BYH
Active Member
That's right, it's an SportsJournalists.com tradition unlike any other! I've been doing this eight years now. If anyone can come up with a good way to list this on my resume, I'd appreciate it. Anyway, for those of you new to the board, every year I tell the story of a jaded SportsJournalists.commer who is visited by the ghost of message boards past and informed what life would have been like if he/she had never become a sportswriter. It's a little shorter than usual (TWSS) but I've been crazy swamped this month so this will have to do damnit. Merry Christmas!
Slappy4428, the only person in the gym, sat back in his seat alongside press row at Bumfork High School in Alabama and sighed. Covering a quintuple header of girls basketball wasn't his idea of the perfect Christmas Eve, especially now that the lede for another 72-7 thrashing wasn't pouring from his fingers, but he supposed it was too late to wish his life had taken a different path.
Here he was, not quite a bitter young hack but not yet the age of a certain northeast-based copy editor; familiar with Twitter and Facebook but still most comfortable hunting and pecking on an old Smith Corona. He was too young to quit and too old to start over. So here he was, scratching out a living but still wondering why he couldn't get a break.
Stumped for inspiration, Slappy visited sportsjournalists.com, where the deckheads and bitches and fanbois and prickly forks always seemed to jolt him into action. But the first thing he saw was a new thread on the journalism board about a Bleacher Report writer who got the Dodgers gig at the Los Angeles Times. Something about user-generated content being the wave of the future or some ship. forkin kid, Slappy thought, going from his Mom's basement to the big time while I sit here costing 4-foot-11 junior varsity players scholarships to Duke.
He shook his head and went to Amazon.com, figuring he'd buy a book. Maybe Jones or Double J had a new one out. But the homepage was trumpeting the new book by Mitch Albom: "Mondays With Mateen." MOTHERforkER, that forker did it again. Albom was selling millions of books to unsuspecting foofs who sucked up his pap and Slappy knew the truth about the guy long before he wrote an advance column about who didn't watch Michigan State at the Final Four.
It was enough to drive a man to drink. Unfortunately, all Slappy had was a diet Coke. He tilted his head back and took a swig. He felt a little better. Can't let Albom ruin another day…I've got my pride and my good name, fork that guy…I'll be…WHAT THE fork IS THAT?
Among the items listed under "Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought…" was "Spooning With Saban: The Best Of Paul Finebaum." Oh that forking does it, Slappy thought. I've busted my ash for years, run the best college football pool in the country while people who barely even look at the scores in the Sunday paper get big-time gigs and now Finebaum has a forking best-of collection. The world is just not fair.
"I WISH I'D NEVER BECOME A SPORTSWRITER!" Slappy yelled, his voice ringing off the dust-ridden bleachers.
"I'm sorry to hear that," a voice said behind him.
Slappy whirled around and saw an old man of indeterminate age standing there.
"Can I help you?" Slappy said.
"No but I can apparently help you," the old man said.
"Unless you can come up with a way to spin anything other than an AP lede out of this train wreck of a game, I highly doubt it," Slappy said. He turned back to his computer.
"That's not true," the old man said. "I'm the ghost of message boards past."
Slappy stopped. "Are you—are you Spnited?" he asked.
"fork off, deckhead," the old man said in a cigarette-ravaged voice that had more than a hint of New Jersey in it. "I'm here to show you what your life would have been like if you'd never become a sportswriter."
With that, the two found themselves outside a fast food restaurant in the middle of some non-descript small town. "Oh joy, another forking McDonalds meal," Slappy said. "I didn't miss these when I WAS a sportswriter."
"Shut up," the ghost said. "I'm here to show you a famed SportsJournalists.com personality—YGBFKM. He's the one running the fryer."
Slappy squinted. He saw a guy wearing a Styx "Kilroy Was Here" hat and Lovie Smith jersey.
"Who the fork wears a Lovie Smith jersey?" Slappy said.
"YGBFKM does. When you were a sportswriter, he felt he had a kindred, cynical soul. But now that you're not a writer, he gave up. So he just lives life by his statistics, listens to his Styx, doesn't question authority or Lovie Smith and writes prep stories in which he doesn't mention anything negative. Here, listen to him now."
Slappy craned his head for a better listen. "…and that's how I managed to get seven names in the paper and never mention the final score or any play-by-play when the team I was covering lost in football, 123-0!" YGBFKM said to a co-worker who promptly jumped into the fryer and died.
Slappy shrugged. "So YGBFKM is a loser without me. Big deal. He was pretty much a loser when I was a sportswriter."
"There's much more," Spnited, err, the ghost said.
Next Slappy found himself at a strip mall surrounded by big-haired, foul-mouthed people. "Am I in hell?" he asked.
