TEAM LAST CALL

Now see the fat kid. See the fat kid drop the ball and lose the game. See him fall into the mud and cry like a little schoolgirl. See the other boys give him a wedgie up to his ears. See the fat kid run home to mommy. Run, fat kid, run!

See the fat kid grow up to be a writer with a grudge against sports.

I have come to accept the fact that I am athletically retarded. I have as much of a chance of catching a ball on the fly as I do of catching a cold from making out with Jennifer Lopez.

The only thing I like less than playing sports is watching sports. On average, I watch about three games a year. One is the Super Bowl. The other two are the random games I catch while sitting in a bar when I can’t find where they hide the remote.

While I will never be a sports fan, I have nothing against people who are. You can’t blame a sports fan for loving sports any more than you can blame Ashley Judd for being hot for my body. For example.

But to some sports fans, a guy who doesn’t follow sports is like a bull with no horns, if you catch my drift. To them, I am one rung below Richard Simmons on the manliness ladder. I might as well show up at the sports bar wearing a pink tutu and a tiara. Which I look good in, but my wife hates, because I stretch out her tights.

“Do you at least know who won last year’s Super Bowl?” my friends ask, trying to help me salvage some dignity. To which I boldly reply, “... Was it the Phillies?”

All they can do is smile uncomfortably and look at me like I just peed my pants. I try to cover up my mistake by adjusting myself in public and making a quick boob joke about the waitress, but it’s too late. Once you’ve revealed your nerdery in front of your sports-fan friends, they start to treat you like the guy at the office party who got too drunk and stuck his bare ass in the punch bowl. They’re too embarrassed to look you in the eye, let alone hang out with you.

“Hey, do you guys want to come over and watch the Eagles game? I made a quiche!”
“Wow, um, we’d really like to, Jeff, but we have to, um, take our ... grandpas, to the ... uh ... urologist.”
“You all have to take your grandpas to the urologist?”
“... Yes.”
“On a Sunday?”
“Yep. But thanks for the invite gottagobye!” Click.

But I take comfort in the fact that I am not the only sports dud out there. There are plenty of other sports-fan impostors trying desperately to hide their dark secret from their friends. Come to me, bookworms and science nerds, I am here to help.

I give you The Football Hater’s Guide to Survival.

The following scenarios will help football flunkies survive the season with their dignity intact.

Your sports friend says: “The Steelers are looking really good this season.”
Bad response: “Yeah, they’ve got the prettiest uniforms in the NBA.”
Good response: “Pass the nachos.”

Your friend: “Who do you think is the best Dolphin of all time?”
Bad response: “Flipper?”
Good response: “Pass the nachos.”

Your friend: “My favorite player is Chris Fuamatu-Ma’afala.”
Bad response: “Gesundheit.”
Good response: “Bless you.”

Your friend: “Pass the nachos.”
Bad response: “Gesundheit.”
Good response: “Here, have some nachos.”

Your friend: “If Kurt Warner drops back into shotgun, you can be sure the Eagles will blitz.”
Bad response: “Which team do the old guys in the black and white stripes play for?”
Good response: “There’s a spider on your shirt!”

Your friend: “Buuuuurp.”
Bad response: “Burp.”
Good response: “Buuuuuuuuuuuuurp.”

Your friend: “Nice hooters on that cheerleader.”
Bad response: “C’mon, man, respect her for her mind.”
Good response: “Yowza!”

These responses should prepare you for just about any situation that comes up during a football game. If you think one of your friends suspects something, throw your tutu over his head to distract him and run like hell.

That’s about all the football wisdom I have to bestow. Now all you have to do is train yourself to eat bratwurst, pork rinds, burritos, and sauerkraut without your stomach exploding. Good luck.