. I’m going to do them all now because the wife and kids are out of town and I have no life. It’s very, very sad to be honest. I do have a cold Moose Drool at my side though, and some Vampire Weekend on the iTunes, so I’ll make the most of it.

DownWithPants @whithonea – you should write about how hard you are going to go down in fantasy football.

I am in four leagues this year, which is about the max amount I can play without getting too confused. I assume that Brandon is talking about the league that I am in with him, the official DWP! Fantasy Football league.

He is justified in talking a bit of shit as I stunk it up last season, but he apparently forgot that he didn’t fare much better. I blame a slow start by Drew Brees and injuries to key players. In addition, the scoring is like no other league I’ve ever been apart of and players that brought in big numbers for me in other leagues didn’t do squat in DWP!

I am ready this year and therefore I will NOT be going down. Besides, married people don’t do that.