"Close," the ghost said. "Long Island."
"Do I get to see what that eternally tardy deckhead BYH is up to?"
"Not yet. Now you find what your boy JackReacher is up to."
The ghost pointed at the bespectacled dork wearing a Hofstra hat, a Hofstra sweatshirt, Hofstra sweatpants, a Hofstra belt and Hofstra shoes. He was carrying a sign that read "DO NOT WATCH A DOG KILLER."
"What the hell is that?" Slappy asked.
"That's Sonner. Back in the day, he reveled in going against the grain, attending the worst school in the world and rooting for the most deplorable people in sports. Now he cries about the time one of his favorite players got punched in the balls and only roots for nice people. And he pickets sports bars whenever Michael Vick and the Eagles play…or whenever Kobe Bryant and the Lakers play."
With that, Sonner changed sandwich board signs to "DO NOT WATCH A RAPIST." He was pushed into the mud by somebody wearing a George Mason sweatshirt.
"OK so Sonner is a silly donkus," Slappy said. "He always sucked anyway. Douchebag."
"Shut up," the ghost said, and the two were now in front of the Supreme Court in Washington, D.C., where a crowd of people were gathering around two people screaming and punching each other in front of the fountain pool.
"That's outofplace and BYH," the ghost said.
"Ahh, good, I see nothing has changed," Slappy said.
"Not exactly," the ghost said. "Outofplace is a New York native and Yankees fan running for president on the idea that salary caps are unconstitutional and BYH is a Pirates and Steelers fan who believes every sports league everywhere needs a cap, including Pop Warner football."
"fork YOU YOU forkING ashHOLE!!!" BYH screamed, his nose bloodied. "I'M forkING SICK OF YOU forkING ashHOLES RUINING ALL MY FAVORITE TEAMS! WHY CAN'T WE HANG ON TO ZACK DUKE?"
"I don't know, probably because your ownership is ill-prepared to own a professional sports team," outofplace said, calmly fixing his cufflinks. "It's not my fault you weren't born a blessed fan of the Yankees and Red Sox, the two best-run organizations in sports. Why don't you go back to your little backwater burg, pound some of that Iron City swill and fork your sister."
"I'LL forkING KILL YOU!!!" BYH screamed as he was tapered into unconsciousness.
Slappy seemed shaken. "OK, so BYH is still a screaming moron, just about something different," Slappy said. "I find it hard to believe my life, or anyone else's life would have been better if I did something else with my life."
"How about now?" the ghost asked and pointed to the disheveled guy stocking shelves.
(MORE)
Slappy4428, the only person in the gym, sat back in his seat alongside press row at Bumfork High School in Alabama and sighed. Covering a quintuple header of girls basketball wasn't his idea of the perfect Christmas Eve, especially now that the lede for another 72-7 thrashing wasn't pouring from his fingers, but he supposed it was too late to wish his life had taken a different path.
Here he was, not quite a bitter young hack but not yet the age of a certain northeast-based copy editor; familiar with Twitter and Facebook but still most comfortable hunting and pecking on an old Smith Corona. He was too young to quit and too old to start over. So here he was, scratching out a living but still wondering why he couldn't get a break.
Stumped for inspiration, Slappy visited sportsjournalists.com, where the deckheads and bitches and fanbois and prickly forks always seemed to jolt him into action. But the first thing he saw was a new thread on the journalism board about a Bleacher Report writer who got the Dodgers gig at the Los Angeles Times. Something about user-generated content being the wave of the future or some ship. forkin kid, Slappy thought, going from his Mom's basement to the big time while I sit here costing 4-foot-11 junior varsity players scholarships to Duke.
He shook his head and went to Amazon.com, figuring he'd buy a book. Maybe Jones or Double J had a new one out. But the homepage was trumpeting the new book by Mitch Albom: "Mondays With Mateen." MOTHERforkER, that forker did it again. Albom was selling millions of books to unsuspecting foofs who sucked up his pap and Slappy knew the truth about the guy long before he wrote an advance column about who didn't watch Michigan State at the Final Four.
It was enough to drive a man to drink. Unfortunately, all Slappy had was a diet Coke. He tilted his head back and took a swig. He felt a little better. Can't let Albom ruin another day…I've got my pride and my good name, fork that guy…I'll be…WHAT THE fork IS THAT?
Among the items listed under "Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought…" was "Spooning With Saban: The Best Of Paul Finebaum." Oh that forking does it, Slappy thought. I've busted my ash for years, run the best college football pool in the country while people who barely even look at the scores in the Sunday paper get big-time gigs and now Finebaum has a forking best-of collection. The world is just not fair.
