When you are a male of a certain age (any number above 5), you are expected to have a knowledge of and interest in sports. You are not only expected to watch them regularly, but to enjoy them! Also! It is incumbent upon you to know the statistics and abilities of everyone and criticize them for their, in your mind, less than professional performances. It’s a lot of information to keep track of.
I had made a few feeble attempts to obtain and nurture an interest. However, I simply …. do not care. I cannot make myself care. I don’t know how to follow. I am not attached. I simply can’t.
So when asked by some well-intentioned pally, “Do you like sports?”
My reply is always, “Absolutely! I sometimes fear to say so because it seems like such a basic answer, but I think it is Huey Lewis’s finest album.”
They stare in confusion and disgust.
So I add, “Oh, you meant the athletic contests. My dear boy, not since they put Dan Patch out to stud.”
And that brings us to our main purpose for today.
I have a joke that I cannot do anything with.
If horses after a stunning racing career are put out to pasture to collect large stud fees, from being a large stud.
Why wouldn’t, say, baseball players?
I picture the big porch of a fine country home. The player, unkempt, walking back and forth as a Range Rover appears in his drive. Downing the last of a beer. Gut hanging over the pinstripe pants. (In my mind the player is always in a dirty uniform) Dennis Eckersley style facial hair.
A young lady leaps enthusiastically from the passenger seat. This is her chance to begin a generation of champions. The husband wants this. He drove her. He paid. Psychologically this willing cuckoldry is nothing in the face of cheering on an actual winner at little league.
“I got a mattress in the barn!” the retiree shouts from the porch.
This is my little joke. It is far too gross to expand upon. There is no elaboration I could give that would not cause problems. So here you are. Enjoy it in its unformed state.