As I slipped into my sugar-induced stupor today, Snickers’ wrappers clothing me like fallen leaves in autumn, I had a beautiful vision.
In the spirit of the holiday, I was skipping through a Halloweenhood of make believe in the wonderful Land of Sport.
It was a mellow vision, in the spirit of the Beatles’ ode to Lucy and her diamonds — minus all references to blatantly drug-induced visions of newspaper taxis.
I saw Roger Clemens there; he was throwing eggs at Mike Piazza while angry Mets fans waved their ’86 World Series banners humming some ritualistic chant about the Yankees and buying championships. Children in Yankees hats and purple robes were yelling, “Get over it, all of you, stop whining!”
Down the block, Michael Jordan was chasing the kid who took the entire bowl he’d left outside his door instead of obeying the “Take One Please” sign. As they sprinted by, I thought I heard MJ call the rascal Kwame.
Randy Johnson was scaring children… and their parents… unintentionally (he’s real ugly).
Jaromir Jagr was whining that Mrs. Peabody had only given him three million pennies and insisted on more money over the next couple years.
Eric Lindros was arguing the same point until he tripped on a can of shaving cream and put himself on the DL for four-six weeks.
Anna Kournikova strolled by as a Swedish whore but nobody seemed convinced that it was costume. She also still sucks at tennis.
The Cornell football team was acting like it had a run defense; everyone knew they were just “dressing-up”. I know, low blow.
Junior Stephen Baby was beating the life out of some kid from Wilfred Laurier who thought he’d never see him after that crap he pulled in the first period on Saturday. (Hey, heyyy Baby, I wanna know… I guess that answers that question Lynah Faithful.)
Latrell Sprewell was running around sporting his on-the-prowl face, just waiting for someone to tell him that he isn’t the best player in the NBA. A little boy wearing a Lakers’ #8 jersey lay breathless in his tracks. Latrell, lay off the choking, it’s sooo three years ago.
Hideki Irabu (remember him?) was asking anyone if they knew who he was, and mostly was left to yell, “I’m not Ichiro, no one wants to see me naked.” Oh Hideki, you have no idea.
Larry Johnson, now retired, was content to dream of his years toilet papering houses, playing Grandmama, and completing a four-point play that gave every Knicks fan something to cheer about for the first time since Bill Bradley and Dave DeBuscherre, um, passed well in the 70s.
Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf escorted their child, naturally costumed as a bald German, as every other man in the neighborhood whispered, “Andre, come on, Brooke Shields or that chick?”
As my journey drew to a close I spotted Lawrence Taylor across the street insisting to a cop that, “It’s definitely just Pixy Stix… vanilla flavored,” while Ray Lewis ran to the bushes, quivering.
Ah the time of harvest is sacred, is it not?
My final vision came as I approached the haunted house at the end of the block, only to realize that I was standing outside of Fenway Park. 30 stadiums… one summer… two friends… Priceless. Anyone else sick of those commercials?
As I turned the corner the true sounds of the season returned and I came to my senses.
Someone was saying something about a townie, needles in candy, and Snickers’ bars… but I just strolled away humming Lucy in the Sky with Lawrence…
Archived article by Scott Jones