"I WISH I'D NEVER BECOME A SPORTSWRITER!" Slappy yelled, his voice ringing off the dust-ridden bleachers.
"I'm sorry to hear that," a voice said behind him.
Slappy whirled around and saw an old man of indeterminate age standing there.
"Can I help you?" Slappy said.
"No but I can apparently help you," the old man said.
"Unless you can come up with a way to spin anything other than an AP lede out of this train wreck of a game, I highly doubt it," Slappy said. He turned back to his computer.
"That's not true," the old man said. "I'm the ghost of message boards past."
Slappy stopped. "Are you—are you Spnited?" he asked.
"fork off, deckhead," the old man said in a cigarette-ravaged voice that had more than a hint of New Jersey in it. "I'm here to show you what your life would have been like if you'd never become a sportswriter."
With that, the two found themselves outside a fast food restaurant in the middle of some non-descript small town. "Oh joy, another forking McDonalds meal," Slappy said. "I didn't miss these when I WAS a sportswriter."
"Shut up," the ghost said. "I'm here to show you a famed SportsJournalists.com personality—YGBFKM. He's the one running the fryer."
Slappy squinted. He saw a guy wearing a Styx "Kilroy Was Here" hat and Lovie Smith jersey.
"Who the fork wears a Lovie Smith jersey?" Slappy said.
"YGBFKM does. When you were a sportswriter, he felt he had a kindred, cynical soul. But now that you're not a writer, he gave up. So he just lives life by his statistics, listens to his Styx, doesn't question authority or Lovie Smith and writes prep stories in which he doesn't mention anything negative. Here, listen to him now."
Slappy craned his head for a better listen. "…and that's how I managed to get seven names in the paper and never mention the final score or any play-by-play when the team I was covering lost in football, 123-0!" YGBFKM said to a co-worker who promptly jumped into the fryer and died.
Slappy shrugged. "So YGBFKM is a loser without me. Big deal. He was pretty much a loser when I was a sportswriter."
"There's much more," Spnited, err, the ghost said.
Next Slappy found himself at a strip mall surrounded by big-haired, foul-mouthed people. "Am I in hell?" he asked.
"Close," the ghost said. "Long Island."
"Do I get to see what that eternally tardy deckhead BYH is up to?"
"Not yet. Now you find what your boy JackReacher is up to."
The ghost pointed at the bespectacled dork wearing a Hofstra hat, a Hofstra sweatshirt, Hofstra sweatpants, a Hofstra belt and Hofstra shoes. He was carrying a sign that read "DO NOT WATCH A DOG KILLER."
"What the hell is that?" Slappy asked.
"That's Sonner. Back in the day, he reveled in going against the grain, attending the worst school in the world and rooting for the most deplorable people in sports. Now he cries about the time one of his favorite players got punched in the balls and only roots for nice people. And he pickets sports bars whenever Michael Vick and the Eagles play…or whenever Kobe Bryant and the Lakers play."
With that, Sonner changed sandwich board signs to "DO NOT WATCH A RAPIST." He was pushed into the mud by somebody wearing a George Mason sweatshirt.
"OK so Sonner is a silly donkus," Slappy said. "He always sucked anyway. Douchebag."
"Shut up," the ghost said, and the two were now in front of the Supreme Court in Washington, D.C., where a crowd of people were gathering around two people screaming and punching each other in front of the fountain pool.
"That's outofplace and BYH," the ghost said.
"Ahh, good, I see nothing has changed," Slappy said.
"Not exactly," the ghost said. "Outofplace is a New York native and Yankees fan running for president on the idea that salary caps are unconstitutional and BYH is a Pirates and Steelers fan who believes every sports league everywhere needs a cap, including Pop Warner football."
"fork YOU YOU forkING ashHOLE!!!" BYH screamed, his nose bloodied. "I'M forkING SICK OF YOU forkING ashHOLES RUINING ALL MY FAVORITE TEAMS! WHY CAN'T WE HANG ON TO ZACK DUKE?"
"I don't know, probably because your ownership is ill-prepared to own a professional sports team," outofplace said, calmly fixing his cufflinks. "It's not my fault you weren't born a blessed fan of the Yankees and Red Sox, the two best-run organizations in sports. Why don't you go back to your little backwater burg, pound some of that Iron City swill and fork your sister."
"I'LL forkING KILL YOU!!!" BYH screamed as he was tapered into unconsciousness.
Slappy seemed shaken. "OK, so BYH is still a screaming moron, just about something different," Slappy said. "I find it hard to believe my life, or anyone else's life would have been better if I did something else with my life."
"How about now?" the ghost asked and pointed to the disheveled guy stocking shelves.
(MORE)
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